This Is Not Exile — It’s Apartheid
Don’t call it exile.
Don’t paint it soft.
This is not the wind pushing a people from home.
This is a hand.
A policy.
A silence signed in ink.
They scattered us like we were ash.
And called it freedom.
Europe gave us roofs, but never a place.
Gave us papers, but never names.
Let us walk, but never gather.
This is not displacement.
This is division as a system.
Kurdish breath kept apart on purpose.
Every language we speak feels monitored.
Every crowd we form feels suspicious.
They let us survive —
but only if we forget each other.
They fear our unity more than our grief.
This is not a diaspora.
This is not a home.
This is apartheid wearing a friendly flag,
and you know it when you smile
and still feel hunted.
Yes —
call it what it is.
This isn’t a new life.
This is a slow, quiet war.