Istanbul: My identity is a wave. Cobblestone streets, bike lane-lined roads, canals, and rivers wind through cities both small and sprawling. Traffic jams, traffic lights, narrow alleys, and wide boulevards. The hum of cities with their layered smells. Museums, galleries, exhibitions, concerts, recitals, theater, and shows. Followed by silence. A silence that sweeps in like fog, only to lift the next day, as the cycle starts all over again.
According to Global Voices, the author considers themselves privileged, holding a valid passport, a visa, a roof to return to and call home, and a stable income. Yet, this privilege has come at a cost. Leaving permanently was never the plan. Their work took them places, but they always counted on the luxury of returning, even briefly. This was enough for a while.
As they grew older, their connection to Azerbaijan shifted. They no longer missed the country itself but rather the sensory memories it held: people, family, food, and the aromas and textures of a place that shaped them. Today, when they forget which city they’ve landed in, they mentally walk the streets of Baku, their hometown, recalling the scent of partridge grass steeping in tea, the aroma of freshly baked pakhlava, shekerbura, and qogal filling the kitchen during Novruz.
In unfamiliar cities, these familiar smells are chased like ghosts of a home they can’t return to. Istanbul, the chosen place of settlement, never lets you forget where you are: the cry of seagulls, ferries crisscrossing the Bosphorus, donut-shaped pastries on every corner, the chaotic rhythm of its streets, and the honks of drivers stalled in traffic. The hum of construction machinery grinds through the cityscape.
Yet, it’s not quite the same. The tea tastes more bitter, the desserts too sweet. Even with the right spices, the food lacks the depth of flavor remembered. Something is always missing, something intangible. Despite having lived there for more than half their life, that absence remains.
A feeling of not belonging lingers, a quiet suspicion that belonging nowhere is their truth. They’ve made peace with that notion, embracing a nomadic identity. Memories carry the essence of what is cherished, rendering identity irrelevant, adjusted and reframed like a social media image, perhaps accompanied by a song.
Lately, they’ve stopped clinging to the idea of identity altogether. It’s no longer something they want to be defined by. To them, it’s lived experiences and decisions that shape who we are. Identity has become politicized and misused, often dividing and dehumanizing, repelling them from being tied to a single nation, language, history, or ethnicity.
As nomads, non-identifiers, and black sheep, aligning with the past and carrying its burdens is a constant ask. Yet, perhaps living in the present and imagining a future free from fear-driven ideologies and demagogues is where the focus should be. A future where living, existing, and being is simply allowed.
Watching waves form and dissolve in a ferry’s wake, glimpses of a dolphin’s tail, and seagulls circling for bagel pieces tossed by passengers, they wish for a life like a wave: formed, dissolved, and reappearing again when called upon.