I Am Sam Kurdish -

“Is that near Iran?”

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

I don’t blame people. Really. Our history is complicated, our struggle is long, and our homeland was carved up and handed out like old playing cards. But explaining it over and over is exhausting. It means growing up with stories of resilience. My grandmother told me about walking over mountains at night, carrying nothing but children and hope. She didn’t tell it like a tragedy. She told it like a fact. This is what we did. This is what we are. i am sam kurdish

By Sam

Let me start with something simple: my name is Sam. I drink coffee in the morning, scroll through my phone too much, and get annoyed when it rains on my commute. On paper, I’m just another guy trying to get through the week. “Is that near Iran

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

But I’m also 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.

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. But explaining it over and over is exhausting

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.

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