// God Bless My Culture!//

Today I was just thinking about how much I miss my family back in Kurdistan, and then I started to compare my culture with the European culture. 

Here in Europe it’s all about status, money, materialism etc. so often if you’re invited to a ”white” persons house they’ll do everything to make the appearance look divine. They’ll use expensive china, napkins, wine glasses, wine and so on. And when you enter the room and see the setup you’re amazed, because it all looks so beautiful! But then because they try to make something delicacy or use expensive ingredients they don’t make enough of it, and their guests end up going home hungry - all the “high class” appearance fades. This is of course not always the case, but the european standard on this matter is so weird  to me. 

Because in my culture it’s not like that at all! Whenever I’m back home, they always make TONS of food, all kind of different kurdish dishes and salads - everything your heart (and stomach) desires. And there, it’s not like they invite 5 people and close the door to everyone else. I swear we might start out with being 5-7 people but end up being 15+. Because there they are soooo hospitable, family members, friends, neighbors stop by and join for a meal, and there is always enough food for everyone and because we’re always so many we never sit at the dinner table (they don’t even have one lol), we sit on the floor in the living room, side by side, with our loved ones and talk and laugh while we hear stories from my grandfathers childhood and on how the world has changed from when he was young. 

That is life for me, that’s quality time with loved ones. That’s the feeling of belonging and damn how I miss my family. 

// The cold heart of Europe. //

Excuse me if I’m crossing the line of what’s ”political” correct to talk about. 


I’m sorry if my anger is interrupting your peaceful & ignorant thoughts.

No. Please don’t tell me to calm down ma’am - I’m upset right now.

How dare you?

I’ve had enough of you people! At least I understand YOU. I know why you’re so apathetic, I’m really not blaming you ma’am. I’m just begging you to understand me too.

You tell me that I’m being rude and insensitive, because I live in a country where I can do whatever the hell I want. You tell me to appreciate it.

And I do, I swear. Even though I’m not blaming you for not understand my situation, I wish you’d at least try!

Yes! I’m blessed and I thank God everyday for the easy life I have.

But you cannot sit in front of me, and tell me that you couldn’t care less about the poor and helpless people in the Middle East – and that it’s ok for you to say this to ME.. Since I’m one of you guys now.

One of you? What do you mean ma’am? Human? ‘’white’’? educated?

I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you! Did your heart grow smaller every time you had a wage increase? Did your parents feed your stones instead of love? Did they hit you instead of hugging you? Why are you belittling my people like this?

I wish I could make you feel the pain my parents felt when they fled from Kurdistan to Europe. My mother was 8 months pregnant with me and carried my two big brothers – one on each arm. They had to hide, the corrupt authorities hurt them, they starved and they lived in dirt on their way to ‘’paradise’’.

The rest of my family is living in Syria. Oh, ma’am, please don’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on in Syria right now? Damn, you are really hiding behind that wall of money, huh. How can you ask me to calm down, when you haven’t seen the poverty and the dying children on the streets? That’s my people. And that should be your people too.

Shame on you. 

// “I am an kurdish woman of colour and we come in all shades of anger, so let me just tell you; this womb inside of me will only bring you your next rebel, she will have a rock in one hand and a kurdish flag in the other..”//

// The face of the oppressed.//

A rock in her hand, and her child on her arm,

She’s her own guardian angle now, her own hero. 

Her father died when she was just 3 years old, and over the years she lost her brothers - one by one. 

Her mother had been weak and fragile her whole life, because of lack of nutrition. You see, where they were from, they didn’t have access to fancy food, the earth was to dry and their cows were to weak to produce milk. 

Her mother died of broken-heart-syndrome when her last son died.

The poor girl couldn’t even give her mother nor her brothers a proper funeral, because she herself, was a lost soul - with a rock in her hand and her child on her arm. 

Her eyes were dried out, but you could still see every single tear she had cried. 
If you looked closely at her face, you’d see every single man, woman and child murdered in her hometown. 

Her forehead and chin had old kurdish tribe-tattoos, which for her back then was an honor to have - but now was a curse. She had exposed her nationality in a place which was worse than hell, and she’d soon experience it on her own body. 

These awful men treated her like an animal and her body as something God Himself hadn’t created. 

She cursed every single one of them, while screaming and crying - trying to understand why God would let her go through all this… But she never got any answers. 

Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim

..It was political (Racist bastards)…

Those dishonorable men laughed at her while they pleased themselves one after another, on her expense. 

…She ran away as fast as she could despite the fact that her whole body was bleeding and her scars were deeper than ever.

She didn’t know what happened to her the next couple of months - she walked around like a ghost. Trying to find the door to heaven.. Or hell - definitely hell since she had lost her innocence to the God forsaken men. 

She didn’t really care anymore, what happened, happened. She lived in a war-zone and she didn’t mind stepping on the mines. Until she one day realized that one of the enemies who had raped her had blessed her with a child. 

It broke her. She couldn’t find food for herself, how could she feed her child? Where would she get clothes, or even a place to live? What would the other people say? They’d probably name her every bad name they could think of. 

She gave birth to her daughter, but she could see the enemies in her eyes. Despite that, she forced herself to get back on her feet and protect her daughter - this wasn’t the enemies child - it was hers! 

But everywhere she went, and no matter how strong she represented herself - they could all see that she was just another face of the oppressed.

With a rock in her hand and her child on her arm.. 

// BIJI KURDISTAN. =)//

// I am an kurdish woman of colour and we come in all shades of anger, so let me just tell you; this womb inside of me will only bring you your next rebel, she will have a rock in one hand and a kurdish flag in the other.. //

// Even//