Nurturing Kurdish Roots Far From Home

I was born and raised in Sydney, Australia, and my son is now growing up here too. Neither of us has the experience of living day-to-day in Kurdistan. My own connection as a child was through a brief visit when I was just one – too young to form lasting memories of the land itself, though the stories and cultural echoes from that time have always been with me. Yet, despite this physical distance, Kurdistan and our Kurdish identity are an undeniable and cherished part of who we are.

Growing up, my experience of Kurdish culture was primarily within the warm embrace of my family. Kurdish was the language of our home. I tasted the distinct flavors of our food, celebrated Newroz, and was surrounded by our traditions. My parents were, and remain, deeply proud of their language and heritage, a pride they passed on to me. However, beyond those walls, Kurdish was largely absent from my wider world.

Now, as a father, I feel a strong desire to offer my son a more visible and integrated connection to his roots. It’s not about perfectly recreating something, but about being intentional in nurturing his understanding. It’s about planting seeds – a Kurdish word, a family story, a sense of pride. This desire is what fueled the creation of the “My First Kurdish Books” series. Undertaking the creation of seven books simultaneously, doing everything from the writing and design to setting up this website and learning about marketing, was a massive endeavor. My background as a data engineer, with its emphasis on organization and problem-solving, was instrumental. Without those skills, and the ability to manage a complex project, I doubt these books would exist today.

For those of us raising Kurdish children far from Kurdistan, this nurturing often happens in small, consistent efforts: the choice to read a bilingual story, the songs we share, the Kurdish words we use. It’s about consciously choosing to share the language my parents held so dear. Most of the work on these books was done during my son’s naptimes, or with him on my lap, his little hands often trying to “help” on the keyboard – a constant, adorable reminder of who this was all for.

Identity isn’t just inherited; it’s woven, thread by thread, often in more than one language. And while my son may grow up far from the mountains of Kurdistan, my hope is that he’ll always carry something of that rich heritage within him, a connection kept alive, in part, through sharing these words and stories together.