Next time you meet someone Kurdish, don’t ask them to explain their entire geopolitical situation. Just say hello. Maybe share some tea.
I don’t blame people. Really. Our history is complicated, our struggle is long, and our homeland was carved up and handed out like old playing cards. But explaining it over and over is exhausting. It means growing up with stories of resilience. My grandmother told me about walking over mountains at night, carrying nothing but children and hope. She didn’t tell it like a tragedy. She told it like a fact. This is what we did. This is what we are.
It means explaining to friends why you don’t visit your parents’ homeland as easily as they visit theirs. Why a “vacation” to that village your grandfather mentioned might involve military checkpoints and a language that isn’t yours and a flag you’re not technically allowed to fly. i am sam kurdish
By Sam
It means food that tastes like memory. Dolma, biryani, kuba, mastaw. The smell of lamb and spices drifting through my mother’s kitchen on a Friday afternoon. Meals that take six hours to prepare and twenty minutes to eat — and that’s exactly the point. Next time you meet someone Kurdish, don’t ask
It means having a passport that doesn’t match your heart. Being Kurdish means being part of a family that stretches across mountains and borders and generations. I can walk into a Kurdish café in London, Berlin, Nashville, or Stockholm — and within five minutes, someone has offered me tea and asked whose son I am.
Let me start with something simple: my name is Sam. I drink coffee in the morning, scroll through my phone too much, and get annoyed when it rains on my commute. On paper, I’m just another guy trying to get through the week. I don’t blame people
If I say “Iraq” or “Turkey” or “Syria” or “Iran” — depending on where my family’s borders fell on some map drawn long before I was born — people nod like they understand. But they don’t. Because I’m not from those countries. I’m from Kurdistan. A place that exists in every way that matters except on most official documents.
And I’m Kurdish. I come from a people without a state but with an unshakable soul. A people whose anthem is called “Ey Reqîb” — “O, Enemy” — because even our love songs have a little defiance in them.