Where do you come from? It's such a simple question, but these days, of course, simple questions bring ever more complicated answers.
Nga je me origjine? Eshte nje pyetje shume e thjeshte, por ne ditet tona, pyetjet e thjeshta kerkojne pergjigje gjithnje e me te komplikuara.
People are always asking me where I come from, and they're expecting me to say India, and they're absolutely right insofar as 100 percent of my blood and ancestry does come from India. Except, I've never lived one day of my life there. I can't speak even one word of its more than 22,000 dialects. So I don't think I've really earned the right to call myself an Indian. And if "Where do you come from?" means "Where were you born and raised and educated?" then I'm entirely of that funny little country known as England, except I left England as soon as I completed my undergraduate education, and all the time I was growing up, I was the only kid in all my classes who didn't begin to look like the classic English heroes represented in our textbooks. And if "Where do you come from?" means "Where do you pay your taxes? Where do you see your doctor and your dentist?" then I'm very much of the United States, and I have been for 48 years now, since I was a really small child. Except, for many of those years, I've had to carry around this funny little pink card with green lines running through my face identifying me as a permanent alien. I do actually feel more alien the longer I live there.
Njerezit gjithnje me pyesin se nga e kam origjinen, dhe presin qe une te them India, dhe kane te drejte, pasi 100 perqind e gjakut dhe rrenjeve te mia jane Indiane. Perjashtuar faktin, qe une nuk kam jetuar as edhe nje dite ne Indi. Nuk flas as edhe nje fjale prej me shume se 22,000 dialekteve indiane. Pra, nuk mendoj se e kam fituar te drejten per ta quajtur veten time Indian. Po sikur "Nga vjen?" te nenkuptoje "Ku je lindur, rritur dhe edukuar?" atehere, une i bie te jem plotesisht prej atij vendi te vogel dhe shakaxhi qe njihet si Anglia, perpos faktit qe u largova nga Anglia sapo perfundova studimet e mia universitare, dhe gjate gjithe kohes qe u rrita, isha i vetmi femije ne klase qe nuk shembellente aspak si heronjte klasike angleze qe sheh neper tekstet shkollore. Dhe, nese "Nga vjen?" nenkupton "Ku i paguan taksat?" "Ku shkon te doktori dhe dentisti?" atehere jam nga Shtetet e Bashkuara, ku jetoj prej 48 vitesh tashme, qe kur isha kalama. Perjashtuar, ato shume vite, kur me eshte dashur te mbaj me vete kete karten e vogel roze me shirita jeshile qe pershkruajne fytyren time qe me identifikonte si rezident i huaj. Ne fakt, sa me shume qendroj ketu aq me teper i huaj ndihem.
(Laughter)
(Te qeshura)
And if "Where do you come from?" means "Which place goes deepest inside you and where do you try to spend most of your time?" then I'm Japanese, because I've been living as much as I can for the last 25 years in Japan. Except, all of those years I've been there on a tourist visa, and I'm fairly sure not many Japanese would want to consider me one of them.
Dhe, nese "Nga vjen?" do te thote "Cili vend i ka rrenjet me te thella brenda teje dhe ku perpiqesh te kalosh me te shumten e kohes tende?" atehere jam Japonez, sepse jam perpjekur te jetoj sa me shume te mundem keto 25 vitet e fundit ne Japoni. Perjashtuar, ato vite ku kam qene atje me nje vize turisti, dhe nuk jam shume i sigurt qe shume Japoneze do deshironin te me konsideronin njerin prej tyre.
And I say all this just to stress how very old-fashioned and straightforward my background is, because when I go to Hong Kong or Sydney or Vancouver, most of the kids I meet are much more international and multi-cultured than I am. And they have one home associated with their parents, but another associated with their partners, a third connected maybe with the place where they happen to be, a fourth connected with the place they dream of being, and many more besides. And their whole life will be spent taking pieces of many different places and putting them together into a stained glass whole. Home for them is really a work in progress. It's like a project on which they're constantly adding upgrades and improvements and corrections. And for more and more of us, home has really less to do with a piece of soil than, you could say, with a piece of soul.
I thashe te gjitha keto thjesht per ti meshuar faktit qe sa demode dhe i drejtperdrejte eshte origjina ime, pasi kur shkoj ne Hong Kong ose Sidnei ose Vankuver, pjesa me e madhe e atyre qe njoh jane shume me internacional dhe multi-kulturor sesa une. Ato kane nje shtepi qe lidhet me prinderit e tyre, nje tjeter qe lidhet me partnerin e tyre, nje tjeter qe eshte ajo e vendit ku jetojne, nje e katert lidhur me vendin ku ato enderrojne te jetojne, dhe shume e shume te tjera. Dhe te gjithe jeten do ta shpenzojne duke marre copeza nga shume vende te ndryshme dhe ngjitur te gjitha bashke si nje e plote qelqi te ngjyrosur. Shtepia per ta eshte ne te vertete nje pune e vazhdueshme. Eshte si nje projekt ku ato shtojne vazhdimisht permiresime dhe korigjime. Dhe per gjithnje me shume prej nesh, toka ka pak te beje me nje grusht dhe' sesa, mund te thuash, me nje copez shpirt.
If somebody suddenly asks me, "Where's your home?" I think about my sweetheart or my closest friends or the songs that travel with me wherever I happen to be. And I'd always felt this way, but it really came home to me, as it were, some years ago when I was climbing up the stairs in my parents' house in California, and I looked through the living room windows and I saw that we were encircled by 70-foot flames, one of those wildfires that regularly tear through the hills of California and many other such places. And three hours later, that fire had reduced my home and every last thing in it except for me to ash. And when I woke up the next morning, I was sleeping on a friend's floor, the only thing I had in the world was a toothbrush I had just bought from an all-night supermarket. Of course, if anybody asked me then, "Where is your home?" I literally couldn't point to any physical construction. My home would have to be whatever I carried around inside me.
Nese dikush papritur me pyet, "Ku eshte shtepia jote?" Mendja me shkon tek e dashura ose shoku im i ngushte ose kenget qe udhetojne me mua ngado qe une shkoj. Keshtu jam ndjere perhera, Por shtepia erdhi tek une, disa vite me pare tek po ngjisja shkallet e shtepise se prinderve ne Kaliforni, dhe teksa veshtrova jashte dritareve te dhomes se ndenjes vura re qe ishim rrethuar nga flake 20 metra te larta, te njerit prej zjarreve qe shpesh formohen ne kodrat e Kalifornise dhe vende te tjera te ketilla. Dhe pas tre oresh, zjarri e kish kthyer shtepine time dhe gjithcka tjeter ne te, pervec meje, ne hi. Kur u zgjova te nesermen, po flija ne dyshemene e nje miku, e vetmja gje qe kisha ne ato momente ishte nje furce dhembesh qe sapo kisha blere ne nje supermarket 24 oresh. Patjeter, nqse dikush do te me pyeste atehere, "Ku eshte shtepia jote?" do ta kisha te pamundur te tregoja ndonje objekt fizik. Shtepia ime do te ishte gjithcka kisha brenda meje.
And in so many ways, I think this is a terrific liberation. Because when my grandparents were born, they pretty much had their sense of home, their sense of community, even their sense of enmity, assigned to them at birth, and didn't have much chance of stepping outside of that. And nowadays, at least some of us can choose our sense of home, create our sense of community, fashion our sense of self, and in so doing maybe step a little beyond some of the black and white divisions of our grandparents' age. No coincidence that the president of the strongest nation on Earth is half-Kenyan, partly raised in Indonesia, has a Chinese-Canadian brother-in-law.
Dhe ne nje fare menyre, mendoj se kjo eshte nje liri e mrekullueshme. Sepse, kur gjysherit e mi erdhen ne jete, ato e kishin sensin e shtepise, sensin e komunitetit, sikunder dhe ate te armiqesise, e trasheguar qe ne lindje, pa shume mundesi per ti shpetuar kesaj. Sot, te pakten disa nga ne mund ta zgjedhim ku ndihemi ne shtepi, te krijojme ndjenjen e perkatesise ne komunitet, te formojme identitetin tone, dhe duke bere keshtu, ndoshta mund te shkojme pertej disa prej ndarjeve bardhe e zi te koherave te gjysherve tone. Nuk eshte rastesore qe presidenti i vendit me te fuqishem ne bote eshte gjysem Kenian, nje pjese te jetes kaluar ne Indonezi, me nje kunat Kinezo-Kanadez.
The number of people living in countries not their own now comes to 220 million, and that's an almost unimaginable number, but it means that if you took the whole population of Canada and the whole population of Australia and then the whole population of Australia again and the whole population of Canada again and doubled that number, you would still have fewer people than belong to this great floating tribe.
Numri i njerezve qe jetojne ne vende qe nuk jane te tyret tashme ka arritur ne 220 milion, nje numer ky pothuajse i paimagjinueshem, por qe sa e gjithe popullsia e Kanadase dhe ajo e Australise dhe me pas popullsine e Australise serish dhe ate te Kanadase dhe me pas ta dyfishosh ate numer, serish do te kesh me pak njerez se sa ato qe i perkasin ketij tribu levizes.
And the number of us who live outside the old nation-state categories is increasing so quickly, by 64 million just in the last 12 years, that soon there will be more of us than there are Americans. Already, we represent the fifth-largest nation on Earth. And in fact, in Canada's largest city, Toronto, the average resident today is what used to be called a foreigner, somebody born in a very different country.
Dhe numri i atyre qe jetojne jashte vendit te tyre po rritet gjithnje e me shume, me 64 milion vetem ne 12 vitet e fundit, shume shpejt do kete me shume njerez si ne sesa Amerikane. Tashme ne jemi kombi i peste ne bote per nga madhesia. Dhe ne fakt, ne qytetin me te madh ne Kanadase, Toronto, rezidenti kryesor aty eshte ai qe ne te shkuaren quhej i huaj, dikush i lindur ne nje vend tjeter.
And I've always felt that the beauty of being surrounded by the foreign is that it slaps you awake. You can't take anything for granted. Travel, for me, is a little bit like being in love, because suddenly all your senses are at the setting marked "on." Suddenly you're alert to the secret patterns of the world. The real voyage of discovery, as Marcel Proust famously said, consists not in seeing new sights, but in looking with new eyes. And of course, once you have new eyes, even the old sights, even your home become something different. Many of the people living in countries not their own are refugees who never wanted to leave home and ache to go back home. But for the fortunate among us, I think the age of movement brings exhilarating new possibilities.
Dhe une mendoj se bukuria e te qenit i rrethuar me te huaj eshte qe te mban zgjuar. Nuk mund te marresh asgje te mireqene. Te udhetuarit per mua, eshte paksa si te qenit ne dashuri, sepse ne menyre te papritur te gjithe senset te ndizen. Papritur ndjehesh sikur i ke zbuluar modelet sekrete te botes. Udhetimi i vertete i zbulimit, sikunder e ka cilesuar Marcel Proust, nuk ka te beje me vizitimin e vendeve te reja, por ne te parit me sy te rinj. Dhe padyshim, tek ke sy te rinj, edhe rrethinat e vjetra, edhe shtepia jote behet dicka ndryshe. Shume prej njerezve qe jetojne ne vende te tjera nga ato ku kane lindur jane refugjate te cilet nuk kane dashur kurre te largohen nga shtepia dhe te cilet vuajne per tu kthyer ne shtepite e tyre. Por, per fatlumet mes nesh, mendoj se koha e levizshmerise sjell mundesi te reja.
Certainly when I'm traveling, especially to the major cities of the world, the typical person I meet today will be, let's say, a half-Korean, half-German young woman living in Paris. And as soon as she meets a half-Thai, half-Canadian young guy from Edinburgh, she recognizes him as kin. She realizes that she probably has much more in common with him than with anybody entirely of Korea or entirely of Germany. So they become friends. They fall in love. They move to New York City.
Padyshim, teksa jam duke udhetuar vecanerisht ne qytetet me te medha te botes, njeriu i zakonshem qe takoj sot eshte nje grua e re, gjysem Koreane e gjysem Gjermane qe jeton ne Paris. Dhe sapo ajo takohet me nje djale te ri nga Edinburgu, gjysem Tajlandez, gjysem Kanadez, ajo e pranon ate si te llojit te saj. Ajo kupton se ka me shume gjera te perbashketa me te sesa me dike plotesisht Korean ose Gjerman. Ndaj ata behen miq. Bien ne dashuri. Levizin ne New York City.
(Laughter)
(Te qeshura)
Or Edinburgh. And the little girl who arises out of their union will of course be not Korean or German or French or Thai or Scotch or Canadian or even American, but a wonderful and constantly evolving mix of all those places. And potentially, everything about the way that young woman dreams about the world, writes about the world, thinks about the world, could be something different, because it comes out of this almost unprecedented blend of cultures.
ose Edinburgh. Dhe vajza e vogel qe lind nga bashkimi i tyre nuk do te jete as Koreane, Gjermane Franceze apo Tajlandeze, a Skoceze a Kanadeze as Amerikane, por nje perzierje e mrekullueshme, ne ndryshim te vazhdueshem, e gjithe ketyre vendeve. Dhe si rrjedhoje, gjithcka ajo vajze e vogel enderron rreth kesaj bote, shkruan rreth kesaj bote, mendon rreth kesaj bote, mund te jete dicka ndryshe, sepse vjen nga kjo perzierje e paprecedent kulturash.
Where you come from now is much less important than where you're going. More and more of us are rooted in the future or the present tense as much as in the past. And home, we know, is not just the place where you happen to be born. It's the place where you become yourself.
Pra, me e rendesishmja tani nuk eshte se nga vime por se ku po shkojme. Gjithnje e me shume ne jemi duke u fokusuar ne te ardhmen ose te tashmen, sesa te shkuaren. Dhe shtepia, sic e dime, nuk eshte thjesht vendi ku kemi lindur. Eshte vendi ku ne behemi vetvetja.
And yet, there is one great problem with movement, and that is that it's really hard to get your bearings when you're in midair. Some years ago, I noticed that I had accumulated one million miles on United Airlines alone. You all know that crazy system, six days in hell, you get the seventh day free.
Dhe ende, ka nje problem te madh me levizshmerine, sepse eshte shume e veshtire te marresh kuzhinetat e tua kur ndodhesh ne ajer. Disa vite me pare, vura re se kisha grumbulluar nje milion milje vetem ne United Airlines. Te gjithe e njihni ate sistem, ku gjashte dite ne ferr, sherbehen me nje dite qendrim falas.
(Laughter)
(Te qeshura)
And I began to think that really, movement was only as good as the sense of stillness that you could bring to it to put it into perspective.
Dhe nisa te mendoj se ne te vertete, levizshmeria eshte po aq e mire sa edhe sensi i jolevizshmerise po te perpiqemi ta sjellim ne nje perspektive te re.
And eight months after my house burned down, I ran into a friend who taught at a local high school, and he said, "I've got the perfect place for you." "Really?" I said. I'm always a bit skeptical when people say things like that. "No, honestly," he went on, "it's only three hours away by car, and it's not very expensive, and it's probably not like anywhere you've stayed before." "Hmm." I was beginning to get slightly intrigued. "What is it?" "Well —" Here my friend hemmed and hawed — "Well, actually it's a Catholic hermitage." This was the wrong answer. I had spent 15 years in Anglican schools, so I had had enough hymnals and crosses to last me a lifetime. Several lifetimes, actually. But my friend assured me that he wasn't Catholic, nor were most of his students, but he took his classes there every spring. And as he had it, even the most restless, distractible, testosterone-addled 15-year-old Californian boy only had to spend three days in silence and something in him cooled down and cleared out. He found himself. And I thought, "Anything that works for a 15-year-old boy ought to work for me."
Dhe pas tete muajsh pasi mu dogj shtepia, takova rastesisht nje mikun tim mesues ne nje gjimnaz te qytetit, dhe me tha, "Kam gjetur vendin e persosur per ty." "Me te vertete?" I thashe. Jam si natyre gjithnje disi dyshues tek degjoj fjale te tilla. "Jo, e kam me gjithe mend", vazhdoi ai, "Eshte vetem tre ore larg me makine, dhe nuk eshte shume e shtrenjte, dhe jam i sigurt qe nuk i ngjason asnje vendi ku ke qene me pare." "Hmm." Kish filluar te me intrigonte idea. "C'eshte kjo?" "Epo-" Ketu miku im nisi te sikletosej pak- "Ne fakt eshte nje vend i vetmuar Katolik." Kjo ishte pergjigja e gabuar. Kisha kaluar 15 vite ne nje shkolle Anglikane, dhe kisha lexuar mjaft libra fetare dhe pare boll kryqe sa te me zgjasnin per gjithe jeten. Disa jete ne fakt. Por miku im me bindi qe ai nuk ish Katolik, ashtu si dhe nuk qene shumica e studenteve te tij, por ai i bente atje klasat e tij cdo pranvere. Dhe sikunder me tha, edhe me te levizshmit, shkaterruesit, 15 vjecaret Kaliforniane totalisht nen trysnin e testosteronit duhej te kalonin tre dite ne heshtje dhe dicka brenda tyre zbardhej dhe qetesohej. Ai gjeti veten. Mendova, "Gjithcka qe mund te funksionoje per nje 15 vjecar duhet te bej pune dhe per mua."
So I got in my car, and I drove three hours north along the coast, and the roads grew emptier and narrower, and then I turned onto an even narrower path, barely paved, that snaked for two miles up to the top of a mountain. And when I got out of my car, the air was pulsing. The whole place was absolutely silent, but the silence wasn't an absence of noise. It was really a presence of a kind of energy or quickening. And at my feet was the great, still blue plate of the Pacific Ocean. All around me were 800 acres of wild dry brush.
Mora makinen, dhe ngava per tre ore ne veri te Kalifornise pergjate bregdetit, dhe rruget sa vinin e beheshin me te zbrazta e te ngushta, dhe me pas u ktheva ne nje rruge edhe me te ngushte, shume pak e shtruaar, qe gjarperoi per 3 km deri ne maje te malit. Kur zbrita nga makina, ajri jashte pulsonte. I gjithe vendi ishte absolutisht i heshtur, por heshtja nuk ish mungese zhurme. Ishte nje prezence energjie qe te gjalleronte. Dhe nen kembet e mia qendronte, e palevizshmja pllake blu e Oqeanit Paqesor. Perqark meje ishin 300 hektare shkurresh te egra te thara.
And I went down to the room in which I was to be sleeping. Small but eminently comfortable, it had a bed and a rocking chair and a long desk and even longer picture windows looking out on a small, private, walled garden, and then 1,200 feet of golden pampas grass running down to the sea. And I sat down, and I began to write, and write, and write, even though I'd gone there really to get away from my desk. And by the time I got up, four hours had passed. Night had fallen, and I went out under this great overturned saltshaker of stars, and I could see the tail lights of cars disappearing around the headlands 12 miles to the south. And it really seemed like my concerns of the previous day vanishing. And the next day, when I woke up in the absence of telephones and TVs and laptops, the days seemed to stretch for a thousand hours. It was really all the freedom I know when I'm traveling, but it also profoundly felt like coming home. And I'm not a religious person, so I didn't go to the services. I didn't consult the monks for guidance. I just took walks along the monastery road and sent postcards to loved ones. I looked at the clouds, and I did what is hardest of all for me to do usually, which is nothing at all.
Shkova ne dhomen qe me kishin caktuar per te fjetur. E vogel, por jashtezakonisht e rehatshme, kish nje krevat, nje karrike lekundese nje tavoline e gjate dhe nje dritare edhe me te gjate qe shihte jashte ne nje kopesht te vogel, privat dhe me pas rreth 350 metra bari te verdhe te larte qe shtrihej gjer ne det. U ula, e nisa te shkruaj, te shkruaj, e te shkruaj, ndonese kisha shkuar atje per tu larguar nga tavolina ime e shkrimit. Dhe nga momenti qe u cova, kishin kaluar kater ore. Nata kish zbritur, dhe dola jashte nen kete qiell qe ngjante si kripore e permbysur plot me yje e mund te dalloja ate bisht te gjate dritash makine qe zhdukeshin ne kthesat e largeta prej 20 km ne jug. Tashme dukej se shqetesimet e nje dite me pare ishin zhdukur. Dhe diten tjeter, kur u zgjova ne mungese te telefonave, televizoreve dhe laptop-ve, ditet dukej sikur zgjateshin me 1000 ore. Eshte e gjithe liria qe ndjeja sa here udhetoja, por njekohesisht thelle brenda meje ndjeja sikur isha kthyer ne shtepi. Duke mos qene nje njeri fetar, nuk ndiqja sherbesat fetare. Nuk i konsultova murgjit per udhezime. Beja ecje pergjate rruges se manastirit dhe i dergoja kartolina njerezve te dashur. Shihja rete, dhe beja ate qe per mua eshte shume e veshtire te bej zakonisht, te mos berit asgje.
And I started to go back to this place, and I noticed that I was doing my most important work there invisibly just by sitting still, and certainly coming to my most critical decisions the way I never could when I was racing from the last email to the next appointment. And I began to think that something in me had really been crying out for stillness, but of course I couldn't hear it because I was running around so much. I was like some crazy guy who puts on a blindfold and then complains that he can't see a thing.
Nisa te shkoj shpesh ne kete vend, dhe vura re se pjesen me te madhe te punes sime e beja aty ne menyre te padukshme, duke qendruar ulur, dhe merrja vendime shume te rendesishme ne nje menyre qe nuk kisha mundur ta beja kurre tek vrapoja nga nje email te nje takim. Dhe nisa te mendoj se dicka brenda meje kish kohe qe qante per pak jolevizshmeri, por padyshim qe nuk mundja ta degjoja sepse isha duke u turrur kaq shume perreth. Isha si nje djale i cmendur qe kish lidhur syte dhe ankohej se nuk mund te shihte asgje.
And I thought back to that wonderful phrase I had learned as a boy from Seneca, in which he says, "That man is poor not who has little but who hankers after more." And, of course, I'm not suggesting that anybody here go into a monastery. That's not the point. But I do think it's only by stopping movement that you can see where to go. And it's only by stepping out of your life and the world that you can see what you most deeply care about and find a home.
Dhe mendova pas tek ajo fjali e mrekullueshme e Senekes qe kisha mesuar si nje djalosh, ne te cilen thuhej, " Ai njeri eshte i varfer jo kur ka pak, por kur ka etje per me shume." Dhe patjeter, nuk jam duke sugjeruar qe gjithkush ketu te cohet e te mbyllet ne nje manastir. Ky nuk eshte qellimi. Por eshte vetem kur ti ndalon se levizuri qe mund te shohesh drejt ku deshiron te shkosh. Dhe vetem kur largohesh pakez nga jeta jote dhe bota mund te dallosh ato gjera qe te interesojne me thellesisht dhe te gjesh shtepine.
And I've noticed so many people now take conscious measures to sit quietly for 30 minutes every morning just collecting themselves in one corner of the room without their devices, or go running every evening, or leave their cell phones behind when they go to have a long conversation with a friend. Movement is a fantastic privilege, and it allows us to do so much that our grandparents could never have dreamed of doing. But movement, ultimately, only has a meaning if you have a home to go back to.
Shoh kaq shume njerez ditet tona qe ne menyre koshiente ulen ne heshtje per 30 minuta cdo mengjes thjesht per te mbledhur vehten ne nje cep te dhomes larg aparateve te tyre, ose te shkojne te vrapojne cdo mengjes, ose ti lene pas celularet kur dalin per kafe me nje mik. Levizshmeria eshte nje privilegj fantastik, qe na lejon te bejme kaq me shume nga se mund te imagjinonin paraardhesit tone. Por levizshmeria, ne fund te dites, ka kuptim vetem nese ne fund te dites e ke nje shtepi ku te kthehesh.
And home, in the end, is of course not just the place where you sleep. It's the place where you stand.
Dhe shtepia, eshte padyshim jo thjesht vendi ku ti fle. Eshte vendi ku ti qendron.
Thank you.
Faleminderit.
(Applause)
(Duartrokitje)