Get To Know: Mardin
What Being Kurdish Means to Me
I was a little apprehensive when Alê reached out to me and asked me to be a part of her blog. Quite frankly, I had recently started following her blog through the power of social media and had read up on some of the people she’s featured on her Get To Know page, and a lot of the women and one man (lol), were all inspiring and influential people that I didn’t see myself being in the ranks with, at least not yet. My story is one 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 replied. 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 paralyzed. 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:
Dear Privileged White Canadian Doctor,
My mother was not given a choice whether she wanted cancer or not. She also was not given a choice when she moved to Canada, leaving her family behind for a better future for her children. She did not choose to witness nor be a part of a war she didn’t choose to start, she also did not have a choice when the Sykes-Picot agreement occurred, and she did not choose to be stateless. While you may go back home at the end of the day to your family, and get together with your relatives on thanksgiving and the holidays, we have to work out the time difference so that we can call our family. While you may not understand the struggles of being stateless, we do. I do. Would it have killed you to bring two sisters together in the midst of a tragedy? If Kurdistan was a state, we would have never moved here, no one would have moved, and we would have never asked you this one request. But this is our reality, we are here and we are real, are you really denying us family?
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 were 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.
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, in hopes that one day we can be one.
It has been about a year since the referendum, and it’s been a struggle. 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. We can no longer live in a stoic silence. This is what being Kurdish means to me.
Right now, I’m living in the GTA area in Canada, pursuing a career I’ve always wanted but was afraid to venture in. I find words so magical, they can tell stories, paint a picture, create a song, move mountains and inspire a nation, brew a movement, and above all it can reunite a disperse people, even if they are miles segregated. This is where my blog comes in, Strangers of Circumstance comes from the idea that we are all initially strangers of a circumstance, but we don’t have to be. Instead of seeing each other as two strangers, we have to see each other as two friends. Let’s go back to simpler days when we played as kids rather than argue as adults. It’s the beauty in that simplicity that will make us feel, keep us humane, and help us grow.