Diaspora blues: The space between two cultures and two countries

A photo of popular fast food restaurant chain "Toronto Fast Food" in a mall in Erbil, Kurdistan Region of Iraq. My two identities and cities in one photo. (Gardi, 2024).

Taking a leap of faith and moving halfway across the world is scary. Following the unknown is anxiety-inducing. Going through culture shock is frustrating. And feeling a nostalgic longing for home is disheartening.

The glamour of moving abroad is what we see online through YouTube videos, blog posts, and Instagram updates, but it’s not all sunshine and rainbows.

I’m ethnically Kurdish, but ever since moving to the Kurdistan Region of Iraq, I feel so far removed from being Kurdish. I feel like I’m a Canadian who is somehow fluent in Kurdish.

It’s strange, not knowing where you fit in. You don’t quite fit in over there, in Canada, but you also don’t quite fit in over here, in Kurdistan.

The culture shock is difficult to navigate, and I understand it’s a process that normally takes around six months to overcome in a new country, but it can be overwhelming at times, especially when you’ve only lived in a developed Western country from the minute you were born until recently.

There are many things that I have had to unlearn and relearn, but there are also many things that I refuse to unlearn specifically regarding human rights.

I feel like I’m a stranger in a country that’s supposed to be my own. Like I’m on the outside looking in.

I originally wrote this on April 28th, 2024 in Erbil, Kurdistan, during one of many sleepless nights. I lay in bed, lost in thought, yearning to move back to Canada, trying my best to fit into this box that the Kurdish society wanted to keep me in. 

Since returning to Canada, it’s been difficult for me to reflect on my experiences in Erbil and Kurdistan, not because it was bad, but because there are so many different aspects to discuss and write about that I can’t wrap my head around.

One of the overarching themes of my trip to Kurdistan was the “diaspora blues.” This term was popularized through a 2015 poem called Diaspora Blues by Ijeoma Umebinyuo, here’s an excerpt:

“So, here you are

too foreign for home

too foreign for here.

Never enough for both.”

Never has a term in a poem resonated with me so much. Many folks who live in the diaspora can relate to the diaspora blues and the space between two cultures and two countries.

I’ve briefly touched on this topic in a few other blog posts, that were either about Kurdistan or an aspect of Kurdish culture. 

When I was in Kurdistan, I felt more Canadian than ever. I realized my values, how I carry myself in the world, and my confidence and outspokenness as a woman are all very Canadian. 

And I’m not saying women who aren’t Canadian aren’t confident and outspoken. I believe Kurdish women are so strong, and my deep-seated admiration for them makes me proud to call myself a Kurdish woman. But, across different societies and cultures, there are differences in values, mannerisms, and characteristics.

My Kurdish is fluent, I have an accent that is so slight, that it’s not noticeable. But, sometimes my Kurdish gave away the fact that I wasn’t from there. The Kurdish I speak is more formal than the informal “bazaar” Kurdish spoken by many people in the city of Erbil. 

But the main giveaways that I wasn’t from there were when the taxi drivers, bazaar workers, mall employees, waiters, waitresses, etc. would tell me how they knew that I wasn’t from there.

They would say, “It’s how you smile and don’t seem angry.” “How you keep your head up high as you walk and keep eye contact during conversations.” “It’s because of your clothes, and demeanour.” “It’s how patriotic you are about Kurdistan.”

In Canada, I get asked, “Where are you from?” all the time, even though I was born and raised in Canada, and feel so Canadian, the Canadians look at me like a Middle Easterner or a Kurd. Whereas in Kurdistan, even though I’m ethnically Kurdish and fluent in the language, the Kurds look at me like a foreigner, like a Canadian.

One of the other things I learned about myself while in Kurdistan was that many aspects of Kurdish culture are related to Canada because I was taught them in Canada by my parents, family friends, and the Kurdish community.

As we were browsing through the aisles in Berlin Market in Hewlêrî Nwê (New Hewler), our current home neighbourhood, our favourite Kurdish artist Zakaria - often dubbed the “Kurdish King of Pop” - began playing throughout the grocery store.

“It feels like someone is rubbing my head with their hand saying ‘everything will be okay,’” I said to my mother as I felt soothed from hearing Zakaria’s soft voice singing throughout the store.

I grew up listening to Zakaria, he was constantly playing in our house. That night, in Berlin Market I was carried back to the many summer car rides in my mom’s old green Mazda when I was around eight years old, I’d be singing along with my sunglasses on and the windows rolled down as we drove around Hamilton. 

Memories swirled of cleaning the house with my mom on deep cleaning days when we would blast Zakaria from the TV and sing at the top of our lungs while cleaning. 

And the sense of Kurdish patriotism from attending protests, demonstrations, and patriotic Kurdish festivals because we would play his patriotic Kurdish songs in the car on the way to those events. 

Zakaria’s music reminds me of home, a home in Canada, that was both Kurdish and Canadian all at once.

The hyphen between Kurdish and Canadian is so important to me because I don’t and will never fit into one culture over the other. And at this point, I don’t want to fit into one over the other. I will forever be the space between, the hyphen separating the two identities from each other while seamlessly allowing them to mix and intertwine the beautiful parts of each other into a kaleidoscope of culture.