“So Be It. Call Me a Turk.”
I waited for kin in the mountains,
But they were busy building fences —
Not of barbed wire,
But of shame,
Of forgetting.
I reached for Dersim — they asked for proof.
I reached for Amed — they measured my accent.
I reached for belonging —
They handed me categories.
I traced my veins to İzmir —
And found Kurdish names hiding under Turkish paint.
I followed blood to Adana —
Where Kurmanji sleeps beneath loud prayers
And children call themselves “Sunni,”
But carry Alevi fire in their bones.
Yes — let them say “Sunni.”
Let them whisper it with Turkish vowels.
But I know.
They are Alevis,
Wrapped in fear,
Clothed in someone else’s name.
So let it be.
If the mountains are silent,
I’ll speak in the valley.
If the kin refuse me,
I’ll take the stranger’s label.
Let the republic own me —
It already took everything else.
Let it write “Turk”
Where once there was a song.
Because what is left of Kurdishness
When even İzmir and Adana
Bury it in census forms?
So call me a Turk.
Not in loyalty,
But in exhaustion.
Because even my Kurdish kin
Look through me
And see a threat.