Shock Horror! I’m Attracted To People Of My Own Ethnicity.
It’s become a habit of mine to tell white people I have the romantic interests of a frigid nun. “I don’t date,” I say. “I’m not into boyfriends,” I profess. “That’s not my scene, I put my studies first,” I claim, throwing the world’s entire sexually active adult population under the bus with a smug smile.
But here’s the thing — it’s a front. I’m a sexual being, and this isn’t a “secret”, rather it’s a given, seeing as I’m a 20-something-year-old who gets enough to eat and isn’t on any medication that knocks out sex drive. As a Kurdish one, I’m strongly, powerfully attracted to Kurdish men. Alevi ones, generally speaking. Strong and powerful, with deep voices and rough hands. Facial hair is a plus, as inconvenient as it is when kissing. As is, of course, the ability to cook something other than a Rustlers Burger. Most Kurdish men are excellent at grilling meat. My partner cooks chicken thighs like a boss!
I started making these pronouncements of hardcore celibacy after a conversation with a white friend, about what to look for in a romantic partner. I mentioned that I would think it was cool if he was Kurdish. “Eww!” she grimaced, as though I’d just fessed up to fancying the Incredible Hulk.
Through the white gaze, Kurdish men are thought of as “exotic” just like Kurdish women are. But the concept of “exotic” looks very different to a Kurdish woman whose skin maintains a bronzy glow after a year in isolation. I’ve been called “exotic” more than I care to remember; sometimes it’s complimentary, sometimes it’s harshly accusatory. If I am, indeed, “exotic”, then Kurdish men are the complete opposite — they’re the most familiar option on the menu. They’re the only thing I want to order when everything else is powdered duck breast and foam of frog’s leg essence.
I know I’m supposed to be intimidated by “exotic” Kurdish men. Thanks to societal Kurdophobia, danger is another thing Kurdish people, especially men, are associated with. Instead I feel protected and peaceful around them. I waited and waited to feel threatened, as I thought I should, but I never did. It only took a month for my partner to let me put him as an emergency contact.
To be in a relationship with another Kurd is to be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t Kurd-shame, or come out with comments that are accidentally anti-Kurdish. Because in a society that refuses to value Kurdish lives, if it acknowledges them at all, it’s so easy to be Kurdophobic without even realising it. Most Kurdophobes don’t call themselves such. I think that even the most chilled-out, liberal people have said things that they don’t know make Kurdish people uncomfortable. For example, far too many white people use the word “dark” as a synonym for something bad or forbidden, whereas Kurds use the cognate Kurdish and Turkish word “esmer”, meaning darker skin and facial features, as a compliment for a beautiful woman. Kurdish people don’t equate the colour of my eyebrows with criminal activity, in fact they find them quite attractive.
If the Turkish Government’s latest actions affect me emotionally, which they usually do, I can trust Kurdish men not to call me hysterical or any other epithet used to dissuade women from being politically involved. I’ve been told my commitment to my own people’s wellbeing is a consequence of being “bullied” (when the worst thing that has ever happened in my life is having to go to the dentist) or “radicalised online” (as if Kurds are just Isis members who don’t speak Arabic). I can trust a Kurdish man not to repeat that, and instead to see my love of my people as something positive. I read once that “one can never be “too much” for the right people” and by that logic, I will never be “too much” for a Kurd. I have only ever been considered “too much” by non-Kurds, and “too much” is Kurd-shaming at its core. “Too much” eyeliner — too much like the human rights lawyer Eren Keskin, that is. “Too much” long, thick hair— too much like Abdullah Ocalan’s niece, Dilek.
I find it easier to be in a relationship with another Kurd because someone who doesn’t think of themselves as a Kurd will never fully know what being a Kurd is like. They can’t feel Kurdophobia. They don’t get the fight-or-flight response I get when hearing of the horrors of the Turkish Government; they shake their heads, say “That’s too bad” and move on. Non-Kurds may know inequality but they will never know that particular inequality. Even if they’re sharing their life with me, am I really sharing my life with them if I can’t talk about my inmost desire for a world where every Kurd can awaken to the sound of birds, not bombs?
It’s easier to claim not to love anyone, absolving myself of any comments on why I might love them, or whether I love them at all, than to admit I love them and to open myself up to people’s speculations. This is about love, not political views. I think it’s a bit Kurdophobic to assume that relationships involving Kurds are inherently political, but that’s the first conclusion most people jump to. I’ve been told I’m only in it for the politics, and that whether my partner “Approves Of The Kurds” (I should think approval is the bare minimum!) is my “weakness”. I’ve heard my attraction to Kurdish men is just a way of promoting the cause. I’ve been called “one-track mind” when the average person thinks over 6000 unrelated thoughts a day. I’m far more likely to overthink whether I remembered to lock my door. The truth of the matter is, my (actual or potential) Kurdish lover’s political views are so predictable that they’re the last thing on my mind, if they cross my mind at all. Wanting a homeland is literally the least exciting thing about Kurdish men. Here’s an analogy — if I were Jewish, and I really wanted to marry someone who was also Jewish, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about them being antisemitic.
I use claims of eternal spinsterity as a shield for criticism of my attraction, because that so often shifts into criticism of my identity. I’ve been told that as an “inexperienced” young woman, I don’t know what the right guy looks like. I know Kurdish men can be obnoxious, entitled jerks. And quite a few of them are, which I already know. It’s an informed decision. But that doesn’t change the fact that I would prefer for my partner to be Kurdish, because even if he’s a jerk at times, I can trust him not to be a jerk about what matters the most to me.
The thing about Kurdish relationships that non-Kurds don’t always catch onto is that we don’t “date” as much as they do. Relationships between Kurds progress quite rapidly; in mine, passing comments about marriage had started within a few weeks. Most romantic interactions between my partner and I consist of sitting in parks and green spaces, people-watching and talking in great detail about our desire to topple the Turkish regime, while he knocks back those urine-flavoured 39p energy drinks. Calling it “dating” makes it sound like so much more of a minefield than what it is — spending time together with the hope of spending more time together.
At the same time, there are times when I wish I wasn’t attracted to other Kurds at all. At least it would be easier not to be attracted only to Kurdish men. I would have millions more options if I were able to “broaden my horizons”. I would be able to throw myself at some guy at the gym because he goes to the same gym as me! If that fails, there are plenty of fish in the university library! And wouldn’t it look so much more virtuous if I gave up on all this and settled for the non-Kurdish traditional relationship, of high school sweethearts who went to prom together?
Yet I’ve realised the only way to get interested in one of these relationships would be through a rigid regimen of punishing myself for liking Kurdish men like my partner. Society is Kurdophobic enough that I’ve felt the need. I’ve thought about calling it a “slip” every time I think about him. I’ve wondered whether I need to “start over” the day after I see him, then berating myself even more for being such a “noncompliant” volcel. Taking the words I’ve used to punish myself for enjoying food and applying them to romance. I’ve even considered moving back in with my family (which I’d never do otherwise), not only to be a stereotypical “good girl” but to make it impossible to see him. As much as I say “it’s not that I can’t change, it’s that I won’t change”, it’s clear that only being attracted to Kurdish men is more of a subtype of human sexuality than a choice. I don’t know what conversion therapy feels like, but I’m guessing it’s not that different.
I need to ask myself what matters more in my relationships; is it others’ opinions or our happiness? At times, I get stuck in a rut of thinking “no Kurdish kiss feels as good as approval” but it’s not worth it. Punishing myself is not worth it — that’s what needs to be taken out of the equation. Loveless cohabitation with the high school sweetheart or the douchey fitness-bro or Mo the maths guy in the library, isn’t worth it. Proclaiming that relationships are beneath me isn’t worth it. Spending my life in my Kurdish lover’s arms without shame, blame and judgement? That’s worth it.
