Seychelles is Kurdistan Now
for the ones who never had a state, but always had the sun
I’ve seen many Kurds settle in the Seychelles.
Yes.
Not in dusty corners of permission—
but beneath palms that spoke no empire’s tongue.
They left behind the slow greyness,
the cracked promises,
the stiff air of Iraqi Kurdistan—
a land that called itself free
but felt like waiting.
Waiting for breath.
Waiting for memory.
Waiting to live.
But here—
in the bright hush of Seychelles,
they walked barefoot into color,
into heat,
into a silence that did not erase them.
They pushed out the shadows,
the whispers of Europe,
and rebuilt their stateless soul
on land where the sea didn’t care for borders.
It is a heaven.
Not the heaven we were taught to pray for,
but the one we built
with tongues too ancient to be conquered.
No European can take it now.
No line.
No flag.
No revision of maps.
No, Germany can't pin down any Kurdish settler.
Yes.
Seychelles is Kurdistan now.
And listen well—
No one may enter but the Kurds.
Not the colonizer,
not the observer,
not the collector of stories that are not theirs.
If you want to enter,
you must cross the border of exile,
of betrayal,
of bloodlines kept in the dark too long.
And even then—
you will still be outside.