Halves And Quarters And Sixty-Fourths

Most people who meet me, if they don't give me the old chestnut of "You don't look Kurdish", assume I'm only partly Kurdish. Schrodinger's Kurd, quite literally. A white-passing Olive Skindinavian.

And given how little I know about my bio family, how much of what I do know was written by journalists in need of cold hard cash...it might be true. 

But what it would mean is that my dad was an overweight delinquent who smoked too much weed, ended up in care, did tricks with knives and used enough hair gel to spontaneously combust.

It would mean he did something to a girl who wasn't Kurdish. It would mean there was truth in the trope of the violent father figure. It would explain why I can't see him--because he died in 2014 while I was navigating health problems, sexuality and secondary school at a school I didn't want to go to but didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. 

The world is not on our side. But the world will only abandon us until we can prove to it that we deserve more than abandonment. I got in touch with a cousin the other day. Her cousin has blonde hair and blue eyes. 

An afterword.

Resist police brutality.

Burning The 4am Oil

The first thing I did when I got free digital library access was to read a book about a murder. Written by some sanctimonious sociologist with more time on her hands than respect.

and i was crying for somewhere between half an hour and an hour, under my pillow so my flatmates wouldn't hear and start asking when was the last time I saw her, or why I bring her up so often if I'm so reluctant to talk about her.

I don't know what she was to me. Either an aunt or a second or third cousin. I hadn't even thought about her for more than two weeks simply because I had so much other stuff on my plate.

I love you (her) so much. I always will, and I always have had it in me whether or not I was aware of it. And if my love for you is to be sold on the neurotypical meat market to unscrupulous doctors as a "bad habit" along with every other aspect of my existence then I will go through every intervention available, for you, as you watch me from above telling me subliminally that it will never be of any use.

Why must I follow them when I can follow you? More people have a dead celebrity for a role model than any of us would want to think

The Radical Notion Of Loving Your Neighbour

Maybe I am a guitar-strumming Kumbayah-singing happy-clappy dirty hippie. Maybe I am a hypocrite. But I prefer to be thought of as a believer in unconditional love. Living, let-living, forgiving.

If someone is noisy or rude or entitled then I completely get that you'd have a problem with that particular instance of noise or rudeness or entitlement. But whatever first world inconvenience someone caused you, that someone is still a someone. With friends, family, and a dog. Inherent worth and dignity is not a competitive sport.

Age-based expectations are age-based oppression. But when was the last time you heard "I'm not your friend" outside of primary school? Maybe you're not saying it. Maybe you're just doing it. It's still immature. Calling someone names that sound like villains out of B-movies is immature. Blaming someone for war and world hunger is immature. And don't you dare call me immature just because you need to work through your fragile masculinity.

Practically every religion has a rule about treating others in a way that you yourself would want to be treated. And I don't think you'd like it if someone was saying the same things about you that you're saying about an innocent man because you need a scapegoat.

I know you have "no interest". I had no interest in doing maths until I realised I needed to get a grip in order to get into uni. I didn't do it because I enjoyed it. It was as mundane as brushing my teeth or changing my underwear. Like forgiveness. It's second nature. I don't understand how forgiveness can be something one has to think carefully about and weigh up the pros and cons of doing.

In this world, the bullied become bullies. It's either yeet or be yeeted. But can we all take a break from throwing things?

Family And Fake News

Your "One Big
Muslim Umbrella" rhetoric
Is killing us;

Yes, we have
Our own set of problems
But not that one.

I Am Not Trans, But I Am Transgressive

A short woman, five foot one when rounded, who is obviously a woman, unashamed of being a woman--wearing mostly men's or unisex clothes.

Whose main first language has only one pronoun but countless words for the assertive woman--Delikanli Kiz, Tasakli Kadin, Hanimaga. Who is pronoun indifferent.

I want a career. I don't want a family to make it more difficult. I can't overthrow the government if I'm changing nappies.

I want to know what people think of all this, and at the same time, I don't--because I already do. I am a waste of matching X-chromosomes, poisoned by the Alevi agenda.

And, as they say at McDonalds...I'm lovin' it.

Reasons To Get A Sun Tattoo

One.
The demon is not in me.
The demon is in his presidential palace.
Yet my fingers shall be the bars of his gilded cage.

Two.
It will comfort me.
My body will become my home.
A real safe haven for this stateless soul.

Three.
It will not hurt.
I know what it is like to feel pain.
Not just a stubbed toe or a headache. Agony.

Four.
The Sun represents me.
Warm and bright. Fiery. Merciless.
Yellow like my Carmex, orange like my pill box.

Five.
It brings me to balance.
Between vulnerability and holding my head high.

I Am Not A Good Girl.

I am not a good girl. That's not the reason I'm not going to the party. Or the reason I didn't go to the last one. Or the one before that. That's not why I said I didn't want to go clubbing. Or to the rave.

It's because I have an actual neurological condition that makes it excruciatingly difficult to be in a room with bright lights and eardrum-perforating music. And I'm not going to act as if it isn't there.

It's because I'd much rather be sitting on floor cushions at the back of an esoterically named bar, nursing a glass of Raki, listening to someone playing the Saz. Maybe I don't understand all the words. But that's what makes it magical. It is vast, beyond my comprehension.

In a way, I am a bad girl for not doing what everyone else is doing.