I’ve Seen Them
I’ve seen them—
Assyrians, folding quietly
into Armenian ways,
adopting customs, calendars, saints—
no protest, no pride bruised.
At home in borrowed stories.
But with Kurds?
Even living side by side
feels like a burden to them.
No warmth, no kinship—
just cold glances
and the weight of old bitterness
passed down like heirlooms.
And when we stand—
not to claim what’s theirs,
but to hold on to what’s ours—
they scoff.
They resent our roots
because they know we haven’t let go.
Because we still fight
for a name,
for land,
for breath.
Let them call it stubbornness.
Let them sneer.
But we are still here,
unyielding,
unassimilated,
unashamed.