I Am Not Borrowed. I Am the Source.
They ask me why I scream
when someone else speaks my name
as if they earned it.
As if they bled for it.
As if they dreamed of it
when it was forbidden.
I see them wave my flag
with unburnt hands.
They pronounce my tongue
like it was just another language app—
not a lifeline wrapped in exile.
A Pakistani says,
“You are Iranian.”
But my ancestors did not write poems
to be folded into someone else’s state.
I carry Median ash,
not Persian marble.
An African wears my flag.
He smiles in Kurdish.
And part of me aches—
not in hate,
but in hunger.
For a world where I could wear my own name
without apology.
Yes, you’ve suffered.
Yes, your history is heavy.
But don’t wear mine
like an accessory to your pain.
I am not a tribe you found on YouTube.
I am not a people made of hashtags.
I am not your newest identity to try on.
I am Kurdish.
Not a sub-label of a language family.
Not a province in someone else’s dream.
I do not borrow from empires.
I am the fire that preceded them.
I am the voice that outlasted them.
I don’t need your approval.
I don’t need your protection.
But I will not let you name me
without knowing what it costs.
I am not borrowed.
I am the source.