Posts tagged kurdistan

A simple walk that doesn’t last a lifetime, but one I will remember forever. A simple walk like this is all I need to know that even though I was not born here, I birthed my love here. Even though I was not born here, I birthed my dreams and my fight here. That these paved roads that are meant for sidewalks, these homes that have no backyard, and the people that can become family is beauty that I want to find. Walks like these allow me to understand that even though I did not live here, I will start my life here. This is where I am meant to be with the people that know me and the city that dreams and fights like me. I wouldn’t find this in the country I was born in, in the neighbourhood I live in, and in the city that I reside in. Theres no connection for me here, no birth of love that I can collect here and no sense of family that I see.

Walks that remind me why I don’t feel the same where I live, why they don’t find me in the fast pace life of reality and in the clouded smoke of money. There is no walk here in a city that relies on four wheels of rubber and not their two wheels of bones. All I end up seeing is too many homes being built that are still empty and cold. Why walk in a city that forgets how to walk? Why birth my love in a city that only holds industrial smoke to the sky? Why grow my roots in a country that often times forgets who I am and those like me.

My walk will be a journey that I take to reach my people, to reach my dreams and the mountains. I walk in hopes that my destination will be one that I will never stop loving. In the middle of the road that people call sidewalks, past the neighbour that I always speak to in the language of my mother and father, and toward the mountain that echoes “finally” to greet me back home. Breathing in the air of Kurdish bread and the heat of the sun. Pure sunlight shining down on a city that is caught in between two mountains who fight for love. One who takes in pain and one who takes the pain away. So I walk alone past the corner store while the owner waves at me, down the hill to see Dream city flashing its lights at me and I turn to my left to see my babpîr [grandpa] call out for me “Kêchâ mn” [“my daughter”] as I sit beside him legs crossed ready to drink my ça [tea] and dip my Kurdish bread into the tahîn I tell him about my day in the city of my life.

These are what I want my walks to be like..

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Credits to: @axink13 for the photo

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The smell of apples can be a sign of spring and new beginnings. The smell of apples has been a sign of life and tasteful creations of God. 

Though, our apples, our smells of those rotten apples were signs of a chemical storm dropping into a town of people. Our apples were the images of babies who died in their mother's arms, kids on the floor feet away from escaping, and men who all they cared about was protecting their own. 

Our smells of those rotten apples we're signs of people not knowing what was taking place and of people dropping to the ground. The Kurds smelled those apples and saw people die. The Kurds smelled those apples closed their eyes and saw nothing but the gates of heaven. The Kurds smelled those apples closed their eyes and now were little birds in the sky.

Our apples weren't of new beginnings but of a dark time in our history. They were not welcoming the signs of spring but killing the signs of life in the hands of chemical Ali and Saddam Hussein. They were not welcoming the celebration of Newroz, but the beginning of months of Anfal, months of genocide. 

The rotten apples still linger in our hearts and in the town of Halabja. Those rotten apples still haunt the people affected and grow tears in those who are grieving.

Though the smell of our apples didn't welcome new beginnings and a new life. Our Nergîz (narcissus) grew despite those apples. Grew to fight the smell of those apples and lived to destroy those apples. We created our new beginnings by remembering our old ones. 

We grew those Nergîz because just as our history is written we Kurds can overcome oppression, we grow stronger in our resistance and remember those days of those rotten apples to never forget who we are as individuals, as a people, and as a country. 

Let those Nergîz grow, but let us remember the days of those rotten apples forever. 

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I do not own the credits to the photo

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The olive trees have been known to grow. To grow with strong roots, strong branches, and even stronger stems. The olive trees have been known to grow. To grow with incredible texture and a strong taste. A taste of resistance, freedom, and strength. 

These olive trees are not trees to declare war. These olive trees are not the trees to freely destroy without consequence. The people who planted these trees that handpicked a land that is free allowed these trees to grow as strong as they could. 

these are trees that grow to protect a city and its people from men who allow these olive trees to bleed. From men who laugh at these olive trees crying. Who wait to count how many olives fall down these trees and smile. 

I speak to you to let these men know that there is something special about these olive trees that you declare and point your guns at. These trees with the strong branches, strong stems rise up. 

These olive trees I speak so highly of are the women who rise up against these men. The women who point their guns back at these men. Who protect cities, families, and children from the bloody guns of these men. These are the women who pick up those olives and place them back on the tree to allow them to grow freely and even more powerful than ever. 

Let us women rise up. Let us women rise up for the city of Afrin and the beautiful people who have been living in freedom and peace before these olive trees were attacked. The city who allows the freedom of trees to grow and who embrace and grieve the bloody flowers of red in their land. 

Let us raise and stand up for all of Afrin. Let the world know that the female voices of the world have risen for Afrin and its strong olive trees to fight back the oppression. 

Let us Echo the names of the people in Afrin 

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When a moment of despair had reached my life, it was a moment where I did not know how to react. My life turned from laughing at my uncle and taking selfies with my aunt, to finding out by a Facebook status that my grandma had taken her last breath in Germany during the early hours of Ramadan. My hope that everything would be okay was destroyed. My hope that God would create strength inside of my grandma to fight harder was broken. My hope that I could show my grandma how I've changed from my crazy young self to a mature woman was erased. The strength God gave my grandma was not the strength to fight, but the strength to let go. She was holding on because she was waiting for my mother to be by her side. My grandma took her last breath as a sign of her strength. As she was able to understand she was passing on to the hereafter, knowing this was a peaceful goodbye.

My Ramadan was spent making Duha every minute and hour praying. Praying that this wont be the moment where my mother would lose her symbol of life (her mom) because I couldn't bare the sight of losing mine. I couldn't bare knowing and understanding that all life comes to an end and the moment where I would tear up even thinking about was happening to my mother. My hope was destroyed when my grandma passed away because I thought my prayers should have helped her fight harder. My realization now is that my prayers were answered, they were answered in the way of God giving my grandma the strength and courage to let go. Knowing my grandma accepted what was given to her allowed me to understand the bigger message within it all.

The message of knowing nothing lasts forever but the moments that you, as an individual, have with your mother will last forever even if life in this world doesn't.

I'll always remember the moment where my hope for the world was gone, but returned to me. It was returned to me through my best friend, my grandpa. This happened when I was in the living room crying and my grandpa suddenly sits beside me. He tells me to look at him and wipes my tears and says "your tears and sadness will not change anything. Your tears will not change what has happened, but your Duha and being able to forgive your grandma will benefit her in the hereafter. You need to just make Duha that is all she needs right now." After hearing that in that moment I stopped crying and ever since my Duhas have been for her and forever for her. 

- Alê

I love you Dapir & Im still forever making Duha for you. Insha'Allah har jehê ta bahsht bît ♥

Check out my first post I wrote about my grandma called;  "FINAL RETURN HOME"