When I arrived in Croatia in 2020 through the Croaticum program, I thought I would visit the land of my grandparents, and, with some luck, maybe meet distant relatives. However, the pandemic marked a turning point for me, one that was not only geographical but also spiritual. With a return ticket I couldn’t use, the possibility of coming back home soon faded. Having dual citizenship from Croatia and Argentina, my connection to this new land took an unexpected turn.
Those months marked a process of change that completely shook the identity I had built over twenty-five years. The idea that I would return to Argentina to work as a Literature professor at the University of Buenos Aires collapsed when I realized the whole world had opened up for me.
Not only did I meet my relatives, but I also learned Croatian and built an emotional bond I had never anticipated. Over time, I created a routine that replaced the one I had in Argentina for so long. Without realizing it, when the borders reopened, my desperation to return to my home on the other side of the ocean turned into curiosity.
What if I stayed? What if I learned the language, found a job, and made new friends on another continent? Eventually, that thought materialized and became part of my present, just like my new identity. With the arrival of a new Nadia, new questions arose that, even after five years, I still can’t answer.
When I look at the pictures of my great-grandparents, the resemblance between my cousins’ features and mine, the strength with which they hug me every time I visit, the way they naturally pronounce my surname, I can’t help but ask myself, did I arrive in Croatia, or did I simply return?
The Clash Between the Known and the Unknown: Living with Dual Citizenship in Croatia and Argentina
From the moment I set foot in Croatia, I felt a mix of contradictory emotions. On one hand, the pain of being far from Argentina and my loved ones seemed to cling to my heart like ivy, squeezing my chest. On the other, seeing the same sea that my great-grandparents had gazed at before leaving their country for Argentina seemed to make perfect sense.
The fact that they had left their homeland to cross the ocean seemed to repeat itself nearly a hundred years later. In a way, every time I looked at the beauty of the Adriatic Sea, I felt as though I embodied that emotion of uprootedness my grandparents must have felt when they had to leave Croatia without knowing if they would ever return.
But this time, I was the one who had returned. I was the one who had left my family and friends without knowing when I would return home. It was then that I realized that I “wasn’t from there,” but there was a strange familiarity that haunted me every time I learned new Croatian words and had coffee with my cousins. It was as if I were in a shared collective dream created by my family, but I found myself alone in reality.
The line between traveler and local began to blur without me realizing it. At the same time, my identity split, and I encountered a version of myself I had never seen before. One who moved naturally there, spoke the same language as my great-grandparents, and fought with Croatian police to obtain citizenship.
The Burden of Dual Croatian and Argentine Citizenship: The Right to Be, but Not Knowing How to Belong
Having dual citizenship from Argentina and Croatia granted me the right to be there, but it left me with a troubling question. Did I truly have the right to be part of that community? Even though I could engage in the same conversations, work in the same language, and be appreciated by my family and friends, my Spanish accent and Argentine customs were obvious.
My passport allowed me to be “local” on paper, but not in the perception of others. Was I a “real” Croatian, or just a privileged tourist who was born elsewhere? My connection to my history remained, but through a fractured timeline. At the same time, was it my story, or my great-grandparents’ story, that I was continuing?
In this sense, what happens to identity when it is fragmented? Every time I sat and chatted with my great-grandparents’ relatives, I wondered if I was taking the best of both worlds or simply floating between two worlds, unable to integrate into either.
My mind would go back and forth between an uncertain future and a past that was not entirely mine. The line dividing my identity from that of my relatives became thinner and thinner. The questions multiplied, as did the travels between Argentina and Croatia. My identity split a thousand times. I wondered if my great-grandparents had experienced the same, returning to Croatia in search of a home that no longer existed.
The Discomfort of Being “Foreign at Home”
With the Croatian passport came the discomfort of feeling “foreign” everywhere. In Croatia, separated by a linguistic and cultural gap that couldn’t be overcome, even after learning Croatian. Not even the five summers I spent in Croatia or the thousands of coffees I drank could erase the identity marks of having been born in Latin America.
On the other hand, after so much time away from home, nothing could erase the scars left by living in such a different society. Every time I returned to Argentina, I found a home that seemed to stay the same but that I could no longer return to.
Having abandoned my daily life in my own country often made me feel like a foreigner. Being left out of common topics and jokes, not fully understanding current political and economic events, and missing important occasions were some of the consequences of living abroad.
What does it mean to be part of a place if you don’t share its daily life, its living culture? Can you say you belong to two places and, at the same time, to neither? I realized that dual Croatian and Argentine citizenship involves a constant negotiation between the stories we were told and the reality around us.
What I Learned About My Identity While in Croatia
My experience in Croatia helped me understand many things about my identity. I learned that identity is not defined by a geographical location but by the connections we create with others and the stories we choose to carry with us. My relationship with Croatia is no less real for having grown up elsewhere. It is a relationship built on family tales and language, which, although I did not live there, was always present. A bond sustained by the past I inherited, but also the present I built with great emotion. The process of rediscovery. A return, but also a different future.
In Croatia, I understood that identity is not a matter of “belonging” to a physical place, but of how we relate to the places and people that give us meaning.
Croatia and Argentina: Dual Citizenship and Two Worlds
Living between two countries is a constant challenge. Dual citizenship not only gives you the right to belong to two places but also forces you to redefine what it means to belong. It is no longer about being “local” or “foreign,” but about being able to inhabit those spaces between two worlds, acknowledging that you don’t need to fit completely into either one to feel at home.
In this sense, having dual citizenship from Argentina and Croatia was, for me, a decision, a responsibility, and also an honor. It was a commitment I chose to embody: the fact of learning from that place, merging with its culture, finding the traces that family memory had built. Putting myself into it and accepting the perpetual identity bifurcation. Becoming a symbol of the question “Who am I?” condemned to wander without an answer.
But over time, I learned to live with this dichotomy and the infinite blank spaces. I no longer feel the need to choose or define myself. To check off a box on some list. I no longer believe it’s wrong to speak Croatian with a Spanish accent or return to Argentina and not know what’s happening.
Being Croatian and Argentine at the same time is both a gift and a burden. I believe a passport doesn’t define who I am, but the stories, experiences, and relationships I build do. And although Croatia was never my “home” in the literal sense, I discovered upon returning that roots, even if distant, always find a way to take root.
If you’re interested in the identity struggles of emigrating and living in motion, you can check out my category “Nomadic Life.”
Do you have dual citizenship and have experienced something similar? I’d love to hear your thoughts!