Jana Wehbe

I feel like an outsider.
An outsider at home. An outsider in my own walls, in my hometown, in the city I live in, and in the situations I find myself in. It’s like playing a game, and while I’m part of it, I’m never an essential part.
Outsider.
Outside the bubbles and categories of the city I chose. Sometimes I wonder why I’m even here. I found my place, but the place never found people like me. I am apart, not a part.
An outsider with my people and an outsider without them.
An outsider at work—but somehow still an insider.
Outsiders try to adapt. Take a step back. Be one of them. Be like them. Hide your origin.
When I came to this city, I denied myself pronouncing my name correctly. I know it was my choice, but I realise now it came from a need to avoid the discussions. Correcting people made them irritated. Some don’t want to be corrected. Some aren’t interested. And some are just annoyed. I felt small, unimportant, and yes, annoying. So I stopped.
Now, I stay an outsider trying to blend in as an insider. Even with a name that sounds like it belongs here.
Am I outside or inside? Where do I belong?
Outsider.
An outsider in my hometown and an outsider in the town I live in. Nothing feels like home, and nothing feels right.

_{Antwort an:}

You said we carry the pain of our homes always on our shoulders and in our chest. No matter how long we’ve been away, no matter how much we’ve changed. It’s in our hearts and roots. It’s pierced deep inside of us. And sometimes this pain is far stronger and bigger than we expect.
It overwhelms us.
It blurs reality.
It leaves me numb.
Empty.
I feel nothing.
I’m lying in bed, hungry. There’s a sandwich next to me, but eating feels pointless. Every time I hear the building door open, a flicker of hope ignites—a part of me believing it’s someone I love, someone coming to surprise me. I want to be seen, I think. I want to matter to society. I think. I want people to ask about me. About my roots. About what’s happening. It’s this part of me that wants to be noticed when I can’t even feel myself anymore through the chaos. Maybe if someone else cared, it would help me care, too. Gain back my empathy.
I’m drained. I’m numb. I open my phone, scroll through the news. I close it. I open it again, a news video pops up. I skip it. Yet I can’t delete these news apps. They’re my only connection to my parents. I’m exhausted. They’re probably even more exhausted. I cry.
I open my phone again and see another picture of my hometown, hit and scarred. I close it. This time it’s different. I don’t feel empathy. I start having thoughts – thoughts I don’t want to have. „It’s okay, they were targeted anyway. It’s not that bad. It’s okay.“ And I feel bad. Bad for thinking this. Bad for not feeling anything for my people, for the streets I grew up in, the streets I roamed, my childhood – my essence. I feel bad for not feeling bad anymore. How did we get here? How did I lose this part of myself?
I’m crying, and I don’t even know why. I’m afraid. I feel strange. Strange living. Strange 
being away from my grandparents, my home. Strange being close to them. I feel strange here, and I feel strange there. I feel strange in both of my homes, my worlds. I don’t even know how to feel anymore. I’m so overwhelmed. Exhausted.
I could get up early, finish some tasks before my 2 p.m. appointment. I can’t.
I could get up and wash the dishes. I can’t.
I could tidy up or do laundry. I can’t.
I could try to create something, anything. I can’t.
I could eat. I can’t.
I can’t, and I would give anything to just “can” right now.
I can’t.
And I’m losing again.
Exhausted.
Somewhere inside, there’s a whisper—a voice reminding me that even in all this heaviness, I’m still here. Maybe it’s not about fixing everything right now. Maybe it’s just about holding on long enough to try again tomorrow.
But for now, I can’t.

_{Antwort an:}