I Am: Sam Kurdish

I don’t want pity. I don’t want political debates in my comment section (though I know I’ll get them). I just want you to know: we exist. We’re here. We’re not a footnote in someone else’s story.

It means a language that is ancient and beautiful and, until recently, illegal to speak in schools in some of the countries we call home.

“Wait, are you guys the ones with the mountain guerrillas?”

It means music that makes you feel a thousand years old. The sound of the tembûr, the slow ache in a Dengbêj’s voice, singing stories that were never written down because writing wasn’t safe, but memory was. i am sam kurdish

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.

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.

It’s such an innocent question. People ask it at parties, in waiting rooms, on first dates. And every time, my brain does a little gymnastics routine. I don’t want pity

Next time you meet someone Kurdish, don’t ask them to explain their entire geopolitical situation. Just say hello. Maybe share some tea.

“Is that near Iran?”

By Sam

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.

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.