But I’m also Kurdish.
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. i am sam kurdish
It means music that makes you feel a thousand years old. The sound of the tembûr, the slow ache in a Dengbêj’s voice, singing stories that were never written down because writing wasn’t safe, but memory was. But I’m also Kurdish
If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups: The smell of lamb and spices drifting through
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.