over the last three weeks I’ve attempted to write three different pieces, each intending to address a topic but transpiring into another topic completely. unfinished, still.

the common denominator in every single post? space.

the spaces we take up, or don’t. the spaces that belong to us, or don’t. and the spaces that we belong to, try to belong to, fail at belonging to, or escape altogether.

as if often the notion in my life, I find myself uprooted with no permanent settlement. everywhere I go is temporary, increasing my anxiety the older I get that I cannot appear to find ‘home’.

I thought I was done with finding home, an elusive concept not afforded to many born in a country but brought up with the culture of another. and yet, having been denied the experience of the homeland, almost in its entirety, costing the detention and torture of your father, the loneliness of your mother, the martyrdom of your uncle, and the generational pain of every member of your family and their stories — finding their way to the very particles in your DNA — apparently, seeking a home in this fleeting existing doesn’t cease.

unlike so many, I am not without a passport. born in fact to one of the strongest passports in the world, and that to God I am grateful. for some reason, I assumed that by the time I reached 30, I would no longer be searching. in fact, I am exhausted – tired – sick even, of searching. I no longer want to search, but whatever it is I am searching for, has not yet been found. for the suffocation I felt before travelling and living in different countries only compounds, and the sight of my clothes perpetually in suitcases as I move from city to city thumps at my heart – that dull, low ache which you can just about feel that sends you in a downward spiral, like a muffled scream you can’t quite locate – or switch off.

this then, is what it feels to have been brought up on the scent of home without knowing it. and I doubt sometimes, that even if I were to know it, it wouldn’t quite quench the longing. I find myself crying often, no words or feelings to articulate why – as I fight against the helplessness of our existence. oscillating between deep faith and mild despair, days where I see only the good God has placed in front of me to use, to utilise, which comes crashing down as I feel too heavy, too unable to work with the ideas and streaks colouring themselves and connecting in my mind.

one of my favourite topics during the course of my master’s was the conversation on space. the erection of buildings, and the concept of dwelling. dwelling, it’s such a fanciful word that I hadn’t realised I was missing in my conceptualisation of life. the amalgamation of the word’s formal meaning with its informal, or slang, intrigued me the most. it is not just to reside in a place, but to ponder, to think, to be invoked within the space on physical and metaphysical stages. I always had a fascination for architecture, and people’s relationship with structures and space. I tell myself that had I not been so determined to do something ‘political’ with my life, had I given myself a chance to expand my horizons in my youth, I may have found myself in the study of architecture and space – aerospace engineering even, for my love of the sky and universe, and not immediately in history and civilisations. which, I am ever grateful for, for the knowledge and insight my studies have given me.

and thus, to dwell.

perhaps we just need someone to sit and sing beghyabek by autostrad with us or ya maliha or better yet those niche songs from my childhood that seldom to people know unless they know, by a fire and dimmed lights, or on midsummer’s night. lyrics I seemingly know in my mind but could never sing out loud, their delivery gets muddled by the time they reach my tongue. or perhaps we need someone to tell us that we too can take up space, without being much – that what we carry is heavy, but not in a pitiful way, we don’t seek pity, just acknowledgement, I think. acknowledgement, understanding and a shoulder to help us carry what we contain.

what is this bloc?

they say, no man is an island of his own. and I know this so well and yet, it’s so difficult, to find people of the same wave length. our complexities and biases, our fabric and make-up, the constellations within every one of us, the ideologies and preconceived conceptions that get in the way every single time and ya rab, it gets tiring feeling like you’re the only one navigating around senses and sensibilities.

I do wish more people embodied intersectionality, not merely spoke of it.

and yet, I digress.

my suitcases remain partially unpacked and to what end? to be packed again as I seek settlement either in a space with no future, or in a future with no space – or a space so enamoured with love it feels almost blasphemous departing again, yet, with so little breathing space.

/ a continuous attempt to get back to productive writing, without losing the plot.