العربيةI was born in Damascus into a Kurdish family. My father spoke Kurdish with my uncle, aunt, and grandmother, but as children, we attended Arabic schools, became fully Arabized, and forgot what we had learned from our ancestors and parents. However, my Kurdish name always made me stand out. When people asked me about its meaning, I felt a sense of confidence and belonging to my Kurdish roots, especially since my teachers admired it—its meaning was something like the light of dawn. The melodies of Kurdish music continued to resonate within us, connecting us to something I couldn’t quite define, even as I completed my education in Arabic schools and developed a deep love for the richness of the Arabic language.
Later, in university, I chose to study English literature, taking yet another step away from my native Kurdish tongue. It remained in my memory, but I neither knew it nor learned it.
In the next phase of my life, my husband and I moved to the Gulf with our children. We experienced a new life, a new culture, and financial stability while continuing to visit Syria in the summers. But when the Syrian uprising began, I immediately found myself aligned with the revolution. Having studied at university, explored world literature, learned about human rights, and gained insight into modern global policies that uphold individual freedom and protect human dignity, I could not stand with dictatorship—even if it was secular.
The Ba’athist regime had always marginalized the Kurds. We were excluded from the high ranking military position and key government positions, with most Kurds working in restaurants and low-paying jobs. That reality saddened me, and it made me instinctively side against Assad’s rule.
However, the growing fanaticism within the revolution left us conflicted. We did not want the regime, but neither did we want a revolution led by those whose sole aim was to seize power rather than bring true change. I desperately wish for religion to remain separate from politics, fearing that its entanglement would only lead to the exclusion of other groups within Syrian society.
Now, in what is my third migration, I find myself settled in Germany. From here, I can see just how far Syria has fallen behind—how distant it is from any form of tangible modern progress. The country remains trapped in sectarian killings, rejecting diversity, failing to understand its own identity, value, or greatness. They have turned Syria into an unbearable hell.
My heart aches for Syria. I will raise my children to love it from afar, just as we loved our Kurdish heritage from afar. We have embraced new cultures, learned to integrate, to accept others, and to respect different religions and ways of life. My children have even married into different cultures, and I am proud of that.
As for Syria, I leave its fate to God.