I come from an Italian family in Argentina, and in Argentina we have a saying: 'If man evolved from apes, Argentineans evolved from ships'. It's not far from the truth.

Over a million Italian immigrants arrived to the southernmost country of America in the twentieth century, fleeing an impoverished Europe and the horrors of the wars. Argentina - the eighth biggest country in the world - was in need of workers, and therefore promoted European immigration. It is said that about 20 million people of the 35 million inhabitants living today in Argentina are related to Italians in some degree.

When it's not an option but a matter of survival to leave your homeland, whatever place you end up in will never feel like home. No matter how long you live there, no matter whether your children, your grandchildren, are born there, no matter whether your new country gives you hope for a better future, your heart will always be tied to the place where you grew up. My grandparents were no exception, and homage to their former homeland in their day-to-day routine has been a great influence on our family life.

We have gnocchi every 29th day of the month with a banknote under the plate to bring wealth and prosperity to the person eating it. There's family lunch every Sunday at my nonna's house. Limoncello is always at hand - brewed by my nonna. There are Italian children's songs ('manina bella'). There are strong religious feelings and blasphemy mixed together to mystify the brightest of minds. That's the way I've been brought up in an Italian corner of my native Argentina.

My grandfather, Guerino, fought in the Second World War. Oddly enough, his name comes from the Italian word 'guerra', which means war. Being Italian, his fighting skills weren't as good as his cooking skills, which meant that he was captured in Greece. His salvation came when the German army entered the conflict and released him to go back to Italy. Once the conflict was over he was forced to leave Italy, otherwise he would have had to be judged (and would probably have been found guilty).

I still remember my nonno staying indoors at midnight on New Year's Eve while the rest of the family was outside enjoying the fireworks. The sound of explosions reminded him of bombs and shootings and it was too much for him to bear. He would also say that the war films that came from the USA were 'americagadas' ('Amerishit') - they didn't have anything to do with what war really was about. And I also remember him telling me off when I refused to eat mint and chocolate bonbons just because I didn't like them. He said 'You don't know how lucky you are to have something sweet to eat' - and explained how he had to eat a dead donkey and raw potatoes when fighting in Greece.

While fighting for Italy, my grandparents got married. My grandma had to marry my granddad's cousin, who represented him in the ceremony. It does sound strange by today's standards, but it was quite a normal procedure at the time.

Dina, my grandma travelled to Argentina following my granddad, though she didn't really want to leave Italy. To this day, it's a decision she wishes she had made differently. I suppose that's why she has always been a very nervous person (who jumps at the sound of a doorbell and needs sleeping pills to get to sleep at night. She still feels homesick every other day and talks about Italy with a love and passion that would melt the iciest heart.

My grandparents travelled on the transatlantic ship Monte Bianco for weeks before getting to the port of Buenos Aires. In the time the journey lasted, they had the chance to meet different people from their own and other nearby villages. All of them having something in common and not knowing anyone there to help them, they decided to stick together when they arrived to Argentina - and moved in to the same neighbourhood of San Martín.

They would turn to that group of friends when there was something they needed. For example my grandma, who is a very talented tailor, sewed clothes for the rest of them and my granddad, who was a builder - he built his own house - helped putting up walls and fixing roofs.

Being the second generation of my mother's family born in Buenos Aires, I didn't have as many problems as my mum had growing up. My mum's parents didn't speak any Spanish, and she lived in Italy for a few years, which meant that when she started attending school, she didn't understand anything. Her teacher made her stand in front of the class and get on a chair to sing Italian songs. They were not happy days. She had to spend afternoons with private teachers to catch up with the rest of the class. Oddly enough, she became a teacher.

The years she spent in Oderzo, Italy, were filled with joy. I've heard many stories about afternoons spent with uncles and aunts (they were all about 15, and my mum was 6) in the basement where they made wine - drinking and getting drunk, till some responsible adult came and put them to bed - to sleep away the dizziness. As it was a farm, there were many animals to play with. Her favourites were the little yellow chicks. Unfortunately they tended to die in her hands, as she squeezed them too hard.

The immigrants' dream is to provide a better future for their children. At this time in Argentinean history, this meant studying. My mother studied a degree in teaching - with the Argentinean fixation on psychology as a focus. Most men studied medicine or law - hence the saying 'mi hijo el dotor': my son the 'dotor'.

For many years none of the family went back to Italy - but there were lots of visits from Italian friends and family. I remember being on summer holidays in the coastal city of Mar del Plata with my family and an Italian cousin of my mum and his girlfriend. They liked our dulce de leche (similar to caramel in taste and colour) so much that they would ask us to serve it with beef.

Now that it is my turn to be living abroad - I live in London - I understand my grandparents' situation a bit more. Even though we now have phones, the internet and webcams, the need for a motherly hug or a familiar voice to calm you down - or the support of a life-long friend - are always there to remind you that you are no longer in your homeland. There is a little bit of you that stays in the place you left behind - and it's only when you go back there, that you once again feel complete.

END

(c) Gabriela Scavuzzo 27 October 08

Gabriela Scavuzzo is a writer living in London