The Stereotype I’ll Never See
They made cartoons for others,
drew faces with dirt,
and called it truth.
They gave names to nations—
corrupt, unclean, greedy, loud—
like peeling labels from a drawer
of borrowed hate.
But me?
I come from a people
whose name is sometimes whispered,
sometimes denied,
and sometimes carved into prison walls.
I don’t know what the world thinks we are.
Because we were never given a face.
No border to blame.
No flag to burn.
The Kurdish stereotype might be this:
to not exist
until we bleed,
to be remembered only
when we die on mountains
or stand in rubble
with the word “terrorist” stitched to our grief.
They don’t mock us with cartoons.
They erase us with silence.
And maybe that’s worse—
to carry centuries
and not even be hated properly.