In northern Syria’s Autonomous Administration, the legacy of Abdullah Öcalan’s “democratic confederalism” and the women’s freedom ideology ( Jineolojî ) has reshaped relationships. Young men and women attend “love workshops” designed to break patriarchal patterns. Marriage contracts now require both parties to agree on household labor division.
“For my grandmother, marriage was a village transaction,” says Dilan, a 34-year-old journalist in Erbil. “Love was something you grew after the wedding — if you were lucky.”
In a café in Sulaymaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan, 28-year-old Nivin does something her mother never could: she pulls out her phone, opens a dating app, and swipes left on a Kurdish engineer living in Germany. His profile says he’s “traditional but open-minded.” She isn’t sure what that means anymore.
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“Even the word ‘love’ — evîn — was dangerous,” Dilan adds. “It implied a secret, a transgression.”
Across the border in Diyarbakır, Turkey’s largest Kurdish-majority city, Berzan texts his girlfriend in code. They’ve been together for two years, but her family thinks he’s just a classmate. “If they found out we were in love before engagement,” he says, “it would be a family crisis.”
“Our revolution is not just against ISIS,” says Hevin, a 26-year-old fighter-turned-farmer in Qamishli. “It’s against the idea that a woman belongs to a man. Love here is political. If I choose my partner, I am choosing freedom.” modern love kurdish
“I matched with a Kurd from Rojava [Syrian Kurdistan],” says Sirwan, 31, in Duhok. “We talked for six months about politics, poetry, and sex — things you could never discuss in a traditional courtship. When we finally met, it felt revolutionary.” Modern Kurdish love cannot be separated from politics. For many, love itself is a form of resistance.
And in a cramped apartment in Berlin’s Neukölln district, Leyla and Rojin, a Kurdish queer couple, navigate love in two languages — Kurmanji and German — while planning a wedding their families in Batman and Kobanî will likely never attend.
Young Kurds still memorize lines from Mem û Zîn , but now they also write their own. On Instagram, the hashtag #Evîn (#Love) is filled with short poems in Kurmanji and Sorani, often accompanied by photos of mountains, candles, or blurred couple selfies — faces hidden to protect identities. By [Author Name] “Even the word ‘love’ —
Yet queer Kurdish love is blooming in diaspora spaces — Berlin, London, Nashville, Vancouver. Secret Instagram accounts, coded poetry, and underground collectives like Rasan (Kurdish for “to arrive”) provide community.
“The app is the new delal ,” she jokes, referencing the traditional go-between who facilitated arranged marriages.
“There is no Kurdish word for ‘coming out,’” says Rojin, the Berlin-based artist. “Because the concept doesn’t exist. You don’t ‘come out’ of a community you were never fully inside.” “The app is the new delal
