The Kurdish Singer | المغنية الكردية
"She sings forbidden songs of Kurdistan in exile. He's the record producer who wants to share her voice with the world. Their collaboration heals old wounds."
The Kurdish Singer
المغنية الكردية
My songs were illegal in my homeland.
Now I sing them in Stockholm, to exiles who remember and children who've never seen Kurdistan.
Erik wants to record them.
I'm Dilan.
Forty-seven, Kurdish, refugee for twenty years. I was a teacher before. Now I sing our stories.
Erik produces world music.
He's fifty.
Swedish, idealistic, believes music changes things. He heard me at a cultural festival.
"Your voice is extraordinary."
"It carries my people. That's the only reason it matters."
He wants to produce an album.
Authentic, respectful. He doesn't just want the sounds—he wants the meaning.
"Why do you care?" I ask.
"Because stories deserve to survive. Especially the ones oppressors try to erase."
We work together for months.
Recording, translating, explaining. He learns more than melodies—he learns pain.
"This song is about—"
"About my brother. They killed him for speaking Kurdish."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be witness."
"Does it ever get easier?"
"The loss?"
"The carrying. All this grief in your voice."
"The voice is how I survive. Carrying becomes living."
"You're remarkable."
"I'm surviving. There's a difference."
"Is there? Most people collapse under less."
"Most people don't have songs to sing."
The first kiss is in the recording studio.
Between takes, between breaths. He tastes like possibility.
"Astaghfirullah," I breathe.
"Is this wrong?"
"Nothing this gentle can be wrong."
"I want more than an album."
"What do you want?"
"To hear you sing every day. Not professionally. Just... for me."
"That's very demanding."
"I'll make it worth your while."
He undresses me in his apartment.
My Kurdish robes falling away, revealing the woman beneath the singer.
"Beautiful."
"Erik—"
"Let me accompany you differently."
We make love while Kurdish plays softly.
My voice surrounding us, his hands learning new rhythms.
"Ya delal—my love—"
"Right there?"
"Erê—yes—always—"
Two years later
The album won awards.
International attention on Kurdish stories. My people are heard now.
"Happy?" Erik asks.
"My brother would be proud."
"So am I."
Alhamdulillah.
For songs that survive.
For producers who listen.
For exiles who find home.
The End.