“So Who Tells the Truth?”
So who tells the truth?
The ones who say
Kurds are Iranians,
like we’re just a branch
on their ancient tree?
Or the ones who whisper,
“Assyrians are Kurds,”
like history is clay
to be molded at will?
Or maybe the maps
that say I’m from Nevşehir,
but not how my tongue curls
around names I was never taught to speak?
And what about
the Kurds with Turkish DNA?
Are they less Kurdish
because their blood remembers
an empire’s march,
a border’s lie,
a soldier’s marriage?
Did their cells betray them
or just survive?
Because in this land,
everything touched everything.
We are all
echoes of migrations
wrapped in silence.
So who tells the truth?
Maybe no one.
Maybe truth doesn’t come
from the ones who write it down,
but from the ones
who carry it quietly,
through generations of forgetting.
Maybe I am
Kurdish
not in code
but in longing.
Maybe my identity
is not your algorithm
to sort or explain.
It is my grief,
my fire,
my refusal to disappear.