Some peaceful pics from my summer trip, which marked my choosing not to be stressed anymore in this life.

Between April and May, I took part in an empowerment and creative workshop organized by Maviblau, a cultural platform for the exploration of post-migrant themes and the exchange between Turkey and Germany. The theme of this workshop centered around the question “Woher kommst du?”—”Where are you from?”— and around the hashtag #vonhier created by Ferda Ataman, journalist and author of the book Ich bin von hier. Hör auf zu fragen! (I am from here. Stop asking!). I know I’m not actually “von hier,” but if I were, would I ever feel German and would I be perceived as such?

Last weekend I went to the Slavs and Tatars Pickle Bar in Moabit for a foot-soaking performance by dear friends and creatives Hana Ćurak and Bojan Stojčić. Hana is a writer and sociologist, and is the mind behind the pioneering feminist memes on the platform Sve su to vještice (It’s all witches). Bojan is a contemporary artist who explores language, graphics, body, and humor via photography, drawing, and performance, among others. Both hail from Sarajevo.

I never imagined myself on a motorcycle, neither as a driver nor a passenger. It just never came to mind as something I might be interested in. But here I am today, with a partner who loves his Black Edition Kawasaki—which we jokingly/warmly refer to as “Bikey”—browsing the local online classifieds for motorcycle jackets, and now regularly hopping on Bikey for little excursions in and around the city. Here is yet another instance in which I’ve glimpsed into a world previously unknown to me.

Winter is beginning to thaw here in Berlin. I first realized this a few weeks ago when I looked out the window at 3:30 pm and saw that it was still light outside. I was floored when, an hour later, it was still daytime. For all the times that have felt never-ending and Sisyphean these last few months in various stages of lockdown, it’s comforting to know that at least spring is still going to happen.

Today is the first day of the year in the lunar calendar. I was vaguely aware it was coming up. But ultimately it was my friend Emma, who is of Taiwanese descent, who reminded me of its imminent arrival. She asked if I was doing anything to celebrate.

Going to the public library was a big part of my childhood. I remember that distinct smell of books, the crinkly, plasticky sound when you opened one, and the strange ambience of a bunch of strangers being quiet together—and not to mention the accompanying thrill of potentially getting shushed or scolded for doing something out of line in this sacred space.