When words fail, music prevails
For five decades Saima Mir has been using language to make sense of life, but as the world has started to burn, her words have begun to fail her
Hello everyone, just a quick one from me to let you know that I’m on deadline to deliver my book this week, so I’ve got a gorgeous guest post for you instead. Longtime subscribers might remember Saima Mir from a post she wrote back in the early (pre-substack) days of The Shift, As a 48-year-old brown woman I’ve been invisible as long as I can remember, or her appearance on The Shift bookclub last summer. I’m a longtime fan of Saima’s work, so I’m delighted to share this piece with you. Normal service will be resumed next week.
Every Friday morning, I drop my children at school and drive five miles to bang on a drum.
I’ve been going to music therapy in a small building next to the Brit School in Croydon for three months. It’s not what I expected healing to look like, but I didn’t choose music, it chose me.
There have been three times I’ve felt most alive, the first time I walked into a newsroom, the first time I put on boxing gloves and landed a punch, the first time I sat down at a drum kit.
I’m a writer, words have long been my tools and my armour. I have poured fury onto the page as a bestselling author, reported events as a journalist, and spoken truths at literature festivals across the country.
We’ve lived through dark times before. But back then, we had rituals. Elders. Community. We marked grief and love with ceremony and connection. Now, so much of that has been lost
For five decades I’ve been using language to make sense of my world, and for half of that time, it has paid my bills, but recently words have failed me.
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