My Natural Habitat

Writing is a major part of who I am. And before I realized that I was a writer, I had been writing years prior to that. One day I was like, wait, I am a writer. With writing, I have been able to say what I couldn’t say. It is my safest place and one of the most amusing activities I do. People find it interesting when I tell them that I write in English, despite being a Kurdish speaker. There are many reasons why I write in English. And no, it wasn’t like me waking up one day and telling myself I’ll write and use a language that isn’t my mother tongue.

It wasn’t a choice. It just happened. I was influenced by the English language a lot, and naturally, that is how it felt easier to express the inexpressible. Another reason why I find using a language that isn’t my mother tongue helpful is because English adds a barrier between me and my emotions. When I use a language that I learned after the first decade of being on this beautiful planet, I feel less exposed, like it’s my emotions but told by another version of me. A detached version of me who doesn’t really feel them, just reports them. Using Kurdish would be too raw for me to put everything I feel and everything I think. It’s like when I say I’m sad in English, it’s stating a fact, but saying I’m sad in Kurdish — and writing about it to share with everyone — means I’m actually feeling those emotions, and I’m exposed in a way that is almost scary. Using words from another language is like a protective layer; it makes it easier and safer to borrow words from another language rather than admit all the darkness that dwells in me using words in my first language.

With that being said, recently, things have been different. Despite my love for writing and the joy I get from putting the thoughts that are in my head on paper or on a screen, I have been writing less. Life has been hectic lately, and creating fictional people with fictional lives and using big words to describe what is going on in my head has been difficult. It’s like the responsibilities of life drained the art out of me. Something that happened so naturally and effortlessly now feels like a chore. I miss my old self. I miss typing and the sound my keyboard makes when I have something in my mind that can be silenced only when put into words.

It’s like everyday life gets busier and more tiring, as if the noise from the outside has muted the stories in my head. I used to describe writing as my natural habitat, but now it feels like I’m adapting to the current lifestyle against my will and losing what was once so precious to me.

But hopefully, I’m wrong, and soon enough, I’ll get back into writing.