Chapter 14 Locating Kurdish Cultural Identity in Canada

Historical Context

Composed of more than forty million people, the Kurds are one of the largest nationless ethno-linguistic groups in the world. Features of Kurdish cultural identity include a powerfully rich language stratified according to nuanced dialectical subtleties, a panoply of time-honored faiths like Yarsanism and Yezidism, a diverse culture that bears the ancient signatures of the Mesopotamians and Anatolians, and a deeply rooted history that is as old as civilization itself. For instance, certain practices inherent to Newroz, the Kurdish New Year celebration, such as lighting braziers to usher in new beginnings, were being practiced as far back as the early Bronze Age. The majority of Kurds live in their ancestral homeland, Greater Kurdistan, a continuous and mostly mountainous region in the Middle East that straddles the geopolitically turbulent axis of four contiguous states: Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria. It is therefore unsurprising that while Kurdish identity remains uniquely singular, it is also notably heterogeneous. The national cultures of the four states often impact and dominate Kurdish cultural production. For example, the Kurdish singer Ibrahim Tatlises has replaced the Kurdish lyrics of traditional songs with Turkish ones to appeal more to his audience, while in Iran, the well-known Kurdish singer Shahram Nazeri has long sung in Persian for similar reasons. However, the adoption of a dominant national language perhaps says more about the practical and troubling realities of the endeavour to have a successful artistic career as a Kurd in these places than it does about a willing hybridization or enthusiastic fusion. When it comes to Kurdish culture in the four nation-states, the shadow of oppressive structures maintains an enduring presence.

An independent Kurdistan was a possibility in 1920 under the Treaty of Sèvres but became unattainable as the Kemalist movement gained strength in Northern Kurdistan (Meiselas 1997, 64). Founded on the principles of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder and first president of the Turkish Republic, Kemalism gained power among the Kurdish tribesmen in Northern Kurdistan by calling for the common action of Muslims against Christians (64). With the help of these Muslim Kurdish tribesmen, the Kemalists were able to control Northern Kurdistan and planned to take Southern Kurdistan from the British, since British Indian troops occupied this land from 1918 to 1926. During this period, the Kurdish movement under the leadership of Sheikh Mahmud Barzinji declared war against the British and began to fight for independence in the south, but in 1922, Barzinji was arrested by the British. In the same year, the French and the British accepted the Kemalists as the only government in Turkey, and Southern Kurdistan remained under British control until it became part of Iraq in 1926 (64).

Ethnic persecution, political oppression, cultural assimilation, forced displacements, and ultimately genocide followed as the Kurds were betrayed and failed by alleged allies and neighbours, as well as enemies. Throughout generations, Kurds have faced mass genocide and sustained discrimination within their own ancestral land. However, in the face of these injustices, there have been many uprisings across Greater Kurdistan. When Saddam Hussein was in power in Iraq (1979–2003), Kurds in Southern Kurdistan held five uprisings against his tyrannical regime. In Iran and Turkey, the Kurds have never stopped fighting their oppressors, while since 2012, the ongoing Rojava revolution in Syria has been well documented. In 2014, the Islamic State (IS) gained control of many Kurdish cities and massacred the Yazidi Kurds, and more than 3,500 women and girls were sold into sex slavery and forced to marry IS members (Tax 2016, 40). Between 2014 and 2019, the Peshmerga in Bashur (Southern Kurdistan)—that is, the military forces of the autonomous region of Kurdistan that is located in Iraq—along with Kurds in Rojava (Western Kurdistan) fought IS, while many Kurds in Bakur (Northern Kurdistan) and Rojhelat (Eastern Kurdistan) also joined these fighters to defeat IS. Additionally, the YPG (People’s Protection Unit) and YPJ (Women’s Protection Unit) in Western Kurdistan have played central roles in the fight for women’s rights and in rescuing women and girls from sexual enslavement. When IS took over major Kurdish cities such as Kobane, Afrin, and Sari Kani between 2014 and 2017, thousands of Kurdish civilians were forced to evacuate. In the ensuing years, YPG defeated IS, recapturing large swathes of territory in Rojava, which enabled the displaced civilians to return home to their burnt cities. This victory was short-lived. Following the US Army withdrawal from Rojava in 2019, the Turkish military began its occupation of these Kurdish-controlled areas, forcing thousands of civilians to evacuate their homes once more.

Kurdish Culture and Canada

The 2016 census states that there are sixteen thousand Kurds living in Canada, but the number of people who identify as Kurdish is estimated as being much higher, in the region of fifty thousand. The reasons for this discrepancy are varied and speculative but might include a lack of education or knowledge about one’s own ethno-cultural identity, a fear of persecution, the relentless and historical conditioning that renders Kurdishness invisible, and the desire to “fit in” or be “legitimate” by adopting another dominant national identifier (Iraqi, Iranian, etc.). It is important to note here that there is little scholarly work available to shed light on the Kurdish communities in Canada. Social scientists working in demography, population, and migration studies would do well to investigate the absence of Kurds in the Canadian census results and in society more broadly. Abdurrahman Wahab (2019) highlights the fact that the current academic scholarship that does exist has failed to take into account the heterogeneity of Kurds, who are neither a static cultural group nor a derivative of Iraqi, Turkish, Syrian, or Iranian ethno-cultural identity. Rather, what emerges when we begin to look at Canada is how often other labels and categorizations—ethnic, religious, cultural—supersede or subsume Kurdishness. Frequently, distinct and diverse peoples are conflated in sentences such as “Muslim refugees from the Middle East” or in conversations around “refugees from Syria” that fail to adequately represent the various identities or contexts of these groups. While general categorizations sometimes have their place, the omission of Kurds from various forms of public discourse can denote a lack of awareness ranging from general ignorance to racism. In another context, the annual provincial heritage festivals that celebrate multiculturalism across Canada often require Kurds to self-identify as Iraqi, Syrian, Turkish, or Iranian in order to “fit into” a national category. While this may not pose a problem to some, a person may equally feel very strongly that this other sanctioned national affiliation is not one by which they wish to be defined, particularly in light of the historical context that shapes Kurdish perspectives on these nations. It is unsurprising, then, that Kurds in Canada struggle to find themselves and their ethno-cultural identity recognized or visible. In addition, a lack of education or knowledge within the Kurdish community itself also contributes to an effacement of Kurdishness in Canada. Because Kurdish cultural identity has been oppressed for many generations, the prohibition of language, cultural expression, and history has led to many Kurds having a deficient knowledge of who they are. A consequence of this lack of cultural knowledge is that Kurdish families are less able to preserve their language and culture or pass it on to the next generation. This has become a constant struggle for many Kurds in Canada and around the world. There is an internal endeavour to keep the language and culture alive within the community and resist the supremacy of other national languages and ethno-cultural identities, as well as a fight for recognition and support from external forces.

There has, however, been one conversation in which Kurds appear, one that, despite their presence, also speaks to their absence—that is, the military offensive against IS. The Canadian relationship with Kurdistan goes as deep as the war against Islamic extremism in the Near and Middle East has required. The Peshmerga have been important allies of the American-led coalition, receiving arms and training from the coalition since 2014. While Canada ceased airstrikes in Iraq in 2018, the Canadian military continues to train the Peshmerga, a relationship that is not without complications and certainly one that has attracted considerable concern. For instance, Renad Mansour, a scholar at the Carnegie Middle East Center, states that “helping build the Peshmerga is effectively a form of state-building. These guys are fighting for the Kurdistan Regional Government (KRG), not for Iraq as a country” (quoted in Petrou 2016). His point is that any support for the military forces of the autonomous region of Kurdistan cannot be blind to the nationalist project the KRG is ultimately undertaking, and indeed, such support could be seen as evidence of complicity on the part of the Canadian government or any coalition in a very real way. In recent years, media outlets, foreign policy journalists, and academics in Canada have suggested that caution be exercised with regard to this situation. For example, Walter Dorn, a professor at the Royal Military College of Canada, warns that “[by working with the Peshmerga] there is the danger we are supporting a secessionist movement” (quoted in Pugliese 2016). Such rhetoric in the aftermath of the coalition’s success against IS, in which the Peshmerga played an instrumental role, represents an instance of the continued abandonment of Kurds by Western forces.

Beyond the issue of international security and “conflict in the Middle East,” the visible presence of Kurdish identity or culture is all but imperceptible in Canadian society. The arrest at gunpoint of the renowned Kurdish musician Şivan Perwer in Toronto in August 2009 made headlines across the Canadian media, which positioned Perwer and his fellow musicians, who were filming a music video on a stretch of highway, as possible armed terrorists. The events began with a tipoff to the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) that claimed that the men had a weapon in their vehicle (in fact, it was a TV camera), leading to what the OPP term “a high-risk takedown” of Perwer and his crew. The driver, Riza Bildik, recalls the trauma of the affair in an interview with Toronto’s CityNews (2009): “Can you imagine more than 15 cops, holding us with guns, they put our face on the road with everyone watching us. I thought they are going to kill us. [. . .] Tomorrow I’m going to meet my lawyer, I have to, because they broke our honour, not just me and him, Kurdish people.” When Perwer called for a formal apology, the OPP expressed regret but denied that there was anything excessive about the arrest. The “terrorist” storyline founded on skin colour or facial features is one that Kurds and those of other ethnicities or religious affiliations frequently have to work hard to disprove in Western societies. For all the public professions of diversity and inclusion in Canada, the existence of ignorant, assimilationist, discriminatory, and racist behaviours enacted by state systems (the police force, the education system) as well as on an individual or local level more than calls into question the trumpeted cultural mosaic narrative. Celebratory multiculturalism does not render ignorance and discrimination obsolete (see Hasmath 2011).

As the first country to implement a multiculturalism policy in 1971, Canada made a firm commitment to recognize, foster, and preserve the diverse cultural practices—including languages, customs, and rituals—of its large immigrant population. Bolstered by the position of the minister of diversity and inclusion and youth, the formal collaboration with the Canadian Ethnocultural Council, and the implementation in 1978 of the Refugee and Humanitarian Resettlement Program, supporting all aspects of immigrant culture is part of the Canadian government’s mandate. However, research reveals that despite the symbolic recognition of ethno-cultural diversity by the government and the popular support for multiculturalism policy, the dominant preference is for integration into mainstream Canadian society, requiring “them” to become more like “us” (Reitz 2014). Further research exposes the anxiety in English and French white settler communities about the “threat” posed by the languages and cultures of racialized immigrants to official languages and mainstream culture (Haque 2014, 205). Thus, it is imperative to create more spaces for minority cultures to speak in Canada and, echoing the language of the multiculturalism policy, to recognize and appreciate the diverse richness of all languages and cultures, to creatively engage and collaborate across ethnic groups or different origins, and to unreservedly support the sharing of cultural heritage.

So how to approach the complex matter of Kurdish identity in Canada or anywhere? Given the historico-political context, it is often observed that “Kurdish identity is deeply fragmented” in light of both oppressive external states and internal factors relating to territory, culture, language, and politics (Sheyholislami 2011, 55). The conditions of being stateless, exiles, and refugees are all strongly associated with Kurdish people and thus also the attendant condition of disunity or an absence of collective identity. Indeed, exile and forced migration can lead to a separation within the self or in cultural-ethno-linguistic identity, and scholarship is replete with references to dis-location as both a real physical movement and an embodied and psychological dis-order (see Bhabha 1994; Brah 1996; Smith 2004). Edward Said’s canonical essay “Reflections on Exile” (1984; Said 2000) situates the condition as one marred by sadness, loss, solitude, and insecurity, wherein the collectivity and community of nationalism are yearned for, encompassed by the desire to belong to the homeland. This is exacerbated when there is no “recourse to a functioning nation-state [. . .] however distant, that might offer a stable center for identity” (Ghosh 2008, 284). Frequently, this is discussed in relation to Palestinians who might encounter complex identity crises when facing questions about home and national identity, being “defined in terms of the geopolitical transformations in the Middle East” (284). The far-reaching scale of the support for and recognition of the Palestinian national movement is not something that Kurds experience, however, since theirs is a struggle that is less visible, discussed, or circulated in the academic sphere and across mass media. Yet alongside the fracture that Kurdish people in exile and in the diaspora suffer, there is the possibility, some might even say flourishing, of Kurdishness through collective remembering and forgetting, through music, literature, art, and other cultural performances. Sheyholislami argues that “Kurdish diasporas reproduce the fragmentations of Kurdish identity, but they have also become places of convergence, cultural and political revival, and collective identity formation. Diasporas have become pan-Kurdish communicative spaces” (2011, 72). Although multifarious, thousands of Kurds—exiles, refugees, and their descendants—who have made Canada their home engage with and celebrate a cultural identity that deeply connects them to their cultural heritage and homeland as well as a wider, dispersed Kurdish people.

Culture should not be viewed as an objective reality that is static, pure, or singular. It is, rather, a shifting and evolving reality whose impact on group and individual identity formation cannot be ignored. For instance, as noted earlier, Kurds have historically battled the absorption of their cultural identity into other dominant national identities through oppressive systems. Kurds in Canada still struggle to identify themselves as Kurds because of the absence of education on their culture and language within their family structures and communities, in addition to the fear of having to explain “where and what” Kurdistan is. Cultural identity and individual selfhood are intrinsically connected, while culture is also “the publically accessible text of a people,” according to Clifford Geertz (in Friedman 1994, 68): a text that is present in society, playing a key role in community building. If we are to consider that a pan-Kurdish cultural identity exists, albeit necessarily nuanced and variable, the matter of which cultural forms are produced, performed, and circulated must be addressed. Kurdish people have a rich cultural history with origin myths (so central to nationalist discourses) rooted in the Median Empire (728–550 BCE), through to pre-modern history, and into the sixteenth century, where oral and written texts and epics detail the existence of a shared but diverse ethnic identity called “Kurd.” Moving forward to the twentieth century and against a contemporary backdrop of political upheavals, military interventions, and humanitarian crises, literary and cinematic texts and music are the main venues that reveal the proliferation of Kurdish cultural production.

The scholar Kimberly Wedeven Segall claims that cultural forms exist as places of refuge, especially for those who have experienced war, conflict, and dispossession, but that is not to say that they are passive sites of retreat or inert traditions; instead, they can provide sanctuary while also serving to empower or afford agency. In her book Performing Democracy, Segall notes, “Cultural forms have recorded historical events and created communal forums that work toward reconstructing identity after the silencing effect of torture, terror, and ethnic cleansing. In stark contrast to the helplessness of the experience of torture or severe oppression, public commemorations can break through the individual’s traumatized alienation; furthermore, a story or song—especially through the acting agent’s choice of movement, pace, length, and participation within a community—offers a measure of reassuring control” (2013, 11).

The possibility of community building that is inherent in the circulation of stories and songs elevates the individual endeavour, which nonetheless plays its role in providing a creative outlet for expression and a means to cope with traumatic experiences. For example, the poetry of Şêrko Bêkes, one of the most renowned Kurdish poets, transcends ethnic, religious, and linguistic borders to promote humanity and freedom (Cabi 2019, 8). Further, with respect to the pervasive power of music, Stephen Blum and Amir Hassanpour argue that “singers can dramatise the continuing vitality of Kurdish culture by reviving songs and verses that had almost vanished, by reproducing and adapting rural songs in new performance contexts” (1996, 334). They point to the prolific singer Şivan Perwer as the embodiment of the exilic figure whose repertoire is influenced by a breadth of Kurdish literary and folkloric history from the seventeenth century to the present and who is celebrated across the Kurdish diaspora.

Centering the power of literature, film, and music, then, this research regards such cultural production as a key site of identity formation that thrives even in a scattered or exilic state. But questions remain about how Kurdish ideology, beliefs, or hopes are captured and represented in literature, film, and music. As a dispersed and heterogeneous people, what emerges from their poetry and song, in particular, that might shed light on some essential “Kurdishness” within which a sense of belonging can be found, even as a stateless community in exile? The term Kurdayetî is relevant here as a companion to the neologism Kurdishness as a way to understand what elemental ideas, beliefs, (hi)stories, traumas, and hopes are at the heart of Kurdish cultural production. Sheyholislami explains that “Kurdayetî refers to a movement or action that is carried out on behalf of the Kurds. It can also refer to an ideology or belief system that makes claims about Kurdish identity or Kurdishness” (2011, 202). Much of the poetry and song under discussion in the following section reflects this understanding of Kurdayetî. In their meditations on matters of home and homeland, of roots and rootlessness, writers, filmmakers, poets, musicians, and many others capture the realities of Kurdish identity, of the enduring experience of not belonging, and offer the refuge of which Segall speaks by presenting a sense of hope for the future through reclaiming and celebrating the past. The important question is this: In what ways do Kurds, and specifically younger generations who have grown up in communities of exile or in the diaspora in Canada, inherit a sense of belonging to a place, to a land, or to a people in the face of dispossession and oppression? Without a sense of the past, of heritage broadly conceived, it can be difficult to represent the present. For Kurds in Canada, the struggle to maintain their culture and history is real, yet the preservation of these things informs the evolving concept of Kurdishness. Reclaiming the past, when it comes to issues of legitimacy and cultural expression, can be a lifeline for future prosperity. As much as violent histories are inherited through intergenerational trauma, so too are deep and strong cultural connections that are asserted through such media as poetry and song, in which silenced and marginalized voices or stories are recorded, heard, and repeated, where the human spirit resides and where it flourishes.

Oppression, Sacrifice, Resistance, and Hope

One of the most influential contemporary Kurdish poets is Şêrko Bêkes, whose surname, which translates to “alone,” aptly represents the Kurdish nation. In his early years, Bêkes joined a liberation movement, a short-lived endeavour, as he was sent into exile by Saddam Hussein’s Ba’ath party. He lived in Sweden for many years, where he published several books and where he passed away in 2013. In an evocative poem, “A Letter to God,” Bêkes recounts a fanciful tale about his failure to secure God’s help following Hussein’s genocidal campaign against the Kurds in 1986–89. After writing his letter to God, Bêkes reads it to a tree, and the tree breaks down into tears as a result. A nearby bird who witnesses the recital promptly refuses to act as a courier to God, saying, “There’s no way I can reach Him” (Bekas and Sinjari 1988, line 9). Thankfully, the living embodiment of the poem appears in the form of a black crow and promises Bêkes to take his missive to God. The following day, the crow returns with the letter, dejected because written on the letter is an Arabic message from one of God’s secretaries that reads “You fool! Write in Arabic. No one here speaks Kurdish” (lines 28–29). This final verse powerfully encapsulates the thematic essence of Bêkes’s poem by indicating that not even divine intervention can remedy the abject loneliness of the Kurdish experience. Indeed, most of Bêkes’s poetry focuses on how Kurdish identity has been shaped by some form of adversity. Faced with the injustices of Hussein’s regime, Bêkes’s “main theme is the defense of human dignity and freedom” (Bekas and Sinjari 1988, 17), and this theme “[is reflected by] his close association with the Kurdish National Liberation Movement (KNLM) which he joined in 1965, working in the Movement’s radio station—the Voice of Kurdistan” (17). Bêkes wrote “A Letter to God” following the Halabja massacre of 1988, when the world had turned a blind eye to the suffering of the Kurds as thousands of civilians died in a matter of a few hours when chemical bombs rained down upon them. Kurds were alone, suffering, and rejected by the international community, a reality that is echoed throughout Bêkes’s poem, as the dismissal of his letter to God represents a rejection of the Kurdish identity, language, and homeland.

Like Bêkes’s poetry, the films of Behmen Qubadî, a Kurdish film director, producer, and writer, emphasize the sociopolitical implications of Kurdish culture, the tragedies and discrimination Kurds have faced, and how these realities have shaped their identity. Qubadî is also a Kurdish activist interested in freedom of expression and Kurdish self-consciousness. His narrative archetypes often involve border crossings and being an outsider in one’s own homeland. For instance, in his first feature film, A Time for Drunken Horses, the first Kurdish film produced in Iran, Qubadî (2000) portrays the difficulties Kurds face across the borders of Iran, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria. In addition to depicting the logistical struggles Kurdish people must overcome when traversing these borders in harsh conditions, A Time for Drunken Horses also explores the cultural oppression that Kurds face at the hands of border guards. The film tells the story of recently orphaned Kurdish children struggling to survive in the in-between spaces of the Iranian and Iraqi borders. Qubadî emphasizes the unforgiving mountainous environment through a succession of wide shots that capture the harshness of the wintery landscape, which dramatically contextualizes the difficult living conditions these orphans experience daily. In one important scene, the children illegally cross through the hills from Southern Kurdistan, located in northern Iraq, to Eastern Kurdistan, located in western Iran, while trying to avoid detection by Iranian border patrols who are authorized to use deadly force. This depicts the sad reality that Kurds are bound by hostile borders within their own homeland of Kurdistan. In the following scene, Iranian guards seize the books that the orphans are smuggling (see figure 14.1), which speaks to the importance of the freedom of education. The Iranian government is fearful of Kurdish-led education because it recognizes it as an existential threat to state authority. Thus, by confiscating the books, the authorities are seizing the very instrument of Kurdish emancipation.

Following up on the success of his first film, Qubadî’s (2006) Half Moon centers on a group of Kurdish musicians from Eastern Kurdistan having difficulty crossing the border into Southern Kurdistan, where they are planning to perform a concert. Kurdish music is the cultural expression that the film is set against. In one scene, the group’s minibus is stopped by Iranian border guards who proceed to throw the musical instruments out on the road as the powerless and dismayed Kurdish musicians look on; as the soldiers “trash their instruments, the musicians come to the realization that the Iranian authorities have no intention of ever letting them travel into Iraq [Southern Kurdistan]” (Film Sufi 2008). As a result of this portrayal, the film was banned in Iran, and Qubadî was warned by authorities not to make cinematic productions that are critical of the Iranian government. In a 2007 interview in Tribeca News magazine, he claims that he is “a second-class citizen as a Kurd” and makes it evident that language is very important to him, as he states that “Kurds do not have the same rights as the Farsi-speakers and [he is] trying to discuss this with the camera, to use the camera to bring this issue to the fore” (Tribeca News, n.d.). Highlighting the language politics of the Kurdish situation, Qubadî believes that “people should make films in which they tell people their stories in their own language.” He further states, “Of course, I have respect for Turkish and Persian languages. Yet I demand the same respect from others. I am a refugee right now. I am here as a Kurdish man who is forced to shoot his film in Persian and Turkish” (Kocar 2013). Being bound by constant restrictions, Qubadî cannot fully represent Kurdish identity, which is instead filtered through the limits and checks of oppressive state systems. However, in spite of this, Qubadî’s carefully conceived films ultimately characterize Kurdish identity, connect with Kurds wherever they may be, and further, remind the world that they are still here.

Since the division of Kurdistan under the Treaty of Sèvres, in each part of Kurdistan, the Kurds have been fighting for the same cause: their homeland. In 1991, a Kurdish politician and activist, Layla Zana, joined the Turkish parliament; she took an oath in Turkish, but the closing sentence of her oath was in Kurdish. At this time, the Kurdish language was illegal in public and private places, and thus, in 1994, Zana was charged with treason and sentenced to fifteen years in prison for speaking in Kurdish and for wearing the colours of the Kurdish flag: red, green, and yellow. Zana’s experience also “testifies to the double burden of being a Kurdish woman in Turkish society,” which Zana refers to as a “martyrdom” (Karlsson 2003, 159). She is seen as a “political subject” because her book Writings from Prison contributes greatly to not only the “genre of female prison literature but also [. . .] a literature of the Kurdish diaspora,” which then “educates the western reader on the Kurdish question in Turkey and the devastating effects that state-induced hatred has had on Kurdish communities” (159). Similarly, in 1945–46 in Iran, a Kurdish leader and politician, Qazi Muhammad, made a deal with the Iranian government that he would stop fighting for Kurdish independence if Kurds were given the right to study and learn their own language in school. The Mahabad Republic, which Qazi Muhammed founded in 1946, had created a universal education system to teach in Kurdish, but his presidency was short-lived because the “Iranian forces entered Mahabad, closed Kurdish printing presses, banned the teaching of Kurdish, and burned Kurdish books” (Arizanti 2020). Qazi Muhammed was executed in 1947.

Kurds across Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria are continuously creating cultural and artistic works that represent Kurdish identity, but there is no reliable data, scholarly or otherwise, on this, as creative projects often face censorship or restrictions on circulation. The successful artist Zehra Doğan’s experience in Turkey is a case in point. After being jailed for her painting of a Kurdish town in the majority-Kurdish southeast of Turkey, Doğan used her three years in prison to create art out of the materials she had around her, which she then smuggled out as dirty laundry. Now in exile, and in the face of the shutdown of Kurdish cultural projects in Turkey, Doğan’s art has recently been exhibited in Istanbul and receives much international attention. Yet she cannot return to Turkey. Doğan has found fame in exile, but many other artists and creators do not, and their work may never come to light if it is not published, released, circulated, or marketed under restrictive systems of control.

These few examples of injustice and discrimination against the Kurdish linguistic or cultural identity have led activists, politicians, journalists, writers, and artists to make great sacrifices in an effort to change systems that try to eliminate the existence of Kurds. Many musicians, such as Ahmet Kaya, have reflected on the betrayal and sacrifices of historical Kurdish figures. Kaya was a folksinger born in Northern Kurdistan (southern Turkey) with mixed Kurdish-Turkish origin but identified as a Kurd. He was one of the most influential and controversial artists in Turkey because he claimed his Kurdish identity and had a desire to sing in Kurdish after many years. As a result, he had to flee Turkey and live in France, where he died in exile in November 2000. In his music, Kaya tells his story of suffering and longing for the people of his homeland, Kurdistan, which he was torn away from. In the song “How Can You Know?” (1998), Kaya expresses his frustration at the oppression he faced in Turkey. He articulates questions that only the oppressed can answer, such as, “How can you know how I have been burning?” (Subtitled Turkish Songs 2017, 0:49). Kaya reveals how he was burning with rage and became a “storm” (1:28) as a result of not being treated with dignity and respect. Later in the song, though, after being broken and betrayed by the Turkish state, he sings of how he has “settled” and is “tired, quite tired” (1:28–1:35) because he had been trying to peacefully represent Kurds for so long.

In his 1999 acceptance speech during a televised music awards ceremony in Turkey, Kaya openly expressed his wish to produce Kurdish music videos, stating, “I accept this prize on behalf of all of Turkey. This said, I wish to add something. Let no one come and tell me, ‘but who gave you such a mission?’! History gave it to me. In my upcoming album, my next album, because of the fact I am of Kurdish origin, I will include a title in Kurdish and have a video clip of it. I know that some people will have the courage to distribute this clip” (Aktan 2017). Immediately after this, the audience started to shout, “Such a thing as a Kurd doesn’t exist!” (Aktan 2017). He was declared a threat by Turkish authorities and was called a “traitor” in Turkey. In his song “How Can You Know?,” he sings that he has “come to these days by sacrificing [his] life” (Subtitled Turkish Songs 2017, 2:25)—that is, by sacrificing his own Kurdish language to sing in Turkish, which makes him feel like a fountain that has now been “soaked in blood” (4:12). He then feels ashamed and that he has “gone to waste” (4:22) for singing in Turkish. Today, many Kurdish artists, politicians, and citizens borrow from his most famous song to question their oppressors and ask “How can you know?,” “How can you know why I have been in silence?” (4:26) when confronted with injustices because of their ethno-cultural identity. The power of these lyrics endures as they resonate with the silencing of the Kurdish nation, echoing the axiom “Kurds have no friends but the mountains.”

The political environment experienced by Kaya was very much the same for Kurdish artists in Eastern Kurdistan. Nasir Rezazî, a Kurdish singer who has mainly lived in exile, performs traditional Kurdish folk songs in four major Kurdish dialects: Sorani, Kurmanji, Hewrami, and Kalhori. His songs combine many different Kurdish genres, dialects, and musical styles and thereby speak to the diversity of Kurdish people. In a picturesque music video titled “Şarekem,” meaning “my city,” which he produced himself, Rezazî movingly sings about his experiences away from his homeland and his joy upon returning to Southern Kurdistan. He engages with nature—the trees, rivers, mountains—to emphasize that this is where he belongs. Although life may be difficult as a Kurdish exile, Rezazî nonetheless praises his identity. Preserving culture, tradition, history, and one’s ethnicity are recurring themes of Kurdish artistic expression. He cries out in despair, “[I have been] separated from my homeland” (Hely Deng 2020, 2:01), and believes that no matter where he is, “[his] thoughts will always be with Kurdistan” (2:37), and his longing for home “is the reason why [his] heart is always full of sorrow” (2:41).

In stark opposition to the international boundaries that divide the Kurdish nation, many artists celebrate Kurdish identity in their creative works to keep a national spirit alive. Thus, disputing the legitimacy of borders, Kurdish artists aspire to promote a cohesive sense of identity in the collective psyche of the Kurdish people in order to counteract the divisive forces that partition Kurdistan along geographical, historical, and cultural lines. Rezazî still cannot return to Eastern Kurdistan for fear of persecution by Iran, so he dedicates his songs to the movement for an independent Kurdistan. This claim to Kurdish unity echoes another well-known song, Ayub Ali and Gare Sazkar’s “Kurdim”—“I Am Kurd”—in which they proudly assert, “My language is Kurdish, and I am from Kurdistan” (Ayub Ali 2015, 0:13). Like many other Kurdish artists, they challenge preconceived notions of a divided Kurdistan. Ali and Sazkar emphatically call upon all Kurds to come together and take pride in their Kurdishness. By stating “I am Kurd, from Kurdistan and my language is Kurdish” (0:45), Kurds can reaffirm their unity in the face of conflict and oppression.

Much like Rezazî, in her song “Welat,” meaning “Homeland,” Melek Rojhat, one of the many celebrated female Kurdish singers, depicts a journey in Kurdistan. Her poetic verses nullify any pre-existing boundary by claiming that one’s homeland is where “life, being [and] love come into existence” (Bilal 2018, 0:15). Rojhat’s song reveals the people’s love of their land, whether from North, South, East, or West; the current cartographic borders do not exist within the collective psyche, as they are willing to “sacrifice [their lives] for” their homeland (4:13). With her lyrics, Rojhat takes us on a journey through history, one of tranquility and hope, for as long as the “Hewler and Dimdim castle” remain “symbols of [. . .] resistance,” there will always be “proof of [Kurdistan’s] civilization” (4:50–5:00). Many Kurdish artists uphold this sentiment of hope by resisting the influence of those who misrepresent and silence the voice of the Kurdish people within their homeland. Through its composition and powerful lyrics, Rojhat’s music becomes crucial in protecting and reaffirming Kurdish identity because it advocates for being able to identify as a Kurd from the land of Kurdistan.

The hope for a unified Kurdistan ultimately takes center stage in the music of the Kamkars, a family of musicians with seven brothers and one sister who have performed numerous concerts worldwide and are widely recognized as one of the leading musical ensembles in Kurdistan. The music of the Kamkars is founded on Kurdish folklore and tradition, instantiating a panoply of emotional and spiritual dimensions inherent to the Kurdish experience throughout history. Thanks to their mastery and harmonious implementation of various traditional Kurdish instruments (e.g., Tembur, Santoor, Kamanche, and Daff) invigorated by delicately balanced vocals, the Kamkars vividly capture Kurdish identity in epic melodies. Their distinct aptitude for integrating virtuoso musical performance with complex compositions and arrangements enables them to revitalize the Kurdish culture and traditions and thereby resist some of the barriers Kurds face in Iran to maintain their Kurdish identity. Their music is conscientiously composed to revolt against Iranian restrictions by drawing on ancient Kurdish history and the folk customs of each region of Kurdistan to undo established political, linguistic, cultural, and geographical schisms.

In addition, many musicians combat oppressive regimes through their lyrics and through a formidable tone that influences revolutionary ideas. Şivan Perwer is one the most famous Kurdish singer-songwriters whose epic songs have galvanized entire Kurdish generations into action by denouncing occupiers and oppressors alike. Forced into exile as a result of his revolutionary songs about Kurdish identity, Perwer, who has been living in Germany for the better part of four decades, continues to remind the Kurds to be brave and unyielding in the face of opposition. In his most popular song “Kîne Em?” (1991; United Kurdish Forces 2008), which literally translates to “Who are we?”—based on the Kurdish poet Cigerxwîn’s “Kîme Ez?” (1973), meaning “Who am I?”—Perwer recounts the history of the Kurdish nation and how, over time, the Kurds started to forget their identity only to rediscover it with a sense of renewed hope for the future of Kurdistan. In this song, Perwer directly calls on the Kurds to remember who they are and reminds them that their sense of unity is what will keep their nation alive. Perwer’s original compositions about celebrated historical Kurdish figures who have been assassinated by oppressors inspire countless Kurdish men and women to take up arms against the ruthless autocratic regimes that tyrannize the Kurdish people. Like Şêrko Bêkes and Abdullah Peşêw, Perwer believes that Kurds are alone in their fight for recognition and autonomy, necessitating unity to protect their identity and culture.

Just as Perwer has galvanized the Kurdish nation through powerful songs and messages, Abdullah Peşêw has been regarded as one of the most influential contemporary political satirists in Kurdistan. Through his many literary works, Peşêw vehemently criticizes world leaders for closing their eyes to Kurdish suffering. His criticism does not stop at foreign leaders, however; far from it, Peşêw is perhaps best known for his condemnation of current Kurdish politicians who he believes have done little to unite the Kurdish nation. In “The Dagger,” a short yet striking poem, Peşêw shatters preconceived notions about Kurds as bloodthirsty marauders, writing,

Peşêw also portrays Kurdish identity in his poems, but from a different angle to Bêkes’s perspective. While both focus on the same general theme, Peşêw’s message is much more politicized. Where Bêkes invokes a letter in “A Letter to God,” Peşêw gives us a “dagger,” and while the former laments his nation’s loneliness, the latter denounces its usurpers. Peşêw’s motherland is depicted as a “stolen sheath,” and this eradicates doubts of Kurdistan being a stolen land. Thus, it is not Peşêw who is “bloodthirsty”; rather, it is the oppressor and the enemy who “unsheathed [him].” Peşêw’s political and charismatic words have, in fact, awakened the Kurdish masses by fomenting in the collective Kurdish psyche a sense of national awareness.

The many calls for unity from the writers, musicians, and creators explored above are undoubtedly thwarted by divisions among the Kurds themselves. It is not easy to keep the hope alive that one day the people of Kurdistan will unite and be able to form an independent country when rifts between political parties and schisms pertaining to language and religion abound. However, hope does endure and proliferates in cultural production. For instance, despite the restrictions set upon them, the Kamkars perform traditional Kurdish music that travels across the world to awaken Kurdish cultural identity. The Kamkars often begin their concerts cautiously, since they are sometimes forced to introduce their performances with Persian songs, with the female performers wearing headscarves, and with the performers looking restricted. This is the only way they are able to perform as Kurds in Iran; their cultural self-expression is stymied. Then, for the second part of their concerts, they re-emerge in traditional clothes, full of energy, and ready to assert their real identity as Kurds, proudly expressing each and every note of the traditional melodies. In doing so, they adhere to Iranian regulations while also maintaining their Kurdishness.

Cultural figures and creators of all kinds have found ways to navigate what it is to be Kurdish in “other” lands, not without suffering or difficulty, but nonetheless with a passion for their culture and language and hope for the future. Mahmoud Darwish, whose words from “The Kurd Has Only the Wind (for Saleem Barakat)” opened this chapter, states that language has been the most powerful tool or form of activism employed by Kurds. He claims that “with language [Kurds] took revenge on absence” (Darwish 2007, 319), suggesting that through poetry, song, writing, and expressing their presence, their right to land, and their unique cultural identity, Kurds have been able to challenge the various mechanisms that render invisible entire groups of people.

Dana Waissi: A Personal Reflection on a Poem by Hama Aziz Waissi

My father—Hama Aziz Waissi, a Kurd living in exile in Canada—embodies the fire of Kurdish identity that still burns in many. My father has always devoted his life to maintaining a sense of hope for the Kurds and Kurdistan. Therefore, I have always dreamt of an independent Kurdistan because my father has instilled in me a sense of Kurdishness and what it means to be Kurdish while also respecting and appreciating other cultures. He was exiled from Eastern Kurdistan at the start of the Iran-Iraq War in 1980 and lived in a refugee camp in Iraq for twenty-one years, where I was also born, before resettling with the family in Canada in 2001. Given this experience, he has always sought to understand why the Kurds have been displaced and oppressed. He educated me and my siblings in this manner, endowing the next generation with a strong understanding of the importance of one’s identity and the significance of the preservation of one’s culture and history. Since living in Canada, my father has produced many writings, specifically poems, in order to make sense of, document, and honor the very substance of being Kurdish and the Kurdish experience.

In one of his most compelling poems, “I Am Kurdistan,” originally written in Kurdish in 2015, my father not only expresses his roots but also uniquely documents the origins of Kurdistan by connecting Kurdish cities, language, culture, and history as well as the genocide and loss of life in order to manifest the Kurdish experience. The title of the poem is an instance of claiming his roots, as it indicates that he is Kurdistan himself, and although Kurdistan might not be on a map, it is inherent to his identity. Meanwhile, the words “I am” from the title are continuously repeated throughout the poem as a means to reclaim every aspect of Kurdistan; all the historical events, including genocide and oppression, are related to one Kurdish identity. The poem echoes many themes that have previously been explored in this chapter, such as the importance of language and the memory of the suffering that Kurds have faced. The commemoration of the past is also central for the Kurds, and when my father states “I am the age-old citadels of Ûrbîl and Kerkûk” (Waissi 2015, 13), the significance here is that the citadels (standing within the borders of Kurdistan) are living reminders of Kurdistan’s civilization and represent the existence of Kurds in this land. As my father catalogues the names of cities, he calls attention to what has been lost or forgotten in all four parts of Kurdistan:

His endless record of the shared experience of the many Kurdish cities conveys the essential message for Kurds to unite. This idea and dream of unity has resonated across many forms of Kurdish cultural production because in unity, there is the power to create and hope for a recognized Kurdistan, hence the title, “I Am Kurdistan.” To achieve statehood and to become Kurdistan, one has to embody the very nature of the culture, and the preservation of the Kurdish cultural identity is what allows my father to state the following:

The flames of Newroz, which is a celebration of unity summoning a new day, have made the Kurds a strong nation that preserves their culture and history. Although many have tried to contradict the fact that Newroz is the Kurdish New Year, the event has been able to revitalize the very existence of Kurds because through its existence, many Kurdish artists, similar to my father, have been able to galvanize a cultural revolution by honoring and bringing to light Kurdish identity. Newroz has not only been a celebration of unity; it has also strengthened the hope of independence and freedom by peacefully bringing millions of Kurds together worldwide through culture, music, and history. Thus, for instance, the “fire” quoted above gives life, meaning, and strength to the existence of the Peshmerga, as my father writes, “I am the Pêşmerge and the Gêrîla who fights the Misanthrope. I am undying Will, I am Courage, I am Hope” (Waissi 2015, lines 25–26). The courageous freedom fighters of Kurdistan are the “undying Will” of the nation and are the foundation for hope because to call yourself Kurdistan, you must assert that “I am Hope.” Therefore, in calling out to every part of Kurdistan, referencing the speakers of different Kurdish dialects, my father draws attention to the crucial role of hope and commits to a sense of unity at the close of the poem by stating “I am Kełhor, Kurmanc, and Soran; I am united, I am Kurdistan” (line 28).

Many examples of Kurdish cultural production repeat this sentiment of the undying will of Kurdistan and the undeniable existence of Kurdish identity to combat the loss and oppose any hopelessness. In his poetry, my father aims to emphasize and resist oppression and discrimination from the four states: Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria. He further endeavours to unite the Kurds through their origin and their shared losses to disseminate hope and unity and to celebrate the unique cultural diversity that makes Kurdistan, as the Kurdish saying goes, “the Bride of the world.”

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