Have you ever felt like you don’t belong anywhere—that there is no place for you in this world?

I think I’ve felt that way for as long as I can remember, even though I can’t quite point to when it began. Maybe it started when I unknowingly grew up thinking two different worlds were actually one. I realized it only when I was confronted by society.

My family is Kurdish. At home, Kurdish was spoken with relatives, but with us children, it was always Turkish—because we spent most of our time at school and had to know Turkish to keep up with our education. For a long time, I didn’t even know there was a difference between being Turkish and Kurdish. I thought everyone could understand Kurdish. Sometimes I’d say things in Kurdish to my friends, believing they’d understand me. I even thought some things just had two names—one in Kurdish and one in Turkish. I lived without questioning any of it—until one day, my friends told me they didn’t understand the Kurdish they heard on the street.

Wasn’t everyone supposed to understand? Why was I the only one who did?

My mom used to tell us we were Kurdish and that we had different customs and traditions. When I shared that with my friends, they were often surprised. I guess I was surprised by theirs, too. Every place has its own way of life, after all...

Still, as soon as I told people where I was from, they would immediately say, “Oh, so you're Kurdish,” as if it were something shameful, something to hide. So, I stopped telling anyone where I was from. I only said I’d lived in the same city since birth. No one needed to know I was Kurdish.

Because in society, “Kurdish” was painted as something ugly, dirty, backward. I was just a child in middle school—barely in my early teens—but I already knew I would try to escape from this. I was only postponing the confrontation I knew would eventually come.

Even my closest friends, unaware of the truth, just assumed I was Turkish. They were often shocked when I told them I wasn’t. But why should I have had to tell them in the first place? Would it have changed how they saw me? Affected our friendship?

The issue isn’t even about me being Kurdish.

It’s that I’ve always felt like I was too Turkish for the Kurds, and too Kurdish for the Turks.

I don’t fully belong anywhere. I can’t deny my roots, but I also can’t fully embrace or defend them. Being Kurdish always felt like something that belonged to my family, not to me. Eventually, I even stopped feeling like I belonged to my family.

I started dreaming of living alone, somewhere new— A place where no one knows who I am or where I come from. Where people accept me simply because I exist—because I am me.

Is that too much to ask?

I don’t know where I belong. My dreams and desires clash with my family’s beliefs. I just want a quiet life, where I decide what’s right and what’s wrong for myself.

I envy people who feel like they belong somewhere. I want to know what that sense of connection feels like. I used to feel it when I supported a band I loved. But even now, I get tired of things—of everything—too easily.

I wonder, will I ever feel like I truly belong? Maybe not to a place… But maybe to a person. Maybe that could be enough.