This piece first appeared on Substack. I republish it here voluntarily — not as repetition, but as trace; a place where words can rest after their first flight.
Each entry in this log forms part of an ongoing reflection on memory, awareness, and connection.
👉🏻 rftjon.substack.com
I was born with three passports. Venezuelan by birthplace, Dutch by paternal lineage, Belgian by maternal inheritance. At age three, I was “imported”—a word my father used with a wink and a shrug—into Belgium, where my mother’s roots ran deep and her silence ran deeper.
By fifteen, I chose Belgium. Not with fanfare, but with quiet conviction. I let the other passports expire, like old photographs curling at the edges. Venezuelan and Dutch—two nations that had once claimed me—became footnotes in my bureaucratic biography. I didn’t renounce them. I simply didn’t renew them.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about the passport I never used.
Not the Belgian one, which has taken me across continents and through customs with ease. Not the Dutch one, which tethered me to Suriname, where my father was born in 1916—a son of a Portuguese father and a Chinese mother, raised in a colony that spoke Dutch but dreamed in many tongues.
No, I mean the Venezuelan passport. The one issued at birth, stamped with a name I was born with, but never used to cross a border. It sits in memory like a sealed envelope—unopened, but never discarded.
Citizenship of the Unlived
What does it mean to belong to a country you don’t remember? To carry its nationality like a ghost limb—present, but unfelt?
Venezuela was my first legal home, but not my first emotional one. I left before memory could root itself. Yet the passport remains a symbol of something deeper: a birthright unclaimed, a story paused mid-sentence.
In Roi Et, where I now live a big part of the year, I grill fish like my Flemish grandfather did. But the fire feels Venezuelan. There’s something in the way the smoke curls—a rhythm, a heat, a memory that doesn’t belong to Belgium.
Three Nations, One Self
Belgium gave me structure. Suriname gave me ancestry. Venezuela gave me origin. Thailand gives me peace.
I am not a citizen of one place. I am a mosaic of migrations. My identity is not a flag—it’s a map with blurred borders and overlapping routes. My father’s Surinamese stories, my mother’s Belgian silences, my own Thai rituals—they all converge in me.
And so, I wonder: should I renew the passport I never used?
Not for travel. Not for paperwork. But for remembrance.
Closing Reflection
A passport is a tool. But it’s also a talisman. It tells others where you belong, it reminds you where you began.
I may never use my Venezuelan birthright to cross a border. But perhaps it’s not for crossing—it’s for remembering.
My father, Frederik Hendrik Tjong-A-Tjoe, was born in Paramaribo in 1916, raised by his grandparents in a house shared by the Boutelle and Brandon families. His mother, Dophie, was a woman of Chinese-Surinamese descent whose story began in the rice fields of southern China and unfolded across continents—from Suriname to Curaçao, Caracas, and Antwerp.
Her legacy, and that of her mother Tjong Tjou, is woven into mine. Their resilience, their migrations, their quiet defiance of colonial norms—all of it lives in the passport I never used.
“The story of Tjong Tjou, Dophie, and Frederik Tjong-A-Tjoe is one of hope, perseverance, and generational transformation. From the rice fields of Southern China to the studios of Caracas and galleries of Antwerp, their legacy endures—an inspiration to all who seek dignity, identity, and meaning against the odds of history.”
About the Author
Robert writes from Roi Et, Thailand, where he explores the intersections of memory, migration, and identity. Born in Venezuela, raised in Belgium, and shaped by Surinamese and Thai influences, his work reflects a mosaic of cultures and quiet reflections. He is passionate about cross-cultural storytelling, digital literacy, and the rituals that bind us across generations.
Note to Readers
Thank you for reading The Passport I Never Used. If this story resonated with you—whether through shared heritage, forgotten documents, or the quiet power of remembrance—I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to leave a comment, share your own story, or pass this along to someone navigating their own layered identity.
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Robert F. Tjón, August 2025
