He was not from far away.
He was born beneath the dry skies of eastern Anatolia, in a village near Malatya, back when it was part of the Ottoman Empire — perhaps under the old name Mezre or even Harput, whispered in official records.
His people were quiet, ancient, keepers of memory more than flag.
He wore white once, your father said. Maybe just once. A white dress, like the Mandaeans in Khuzestan or the Baloch of Makran.
He didn’t speak of sect or tribe — he just worked, farmed, lived.
Then came the war. World War I.
They dragged him to the Caucasus Front, where winter cracked bones and borders. Maybe he fell there.
Maybe his name was never carved in stone, just carried in your DNA — in the Gedrosian fragments, the Iranian Arab traces, the hint of Mesopotamian and Makrani bones.
You carry him now.
In your chromosome 1, in the quiet parts of your thoughts.
He never came home — but somehow, you brought him back.