By: Berivan Tamsen

My grandfather begged my father not to name me Berivan -  a name so undeniably Kurdish that in 1930 the Turkish government banned it, along with hundreds of other Kurdish children’s names. For decades, the Turkish constitution recognized only non-Muslims as minorities. Muslim Kurds, therefore, did not legally constitute a distinct ethnoreligious group and were not granted unique cultural rights to their own language or names. For this reason, in the eyes of my mother’s father, the decision to name me Berivan would brand me from birth as a rebel of the Turkish state.  

Despite his pleas, my father held firm.  “If it is a girl,” he told my mom, “please, I only want to name her Berivan.”  My father, a man who grew up in a mud hut in the mountains of Hakkari and now finds himself as a pathologist in Montreal, Canada, committed his baby girl to this symbolic act of freedom - a heroic Kurdish name.

My mother’s family is ethnically Turkish. While her family was open-minded enough to welcome a Kurdish man as her husband, they harbored concerns about the stigma an overtly Kurdish name like Berivan might bear upon their granddaughter. As a young child, growing up in my family’s loving and supportive Turkish community in Montreal, I was sheltered from the weight that my Kurdish name carried. It was only later, after we moved away and I was old enough to detect the suspicious tone of some Turkish people that my parents would encounter, that I became increasingly aware of my contentious Kurdish identity marker. 

“Berivan, hmm, that’s an interesting name. I haven’t heard that one before. Where did you get that from?” a Turkish man once asked.

“I am Kurdish”, my dad replied confidently.

“What do you mean? Aren’t we all Turkish?” 

“Oh,” I would think in my head, “I see where this is going.”

As the heated argument over Kurdishness versus Turkishness would ensue, my mother would drag my father into the car to head home. I would quietly scurry behind them and slip into the backseat, prepared for them to heatedly rehash the episode during our ride. When we would finally arrive home, I beelined for my room. I didn’t want to talk about it again. The conversation was always the same and while they meant well, it didn’t leave me feeling any better after the fact. I was frustrated, confused, and sad. Our Turkish family and friends in Montreal loved us so much. Why don’t these Turkish people love us too? We all speak Turkish and our mannerisms are the same. Because my dad is Kurdish does that mean I can’t be Turkish too?

Up until this point, I had been a bystander in these conversations, observing as my father would proudly assume ownership of the contentions that would ensue. However, when I left the safety of my parents’ guardianship for college, I fully understood what it meant to be Berivan. I’ll never forget an episode with my American friend’s Turkish boyfriend (at the time) when I visited her abroad in Milan. Prior to arriving, I had an inkling something might go awry. In passing, she mentioned that when she told her boyfriend that Berivan, her Turkish childhood girlfriend  would be visiting, he said, “She’s not Turkish. She’s Kurdish.”  Thinking that his response wasn't completely inaccurate and deciding to assume the best, I let it go.  Then, when the big day arrived to meet her new Turkish boyfriend, I realized that my initial gut instinct had been spot on. 

“So, your name is Berivan?”, he asked with a smug look on his face.

“Yes,” I replied hesitantly (I’ve seen that look before). 

“You’re not Turkish. You’re Kurdish,” he replied. 

“Yes, my father is Kurdish but my mother is Turkish.” I said nervously, now acutely aware of where he wanted to take this conversation.

“Well, just know that your people will never have a country. You will never have a homeland,” he remarked unabashedly. 

At that moment, I blacked out for a few seconds before excusing myself from the table. I hurried outside so he couldn't see me hysterically crying. There was no recovery in sight, and my friends who were also visiting had to take me home. Looking back on the situation, being the more confident person I am now, I feel ashamed for running away. Why didn’t I stand up for myself? For my father and his culture? Years of arguments that sprung from the Kurdish identity my name bears had pushed me to bury my feelings in the hope that it would go away and I could finally belong. I speak Turkish, my parents speak Turkish at home, I'm very close to my mother’s family who is Turkish.  Why does it feel like I have to choose one identity over another? I love my Turkish friends and family but I also love and respect my father’s heritage. It saddens me that my father openly talks about the guilt he harbors for deciding to name me Berivan because of situations like this that have left me feeling hurt and shunned from a community he knows I hold dear to my heart. 

I am glad he named me Berivan and I am even more proud that despite the many times we had contemplated it, we never decided to change it. In Kurdish, Berivan means “milkmaid”, and it is also a type of mountain flower. She is a daydreamer who seeks one true love and is very sensitive but raw at the same time, seeing nature with a soulful mind. The legacy of Berivan, the mountains of her homeland, and her Kurdish heritage are given a voice through me. Berivan is the namesake I have been given to keep the story of my father and his Kurdish culture alive. It is a badge of honor that I am proud to wear alongside the Turkish Red Crescent that symbolizes the heritage of my mother, her family, and close friends whose love has made me the Berivan I am today.