If Once More I Return to Kurdistan

Souvenirs and memorabilia from my last two trips to Kurdistan in 2006 and 2011. Clockwise: The Age of Shiva a novel gifted to me by my aunt in 2011; a traditional Kurdish hat with the Kurdistan flag; a blue hair tie given to me by my cousin on my last day in Kurdistan in 2006; a Kurdistan flag key chain; a cherry best friend necklace I share with my cousin; a Kurdistan map/flag necklace we bought from a boy selling necklaces in downtown Erbil in 2011; my peace sign diary from 2011; another best friend necklace I share with my cousin; and a blue rose ring my aunt gifted me in 2006. (Gardi, 2022)

As a child of the diaspora, I didn’t grow up surrounded by family. I didn’t have the luxury of saying, “I’m going to my grandma’s house this weekend.” I didn’t have uncles and aunts to dote on me. I didn’t have cousins I could play with.

As a child of the diaspora, I grew up surrounded by the Kurdish community - and for all its faults - they were my uncles, aunts, and cousins growing up.

As a child of the diaspora, I was envious of my classmates who had all of their family here. I didn’t understand when they would complain about going to grandma’s house, or how they’re seeing an uncle who lives in the same city after a whole year. If I had an uncle in my city I would see him quite frequently, I would think to myself.

As a child of the diaspora, any time someone would ask about my grandmother my throat would tighten. “She lives halfway across the world,” I would respond through gritted teeth.

As a child of the diaspora, I’ve only visited my family three times in my life, in the years 2000, 2006, and 2011.

Unfortunately, I haven’t revisited Kurdistan since then, so, I thought I’d take this opportunity to reflect on my last trip there.

When I was 15 years old, my family and I packed our bags and travelled to Kurdistan for two months. The summer between my 10th and 11th grades was spent roaming the hot streets of Erbil.

Luckily, I don’t only have my memory to rely on, but I kept a diary the entire two months I was there. And let me tell you, have I changed a lot in these last 10 years!

I’ve been keeping a journal since I was ten years old. When I look back on old journals, I see so many changes within myself, and I truly believe journaling allows us space for introspection, reflection, and growth.

When I visited Kurdistan, I was a teenager, my mind was on crushes, friends, pop culture, and going to the mall. I didn’t care about anything deeper than the superficial stuff.

This was also the first major trip that I was fully aware of and grown enough to remember properly.

I had this internalized notion of anything “Western” being “good”; anything “Eastern” being “not so good.” West meant modernity, civilized, intelligent, and open-minded. East meant not knowing how to do things properly, messy, not so smart, close-minded, and traditional.

I don’t blame my teenage self for thinking this way – the media, our education systems, and society at large make it seem like the Middle East is the worst place on the planet to the point where many Middle Easterners internalize those stereotypes and agree when Western powers invade and bomb our countries.

We grow up hearing and seeing how amazing the West is, how North America and Europe are the best places in the world to live – so of course, I became prejudiced against my own background. 

Modernity – whatever that means – is what I was searching for on my last trip to Kurdistan. Anything that resembled Canada – from fast-food restaurants to shopping malls, to architecture – for me was seen as progress, amazing, revolutionary.

If I could go back to Kurdistan as myself now, never in a million years would I be searching for modernity or Westernization. Instead, I’d go to the most culturally Kurdish places I could find.

I would avoid shopping malls like the plague. In 2011, we went to shopping malls all the time, I feel like I didn’t get to see anything authentic in Kurdistan because of that.

Instead, I would go to the markets, and the bazaars to experience the liveliness of the people of Kurdistan.

I would visit the museums, the historical and cultural sites, the natural sites that I didn’t get to experience as a teenager because I was in search of Westernization instead of accepting Kurdistan for its Eastern roots.

In 2011, I was happy when my cousins, aunts, uncles, and I would speak English with each other instead of Kurdish. However, I’ve realized that language is the key to understanding and preserving a culture. If I ever get the chance to revisit Kurdistan, I will speak Kurdish as much as possible, visit the bookstores and really try to immerse myself in the language to experience my culture in a more holistic way.

When I first decided to write this reflection piece, I set out to write about the Western perspective I had as a teenager, but that’s only part of the story.

Almost all my family lives in Kurdistan, it wouldn’t be a proper reflection had I left that out.

When I was in Kurdistan in 2006 and 2011, family was everywhere, and they were always with us. One of my uncles joked about how there was “no depression in Kurdistan because you can’t get lonely here with so much family.” Of course, there is depression anywhere, but he was trying to point out the community and family-oriented nature of Kurdish culture. 

Coming back to Canada after having spent two months surrounded by family was a true shock to my system. I spent one full week constantly crying because I missed my family so much. It took me a very long time to stop crying anytime we’d have tea, yogurt, and bread – which are staples of Kurdish cuisine. 

I didn’t realize how quiet and lonely it was here until I came back. The silence felt suffocating at times. But, of course, after a couple of months, we were used to being Canadian again. We were used to the quiet and the loneliness, the individualistic culture of Canada.

If once more I return to Kurdistan, I would try to be as fully present as I can be with my family. I would live each moment fully.

If once more I return to Kurdistan, I would ask my grandmother a slew of questions about her life, and the many hardships she endured as a Kurdish woman living under an occupied Kurdistan and a patriarchal system.

If once more I return to Kurdistan, I would embrace my aunts and uncles with open arms and happily let the words “Khala” and “Dada” roll off my tongue, sweet as honey.

If once more I return to Kurdistan, I would cherish every laugh, every cry, every joy, and every ache with my cousins.

If once more I return to Kurdistan, I would celebrate Kurdistan for everything that it is instead of dwelling on everything that it is not because at the end of the day, Kurdistan will always be a part of me, and I will always be a part of it.

Author’s note: The title of this post was inspired by Kurdish poet Abdulla Pashew’s poem If Once More I Return. The words Khala and Dada mean uncle and auntie.