I wrote this piece back in 2018 and I feel the sentiment has not wavered. I’m debating the question of “where are you from?” in my personal and professional life and I remembered writing this, so I dug into the archives of my external hard drive, resurfaced and posted this piece as was initially written. My relationship with the quintessential question of “where are you from?” is still very complicated, in my next blog post I will challenge the question and debate it from a 2021 (almost 2022) lens. Until then, here is What Being Kurdish Means to Me
My story is that of many Kurds’. It has a lot to do with the Kurdish Diaspora and a sense of identity loss. My childhood was based on a series of movements, both that in the literal sense and that of the metaphorical sense. I spent the first 8 years of my life in between three countries, Canada, Iraq and Jordan. I learned the hard way to say goodbye at a very young age. I also learned the hard way that I was different, that whilst most people had grandparents and cousins living in the same country, same city even, as themselves, I had the unfortunate reality of distance. And that has always left an empty void in my heart that may never be filled.
I think the heartbreaking reality of being a Kurd is our disbandment, because wherever we are, we will never truly fit in to our society, there will always be a part of us that is different, there will always be a societal disconnect. I don’t recall my earliest memory as a Kurd. I don’t remember a genuine moment of realization where I thought to myself, I’m Kurdish. It sort of just was. I always knew. I also knew I was different, I was different from the Kurds living in Kurdistan, because I had a western upbringing with a Jordanian influence. I was different from the Kurds living in Canada, because I wasn’t completely born and raised in Canada. I was being pushed and pulled between various cultures, and I lost my identity in the process. I spent the majority of my early childhood and teenage years avoiding who I was, I always felt ashamed of my background because in a Jordanian society, I didn’t belong, in a Canadian society, I didn’t belong, and in an Iraqi society, I didn’t belong. And when I went back to Kurdistan, I still felt lost, because I still didn’t completely belong in a Kurdish society, despite how desperately I wanted to.
I was in Jordan, when my friend’s mom asked me where my parents were from on the car ride home, “My dad is from Hawler/Erbil, and my mom is from Halabja” I exclaimed. She almost had a fit, “It’s not pronounced Halabja, it’s Halabja,” she emphasized on the hard “H” (ح), “Say it like a true Arab” she added. I remember knowing she was wrong, but retreating to the back of my seat and staying quiet, I didn’t want to be different, so in that moment she was right, and I stayed quiet. I had a Jordanian Arab tell me who I was, and where my parents are from. I was never more ashamed.
I was in Canada, at the CNE by a Turkish booth, when the guy working there started a conversation with me, only to change his demeanour when he found out I was Kurdish, all of a sudden I was inhumane, a terrorist. And that’s exactly what he called me in front of my two friends, simply for being a Kurd.
I will never forget the day at the Oncologist’s office, when we had asked her to write a letter of invitation for my aunt, my mom’s sister. My mom was just recently diagnosed with cancer and we wanted her to be around family. It was in that moment that I knew my heart was capable of harbouring detestation, because the Oncologist said no. “You have your daughter, you don’t need more family” she exclaimed while looking at me. I was shocked by her remark to the point where I was taken aback. I just wanted to scream in that moment, but I knew I wouldn’t. If I could go back and tell her what I thought in that very moment, this would be it:
We didn’t choose this life, this diaspora, we didn’t choose to be away from our homeland, from our families, it happened to us. I was always jealous of my friends in Amman, every Friday they would have their family dinners at their grandparents with all their cousins. I had a grandmother too, only she was miles away, I had cousins too, only they weren’t here. I would get so excited when my grandmother and aunt would visit, it was only for two weeks, but it was always the best two weeks of my life, because for two weeks, I had a family. And when my grandmother passed away, I felt an overwhelming sense of unfairness and guilt, why wasn’t I there? It was really difficult for all of us, being so far away and distant from it all. It’s almost harder than being there, because you are left helpless and alone with your thoughts, no family to surround yourself with, no one to mourn with, we all grieved silently and alone. I think this is where I harbour most of my sorrow, I’m angry at the world, forget the oil, the money and the politics, I just wanted to be in the same city, country even, as my grandmother so that I could be there in the end, not far away from her.
I shared a YouTube video with my family on a warm summer evening when it hit me. We were gathered by the TV, all of us captivated by the faces of these young and beautiful women fighting for a land that has been denied them, for a country, where the people have betrayed them, fighting for basic human rights when the odds are against them. Immersed in these faces, entranced by the song, I don’t notice my family, my parents, but I do hear my sister say, “Please don’t cry.” I turn around to look at my parents, who too are captivated by the beauty and strength of these women, and see their tears rolling down their red eyes. It was one of those moments where I paused and realized I’ve never seen my parents cry like this, they usually try to mask such pain away from me, but in this one instance, I see the pain of a thousand years of conflict, struggle and dysphoria that they couldn’t keep hidden anymore. These women were Kurdish female fighters of Kobanê.
Canada shaped me into the patriotic Kurd that I am today, miles away from the homeland. As mentioned earlier, I always knew I was Kurdish, but it wasn’t until the second year of my undergrad that I truly understood the meaning of being Kurdish. I felt a longing to help my people in the midst of the events of 2014. My friend shared her dream with me, and I wanted to be a part of it, we helped set up a clothing drive to be sent back to the refugees and IDP’s of Kobanê. I finally felt such a deep sense of belonging, I was doing exactly what I was meant to do and in that moment I knew, the void that I had in my heart, will only be filled if I gave back to my people, my homeland.
Being told that Kurds have always lived peacefully amongst arabs without hate, and that there is no need to ask for a referendum angers me. Yes, Kurds are able to coexist with Arabs, with Muslims, Christians, Jews, Turks, Turkmens, Caucus, Yazidi’s, Assyrians and many more races, religions, and ethnicities, because they understand oppression, and they wouldn’t do what was done to them. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that they will continue to be second class citizens in countries that throw chemical attacks at children, mothers, fathers, innocents, in countries that kidnap and rape their women, in countries that jail Kurds for speaking Kurdish, in countries that execute Kurds on the basis of being a Kurd. It doesn’t dismiss the dozens of mass graves inhabiting the soil, and it surely doesn’t disregard the pain, suffering, and blood loss of hundreds of thousands.
The Kurdish struggle exists, it exists in our homes, during breakfast and at our dinner table. It exists when we are asked, “Where are you from?” It exists when we speak Kurdish, it exists when we turn on the news, it exists at social gatherings and during Newroz. I’ve always noticed when two Kurds meet, the conversation always stirs towards stitches that have left wounded Peshmergas, widowed husband and wives, images of blood and bodies, and recollections of death and friends lost as a result of the war. There is not a Kurd today who can say they have not suffered as a direct consequence of the Kurdish struggle.
I feel lost and trapped in a world that is not my own, because the reality of my situation, of my people’s situation, is that we do not have a home, a place were we can take refuge in and feel safe, we have a contingency plan, but even our contingency plan is failing us. So I say no more, no more passiveness, no more silence, and a lot more action. It is time for the Kurds to be heard all over the world, and it’s not just our voices we’re demanding to be heard, it’s our right to determine a state for ourselves with the subsistence of basic human rights, equality and a chance at life.
This is what being Kurdish means to me.