Ich bin ein Berliner

As the first part of my fellowship at Leibniz-Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO) in Berlin ends, I am reminded of John F. Kennedy’s proclamation in 1963, standing before a divided city and a divided world, “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
I whisper them now for entirely different reasons—not out of political solidarity, but out of a quiet, personal belonging I did not expect to feel in a dark forest on the outskirts of Berlin. I had arrived seeking solitude, but what I found was a cinematic world unfolding before my eyes: fog settling on a bleak lake, wooden cabins standing like sentinels of old stories, and a silence so thick it bordered on suspense.
From the window of my first-floor apartment, I often caught myself behaving like a character in one of those moody novels — eyes lingering on the forest line, inventing stories about the neighbours whose lights flickered through the branches. The atmosphere begged for imagination. It was the kind of setting you read about in bone-chilling thrillers: muted shades, nimbostratus clouds, cold rainy mornings, and theatrical nature.
The sky was a perpetual dream—dreary yet illuminated by the elegance of vintage colours I had only ever encountered in the paintings of Bob Ross: Cadmium Yellow, Phthalo Green, Prussian Blue, Dark Sienna. These shades softened the harshness of the city, painting Berlin in tones of vintage impressionism. People tell me Berlin is bleak, heavy and grey. But to me, that “bleakness” was a blessing. It soothed my eyes, calmed my heartbeat, and reminded me that beauty does not need brightness. Nor loudness.

The houses around me in Nikolassee contributed to this mood: old, creaky structures, with deep basements accessed by lone descending staircases, straight out of horror movies, their corridors echoing with stories I will never know. Fog crawled between the buildings at starry nights, and every so often, I was told, a fox would appear, pausing long enough for eager characters like me to wonder whether it, too, was part of the narrative Berlin was crafting for me.
And what does an Omani academic woman need in such a city? Beauty, yes. Style, certainly. But above all else — books.
Berlin gave me books the way a best friend gives comfort: quietly, generously, and without asking for anything in return. This is a city that still worships paper. A city where bookshops surprise you with covers hidden in brown paper sleeves, showcased as blind dates, where stories are treated as gifts rather than commodities. For the first time in my life, I found myself immersed in a paper-and-cardboard culture — beautiful leather-bound notebooks, handmade journals, vintage stationery, festive cards that felt like artwork.
I even enrolled in an art-journal workshop led by a Berliner at Dussmann. The workshop was in German, a language I still stumble through, but art storytelling, I discovered, transcends vocabulary. “Don’t worry,” I told the artist named Elisabeth, “I understand the art even if I do not understand every word.” And I did — because Berlin speaks visually, emotionally, atmospherically.
I made a vow — half in jest, half in sincerity — that if I ever won the lottery of life, I would spend it in Berlin, rummaging through flea markets and vintage fashion stores, collecting relics of forgotten lives.
Above all, Berlin is a living testament to survival. It is history walking in human and architectural form, history resting in stones that have survived wars, division and rebirth. It holds the nightmares of the past, the mundane of the present, and the dreams of the future in the same hand.
And I am here for it. Because I too am a Berliner.