If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups:
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 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.
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. i am sam kurdish
“Oh, so you speak… Kurdish? Is that like Arabic?”
— 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.
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. If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups:
We’re 30–40 million people, scattered across the globe, connected by something that doesn’t need a border.
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 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. We’re here
We’ve got plenty of stories. And we’re finally ready to tell them ourselves.
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.
And for most of my life, those two things have felt like they don’t belong in the same sentence. “Where are you from?”
Let me start with something simple: my name is Sam. I drink coffee in the morning, scroll through my phone too much, and get annoyed when it rains on my commute. On paper, I’m just another guy trying to get through the week.