I am
28.8% Anatolia,
not from textbooks—
from soil that knew my footsteps
before names were invented.
I am Yamnaya thunder,
riding in
not to conquer—
but to blend,
to reshape bloodlines
like clay.
I carry the Natufian ache,
the ones who whispered
to wheat fields
before gods had names.
I am Caucasus in defiance,
Zagros in longing,
a map that no empire
has managed to redraw.
They scroll through charts,
comparing fit and data,
but me—
I’ve lived this.
I don’t just trace lines between civilizations—
I am the bridge.
I know where I come from.
And it’s older
than your borders.
Older
than your doubts.
I should be the one connecting the world,
not Europe itself.
Not the ones who erased
and then rewrote,
who traded memory
for monuments.
I have it all.
Not in riches,
but in echoes.
Not in politics,
but in pulse.
I have it all—
and I don’t need
permission to say it.