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.
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. i am sam kurdish
If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups: I don’t blame people
It means never quite fitting in. Not fully Western, not fully Middle Eastern. Always a little bit other — but proud of it. I won’t pretend it’s all poetry and good food. But explaining it over and over is exhausting
Next time you meet someone Kurdish, don’t ask them to explain their entire geopolitical situation. Just say hello. Maybe share some tea.
It means laughing harder than anywhere else. Kurdish humor is sharp, self-deprecating, and often involves someone’s uncle doing something ridiculous. We’ve survived so much that we’ve learned not to take ourselves too seriously.