— 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.
We’ve got plenty of stories. And we’re finally ready to tell them ourselves.
“Oh, so you speak… Kurdish? Is that like Arabic?”
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. i am sam 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.
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 Newroz. The fire. The dancing. The feeling that spring is not just a season but a political act — a celebration of resistance, of new beginnings, of a people who refused to disappear. I’m Sam. I work a normal job, argue about sports, and have a plant I keep forgetting to water. — Sam Enjoyed this post
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 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.
“Wait, are you guys the ones with the mountain guerrillas?” And we’re finally ready to tell them ourselves
Being Kurdish means carrying grief. The kind that sits in your chest during news reports about Kobani or Afrin or the latest crackdown. The kind that makes you check your phone first thing in the morning when things are quiet in the region — because quiet usually means something bad happened overnight.
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.