I Am Sam Kurdish -

“Wait, are you guys the ones with the mountain guerrillas?”

“Is that near Iran?”

“Oh, so you speak… Kurdish? Is that like Arabic?” i am sam kurdish

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.

If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups: “Wait, are you guys the ones with the mountain guerrillas

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.

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 just want you to know: we exist

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.