I Want To Live In A World Where My Art And I Can Exist Freely

I have always dreamed of making art, particularly self-portrait photography in a place where it can exist freely.

A place where I do not have to think twice or prepare my defence before I even begin making art. I am so done with having my art labeled unethical, immoral, or against religion. Back home, art was never just art. It carried weight before it even existed. For me, it was a risk, something that could expose me rather than protect me. Every idea I had came with consequences, and creativity felt like something I had to justify instead of something I was allowed to do. Art demanded explanations, apologies, and courage long before it demanded imagination.

Leaving my country, Malaysia, did not erase that fear. It followed me closely, like a shadow that learned how to move quietly. It learned new languages, adapted to new rules, and learned how to stand still and be seen. Even when I believed I was finally safe, the fear remained active. I carried it with me across borders, studios, hoping distance would weaken it, only to realise it had simply changed shape.

Being an immigrant is hard in ways that are difficult to explain to people who have never had to prove their right to stay. It is not just paperwork or accents or homesickness. It is the constant awareness that your presence can be questioned at any moment. Lately, with politicians talking openly about deporting millions of people, that fear has eaten me alive. It creeps into my thoughts when I least expect it, turning everyday routines into reminders of how fragile belonging can be.

I think about visibility all the time. My art wants to be seen, because that is its nature. Art asks for space, for witnesses, for conversation. But being seen as an immigrant can feel dangerous. Visibility can turn into exposure, and exposure can feel like a threat. Because of that, I tone down my voice. I second guess what I share. I imagine worst case scenarios before allowing myself to create. Some days, the safest option feels like silence, and that realisation breaks something in me. Silence feels like a betrayal of everything art has ever given me.

What hurts the most is the familiarity of these feelings. I left a place where my art could put me in danger, where my creativity could be mistaken for rebellion and could lead to punishment. I did not expect to feel those same emotions again. I did not expect fear to return, even if the reasons are different. Once again, I find myself weighing my love for art against my need to survive. That balance is exhausting, and it makes creation feel heavy instead of freeing.

I am tired of translating myself. I am tired of having to explain my existence, my choices, and my right to take up space. I am tired of carrying the guilt of wanting freedom when that freedom feels so fragile and conditional. These thoughts follow me everywhere. They enter studios with me, sit quietly in galleries, and echo inside my head long after I leave. They shape how I move, how I speak, and how boldly I allow myself to dream.

Sometimes I ask myself where I really belong. Is it the place I left, where my work was considered wrong and dangerous? Or is it here in Glasgow, where I am allowed to create but never fully allowed to relax and create freely? I feel like I exist in between, suspended between places, identities, and expectations. I am always adjusting myself, always bracing for whatever comes next, and I am never fully settled.

But that doesn’t stop me from making art, even when it hides or trembles. I make it because stopping would mean letting fear win twice. I make it because creating art has always been my way of saying that I am here, that I have something to say, and that I refuse to disappear into the fog. Art is my proof of existence, my resistance, and my refusal to be let down.

Maybe belonging is not a location. Maybe it is not tied to borders, cities, or permissions. Maybe belonging is the act of continuing what I have always believed in, even when it feels difficult. Maybe it lives in the choice to keep creating, to keep speaking, and to keep trusting that my voice matters, even when the world makes me doubt it.

Zaym Zarif is a Glasgow based artist. To learn more head to: https://zaymzarif.com/ and @byzaymism on Instagram.