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.
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.
But I’m also Kurdish.
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.
And for most of my life, those two things have felt like they don’t belong in the same sentence. “Where are you from?” i am sam kurdish
— Sam Enjoyed this post? Share it with someone who’s ever asked you “Kurdish… is that a language?” Let’s start a conversation, one cup of tea at a time.
“Wait, are you guys the ones with the mountain guerrillas?” It’s such an innocent question
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.