Sam Kurdish | I Am

If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups:

And for most of my life, those two things have felt like they don’t belong in the same sentence. “Where are you from?”

It means explaining to friends why you don’t visit your parents’ homeland as easily as they visit theirs. Why a “vacation” to that village your grandfather mentioned might involve military checkpoints and a language that isn’t yours and a flag you’re not technically allowed to fly. i am sam kurdish

“Is that near Iran?”

It means laughing harder than anywhere else. Kurdish humor is sharp, self-deprecating, and often involves someone’s uncle doing something ridiculous. We’ve survived so much that we’ve learned not to take ourselves too seriously. If I say “Kurdish,” I get the follow-ups:

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.

Next time you meet someone Kurdish, don’t ask them to explain their entire geopolitical situation. Just say hello. Maybe share some tea. “Is that near Iran

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.

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.

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.