Picking flowers along the way

Hangover

2026-09-27T00:00:00.000Z

i am hungover
so is i

a cup of filtered coffee
so is i

gazing at my shoes, stained
so is i

headaches, crumbs, hungry
so is i

people wandering around me, confused
so is i

feeling of fresh haircut, trimmed
so is i

the sound of birds chirping in the morning
another sleepless night
smiling, absurd
so is i

it's quarter to three, time to go home
so is i

sleeping in the warm embrace of the other
so was i

the eternal serpent
moment of shedding
so is i

bleeding noble blood
blood of a human
still alive
so is i

i spoke, i spoke
of my delirium
caravans made of gold
savaged by bandits
piles of heads
so is i

Fresh air

2026-09-20T00:00:00.000Z

Standing at the balcony of a hotel overlooking the Parisian sunset. Feeling the cool fresh breeze, the buzz of the city on my skin. Bliss is in the air. The sunset has enchanted me again. This is my moment of the day, any day.

The gentle hug of wind, the sun-kissed skin, earth under my feet, my teary tired hopeful eyes gazing forward. Breathing slowly so my nose wouldn't get too cold. The new bed sheets half folded from my mid-day nap. Will there be another day?

A chamber of reflection, that hotel room of mine. I wondered, beyond reason, while lying down in bed, what manner of thought did people have while waiting for their time of eventual departure. The worries, hopes, dreams, and the countless times strangers have masturbated surrounded by these four walls. How many of them perished and how few lived on to have fulfilling lives? I couldn't count.

Moments of reflection allow us to experience life as a whole, like a painter's moment of pause, stepping back and observing the half-finished painting as a whole. It allows the painter to observe the current state of the painting and lay the canvas for his next strokes. I do wonder sometimes what color my final brush strokes will be? What a foolish thought, a painter is never done painting.

Let us pause for a moment and consider ourselves as painters and our life as a painting painted by ourselves, and take the canvas as the environment we find ourselves in. It is self evident that we don't live in isolation from others, and yet we don't draw the same figures, nor is the roughness of each patch the same. Therefore we must be all painting on the same canvas, only differing on where our first stroke was drawn.

The first stroke on an empty canvas is the genesis of a new painting; start of a new self. We are expected to be painters of our own selves, but we don't lay down the first stroke ourselves. It's our parents, caretakers who dress us, feed us, and we stand up to take their form. Until we become capable enough to hold the brush on our own, and start painting.

Maybe it's the ecstasy of this newfound freedom that makes our teenage selves want to draw themselves apart, sketch after sketch, weird and edgy, drafting who they want to be and will eventually become.

A consequence of living on the same canvas of others, is that others will either paint with us or paint over us. They can either ruin what is there in their image, or contribute to make it beautiful.

Silly Snail

2026-09-06T00:00:00.000Z

O' snail of the forest
Spirals of mist
Wise and weary
Eternally crawling
Did he also curse you?

In a silly forest there lived a silly-willy snail. His silly friends called him Billy, that silly-billy! He feasted on the forest's silly vegetation. His favorites were the silly shrooms. When he took a silly amount of the shrooms, he became even more of a silly Billy! He liked them so much that the forest residents called them silly-billy-shrooms.

Silly Billy is an addict.

I and myself

2026-07-12T00:00:00.000Z

I remembered that I always took up a militaristic mindset when I struggled to achieve something. I would wage war against myself. Pushing myself through clearly uncomfortable situations. Pulling all-nighters while hissing and grumbling like a madman. Trying to jam as much information into my mind. Trying hard to finish the seemingly never-ending tasks. Sleepless, tired and battered. The wars waged on. Oftentimes resulting in my defeat against myself. In between periods of intense firefights, whenever possible, a nervous peace would be held. Sheltering in my place. Delving into meaningless trivia and entertainment. Until a sudden provocation, usually from a third-party, left me with no choice other than a strong response, and I had to leave for war again; oh, anxiety, what a terribly useless feeling you are.

From my simple reflections, I observed that I don't have to wage war to do tasks and obtain satisfaction from doing them. I have to be myself, since I am nothing more than myself, and I am enough for myself. I smiled then said to myself "I will no longer wage war against myself, I call for a permanent truce". With a good feeling rushing down my spine, I went up the stairs to the fourth floor and entered my place.

Where are you from?

2026-03-03T00:00:00.000Z

The most common type of question a stranger gets is about where they are from. As a foreigner trying to socialize and integrate into a new society, this question becomes part of your daily communication.

I imagine for most, it's trivial question to answer. Just name the country of your origin, or if you're a local you'd say the name of your city, town or village.

I also imagine that sometimes a person is either shy or even hesitant to name their place of origin, in the fear of being judged or stereotyped. We don't choose where we are born, yet it defines us.

One wonders why it's so natural and expected for us to ask about the origins of a complete stranger on our first contact. Maybe it's the consequence of living in separate communities, and that we are only protecting the inner group from potentially dangerous outsiders; seldom it has been the fate of humanity to be divided.

The quick judgments some people make based on this answer are to me tragic and maybe sometimes also humorous. At this day and age, It is a sad sight to see when an adult judges a person in their entirety based on the place of their origin.

Since I moved to Europe, naturally I have been asked this question a lot, and it has been always tricky to answer. For reasons beyond my control, the expected answer, which is "from Iraq." is neither really true nor satisfactory, as the truth is far more complicated.

Here I write about the answer I rather give.

The short answer: From Kurdistan.

The long answer is that I was born inside the national borders of a country called Iraq, located in West Asia^[1]. A country that is foreign to me, and also a country which sees me as a foreigner; an anomaly which shouldn't exist.

I am born of Kurdish parents, who were born inside the national borders of Iran. In their youth they both joined the noble struggle for their democratic rights as Kurdish people inside Iran. When they got married, they had to flee to the mountains at the border between Iraq and Iran, and after many hardships and sacrifices, they had to flee once again, and eventually settle in Iraq in small communities of people whom they shared the same struggle with; I was born in one such community.

Iraq is the country where I was born at, but that I don't have a sense belonging to. A country that has a problem with my identity, a nuisance that it's better without, and country that until recently it would go out of its way to eliminate my kind in futile, but brutal attempts of assimilation in hopes that we would be erased. A country where its flag and pride reminds me of the slaughter of my people.

I belong to the Kurds. I belong to the mountains, valleys of Zagros. I belong to the countless proud nomadic tribes of Kurds which roamed and settled these mountains for millennia. I belong to the hardy people of the mountains. I belong to the people of "Mem û Zîn"^[2], the lovers. I am a follower of Hêmin^[3], the poet. I belong to the freedom fighters against injustice and fascism. I belong to Kurdistan, the land of the Kurds.

Kurds are a proud people, not claiming to be anything else than being themselves. In contrast, of modern uniformity and brutal pressure for assimilation, they have proudly kept their cultural identity and traditions. Kurds speak, sing, and love in their language, they wear their traditional clothes lovingly, and they dance hand in hand, sharing their joy in rhythm.

I claim that in every proud Kurd there is a deep core authenticity. May it be because of their heritage as hardy people, their environment, or various other factors. The fact of the matter is, from every Kurd you can expect a form of brotherly love, kindness, and honor. If that is not observed, they have tragically lost their ways.

The mountains of Kurdistan, those lush mountains of thousand springs, have been the generous host of many tribes of people including the Kurds. Those mountains that to this day are being defiled by modern nation state that failed to resolve their domestic problems and degrade to barbarism, as so it's the way of nation states.

A people with their own distinct identity, who are on their lands, in the eyes of nation states, the land does not rightfully belong to them and are not allowed to govern themselves, and are considered as a problem, stubborn people who just won't assimilate; an anomaly, perhaps.

The failure of nation states in West Asia is most apparent when it comes to the question of the Kurds^[4]. The Kurds, with a population of roughly 20-30 million people in total, are currently the largest group of people without a recognized homeland. Kurds inhabit the lands which are currently divided among Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria. The modern history of oppression against the Kurdish people is tragically long, as the existence of Kurds, and other minorities, is seen as a threat to the creation myth of such nations; the myth that they are all one people with one identity inside some arbitrary boundary of land. Anything that goes against this narrative is a threat. And naturally Kurds, along with other minorities are seen as a national threat to the ideal and fetishized unity of nationalists, and the perfect common enemy of dictators.

As Ibrahim Ahmad^[5] says in his poem

I am neither Arab nor Iranian,
Nor am I a mountain Turk.
My very history itself declares
That I am Kurdish, and from Kurdistan.

I dream of a day that I will see my homeland free, and West Asia free from its hard colonial nationalist borders. I dream of a homeland that is tamed with peace, where people care and love for each other, without shame nor fear.

The common geopolitical term for the area is Middle East, but since this term is specifically Eurocentric and has a colonial tone, I prefer not to use it. ↩︎
Epic love poem by Ahmad-e Khani who was a 15th century Kurdish intellectual, scholar, mystic and poet who is viewed by some as the founder of Kurdish nationalism. ↩︎
Seyed Mohammad-Amin Shaikholislami Mukri, better known by his pen name Hêmin Mukriyanî (1921–1986) was a Kurdish poet, journalist, translator, and literary critic. ↩︎
In Political science terminology this is referred to as The Kurdish Question ↩︎
Kurdish writer, novelist, jurist and translator who founded the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan in 1975. He is the father-in-law of former President Jalal Talabani and current President Abdul Latif Rashid through both of his daughters. ↩︎

Calling

2026-01-24T00:00:00.000Z

In the darkness of my dwelling
Open window's letting the light in
Evening looms

Destiny calls
It’s rude to keep it waiting
I shall pour myself into a prose

Calls of separation

Starlight

2025-12-19T00:00:00.000Z

The night sky
Stars bright
Dark blues
Going on an infinite voyage