The Accidental Birdwatcher

In Arabic, my mother tongue, I know the names of three, maybe four, types of birds.

Of these, I only know the name for a single songbird.

Asfoura -- عصفورة -- is the catchall for small brown songbirds, which I only learned later in life are called sparrows in English.

Sparrows are the most common songbird in the world, and are one of the few species that exist commonly and abundantly in the urban desert I grew up in.

If I ever saw a colourful songbird, like a blackbird or a bluebird, I might name it by adding the colour in front of the word asfoura and that would be that. There were only as many names for songbirds as there were colours and body parts I could describe in my language.

Asfoura - عصفورة - is the catch-all name for small brown songbirds, which I only learned later in life are called sparrows in English.

This is not to say Arabic doesn't have these names for all kinds of birds. See: Farid Ud-din Attar's The Conference of Birds for an example of hundreds of them.

But the fact is that I simply didn't need to learn those names.

Naming comes second to encounter and as a kid, to my deep dismay, I encountered birds more often on my plate than on my walks.

***

This lack of language stemming from a deeper lack of encounter is a loss I didn't know I was living with until I read a book in the summer of 2020 titled How to do Nothing by Jenny Odell.

It is in the pages of this floral crested book that I read the phrase "species loneliness" for the first time. Odell introduces her own first encounter with the phrase in a paragraph quoting Robin Wall Kimmerer's Braiding Sweetgrass.

Kimmerer writes:

"I’m trying to imagine what it would be like going through life not knowing the names of the plants and animals around you. Given who I am and what I do, I can’t know what that’s like, but I think it would be a little scary and disorienting—like being lost in a foreign city where you can’t read the street signs [...] as our human dominance has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call our to our neighbours."

Following Kimmerer's quote, Odell carries on her reflections:

"I looked over at my neighbour, the song sparrow, and thought about how just a few years ago, I wouldn’t have known its name, might not even have seen it at all. How lonely that world seemed in comparison to this one! But the sparrow and I were no longer strangers. It was no stretch of the imagination, nor even of science, to think that we are related. We were both from the same place (Earth), made of the same stuff. And most important, we were both alive."

It dawns on me as I read Kimmerer and Odell's words that this is exactly what I have been feeling: a deep loneliness and loss of kinship with my natural neighbours.

Species loneliness.

How lonely my world seemed in comparison to their's! Which creatures did I know the names of, could I call to, besides that singularly unspecific name for a song sparrow, maybe: asfoura?

***

Today, it is several years later and I have become ravenously curious about the names of birds in the English gardens I am walking, season after season. And perpetually, in other countries I visit.

I have become an accidental bird watcher, desperate to put a face, or rather a slender, fleeting body, to every new name for a bird I learn.

Finch, owl, warbler.

And the trees they nest on.

Maple, oak, willow.

What wonderful names, and even more wonderful creatures!

I am beginning to notice the new birds on the block every season.

Starlings, wagtails, geese.

And I've grown accustomed to the locals that stay close by year round.

Sparrows, blackbirds, pigeons.

Learning their names has become a way of making an introduction, of saying a proper hello.

Learning their names has become a way of making an introduction, of saying a proper hello.

Hello, mockingbird, your brown wings painted with a bright white streak sure are lovely, thanks for showing them to me.

Of getting to know their personalities better.

Robins, everywhere! You may be abundant and some may say common, but your orange chests and beautiful songs never cease to excite me.

Or their quirks.

Oh, hopping dancing wagtails, I know you are migratory birds but please won't you stay in these parts for longer -- you always bring a smile to my face.

And once they've flown away, their names are a lasting memory of meeting them.

Like yesterday's silouhetted hummingbird. So quick to appear and even quicker to leave. I only saw her in brief but I'll remember that moment forever, imagining her greens and nectar spirited speed again and again.

Every name I learn is a way of saying thank you to the birds.

Thank you, yellow warbler, for making the riverside trees dance with your bright yellow singing spirit in the mountains

And to this Earth.

Thank you, Earth, for a life less lonely because of all the birds that I share it with. Seagull and finch, woodpecker and tit, red tailed hawk and wild migrating geese.

Thank you for every miracle of a chance encounter and for every bird I do not know the name of, yet.