My father calls me Russian,
then he calls me Jewish,
as if my face were a borrowed mask.
My Kurdish people call me Turkish,
as if my breath were forged in Ankara.
The rapist man from the Balkans
calls me Kurdish because he wants to have sex,
as if his mouth could brand my skin.
I stand in the crossfire of their names—
not Russian, not Turkish, not Jewish,
but the pulse of my own people,
a fire they could never hold.