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After a while, it all becomes a blur.

Cobblestone streets, bike lane-lined roads, canals, and rivers winding through cities both small and sprawling. Traffic jams, traffic lights, narrow alleys, and wide boulevards. The hum of cities, their layered smells. Don’t even get me started on museums, galleries, and exhibitions — then concerts, recitals, theater, and shows. And then, silence. A silence that sweeps in like fog, only to lift the next day, as the cycle starts all over again.

I consider myself privileged: I hold a valid passport, a visa, a roof I can return to and call home, and a stable income.

But that privilege has come at a cost.

One I still struggle to fully evaluate — exiled from my home, resettled in a foreign land, refusing to be silenced, yet exhausted by the endless, grinding struggle for justice. A struggle that feels more universal now than ever, touching countless countries and countless lives.

As I write these words, I am walking toward the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe. I’m scheduled to speak on the state of human rights and the safety of journalists in Azerbaijan.

That’s right — Azerbaijan. The country where I was born. The country that once held my dreams, my aspirations, my hopes. All of which slowly unraveled when I realized those hopes did not align with those of the country’s leaders.

Resettling

Leaving for good was never the plan. My work took me places, but I always counted on the luxury of returning — even briefly. That was enough for a while.

As I grew older, my connection to Azerbaijan shifted. I no longer missed the country itself so much as the sensory memories it held: people, family, food, the aromas and textures of a place that shaped me. These days, when I forget which city I’ve landed in, I sometimes mentally walk the streets of Baku, my hometown. I remember the scent of partridge grass steeping in tea, the aroma of freshly baked pakhlava, shekerbura, and qogal filling our kitchen during Novruz.

Oddly, it’s those familiar smells I now chase in unfamiliar cities — ghosts of a home I can’t return to.

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Then, of course, there is Istanbul. The place I’ve chosen to settle. A city that never lets you forget where you are: the cry of seagulls overhead, ferries crisscrossing the Bosphorus, donut-shaped pastries sold on every corner, the chaotic rhythm of its streets, and the frustrated honks of drivers stalled in endless traffic. The perpetual hum of construction machinery grinds through the cityscape.

And 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 I remember. There’s always something missing, something intangible. Despite having lived here for more than half my life, that absence remains.

Sometimes I think I don’t belong here. In truth, it’s a thought that follows me everywhere I go. A quiet suspicion that I belong nowhere.

I’ve made peace with that. I tell myself: I’m a nomad. And that’s fine.

Because I carry the essence of what I cherish in my memories. My identity becomes irrelevant — something adjusted and reframed like an image filtered before posting on social media. Maybe it’s accompanied by a song, too.

On identity

Lately, I’ve stopped clinging to the idea of identity altogether. It’s no longer something I want to be defined by. To me, it’s our lived experiences and the decisions we make that shape who we are. Identity has become so politicized, so misused — often to divide, to dehumanize — that I find myself repelled by the idea of being tied to a single nation, language, history, or ethnicity.

We — the nomads, the non-identifiers, the black sheep — are constantly being asked to align ourselves with the past, to carry its burdens as our own. But perhaps what we should be doing instead is living in the present, and imagining a future where fear-driven ideologies and demagogues no longer shape the terms of our existence. A future where we are free simply to live, to exist, to be.

I watch the waves form and dissolve in the wake of a ferry's engine — maybe even catch a glimpse of a dolphin’s tail flipping briefly above the surface. Seagulls circle above, hoping for a piece of bagel tossed by a passenger. And I find myself wishing I could live like a wave: formed, then dissolved, as if I had never been. Only to reappear again when called upon.