By: Anonymous
The authors, who prefer to remain anonymous, are Germany-based students specializing in Languages and Cultures of the Islamicate World. Their academic interests include indigenous cultures of the MENA region, with a particular focus on Amazigh and Kurdish identities. Alongside their studies, the authors explore creative expression through filmmaking and music production, with one working in film and the other as a singer. Their work reflects a shared passion for blending personal experience, social engagement, and creative storytelling.
This blog entry is part of the DiaMiGo II Summer School, a German-Egyptian exchange project that explores changing perspectives on migration between Europe and the North African Mediterranean region. Building on a decolonial lens, the program examines concepts of integration, inclusion, and exclusion, and how these are shaped by power structures, histories of domination and shifting borders.
One of the most recurring themes during the Summer School was the agency of migrants within the structural limitations they face. Throughout the program, we heard how migrants navigate the legal, social, or cultural limits imposed on them, and how they find ways to act within and beyond those boundaries. Community-building was often mentioned as a key strategy: a way to create spaces of safety, shared experience, and belonging in the face of exclusion from mainstream society.
But what happens when the communities migrants turn to are not entirely free from the very pressures they sought to escape? In many public and academic debates, integration in Germany is often understood as a process between migrants and the “majority society. What tends to be overlooked is that exclusion and hierarchy can also exist within migrant communities themselves – shaped by language, ethnicity, religion, and long-standing nationalist or assimilationist ideologies.
Migrants who belong to ethnic or linguistic minorities – such as Kurds or Imazighen – have often been subjected to assimilationist pressure long before arriving in Germany. In their countries of origin, speaking their native language or asserting their cultural identity could result in repression, invisibility, or exclusion. The nature and intensity of these pressures differ by region, but the underlying dynamic remains the same: assimilation was often not a choice, but a necessity.
What we find particularly striking is how this pressure continues even after migration: In Germany, Kurdish and Amazigh languages are not banned. No one is officially required to speak Arabic, Turkish, or Persian. Yet many still do, even in private settings, even among their own communities. Migration was supposed to offer a break from these dynamics – but for many, the pressure continues in a different form. Why does this happen? Why do people continue to suppress parts of their identity when there is, formally speaking, no need to? What does it mean when assimilation continues not by force, but by habit, fear, or expectation?
These are the questions that led us to this blog. We wanted to explore how assimilation becomes internalized, how it crosses borders not only through policies or institutions, but through memory, inherited trauma, and everyday social dynamics. To do this, we spoke with two individuals of Kurdish and Amazigh background – both of them from the second generation. We chose to focus on this generation because their relationships to language, culture, and identity often reflect how their parents navigated assimilation. The way they speak – or don’t speak – their heritage language, the way they relate to their roots, offers insight into the long-term impact of past silencing. Their lives are shaped not only by their own choices, but by the cultural compromises made before they were even born. For reasons of privacy and anonymity, the names of the interviewees have been changed.
“I had to fight to say I’m Amazigh”
Identity as a struggle
When asked how they identify, both Numidia and Azad give clear answers: she sees herself as Amazigh, he identifies as Kurdish. But behind that clarity lies a longer process shaped by insecurity, silence, and social pressure.
“It was a fight for me to be able to call myself Amazigh,” she said. “I grew up not really knowing the difference between being Arab or Amazigh. That’s why I often just said I was Moroccan. But eventually that didn’t feel right anymore. I realized that when you use other identity labels, the Amazigh part just disappears. And the truth is: I am not Arab.”
Azad’s journey, on the other hand, was shaped by fear from the very beginning. Although he knew early on that he was Kurdish, he learned quickly that naming that identity came with consequences. As a child in elementary school, he once told a Turkish classmate that he was Kurdish. She immediately called him a terrorist. That moment shaped his understanding of how others perceived Kurdish identity – and it made him cautious. From then on, he often remained silent. His parents also urged him to be careful. They told him not to emphasize his Kurdish background too much and advised him to stay away from political conversations. He said: “I often passively let people think I might be Turkish.”
That silence, he told us, lasted through much of his childhood and adolescence. But eventually, the questions came back louder than before: “At some point, I had to ask myself again: Who am I, really? Am I German? Kurdish? Turkish? I remember the moment when I finally made it clear to people: I am Kurdish.”
Numidia, too, often felt the need to hide her Amazigh identity – not only in subtle ways, but quite deliberately. “There were moments when I really did hide my language and my culture,” she said. “It wasn’t just a vague feeling – I actually did it. And sometimes very consciously.” Growing up, she attended Arabic classes at the mosque, where most of the other children spoke only Moroccan Arabic (Darija). Speaking Tamazight in that context often drew ridicule. “Whenever I spoke [Tamazight], or even in general, it was kind of a thing – people would make fun of the language and say it sounded ugly.”
Over time, she began to internalize that shame. Even at school, when people asked her about her background, she would say she was Amazigh, but without going into detail. She didn’t always explain the difference between Arab and Amazigh identities – and when asked if she spoke Arabic, she often let the conversation end there. “I think I also felt ashamed to speak my language in front of white Germans, because I had internalized this idea that the language was ugly. Even Arabic speakers used to call it a peasant language.”
That shame affected her choices in everyday moments. When students shared music from their cultures in school, Numidia did not choose anything in Tarifit (an Amazigh dialect from the Rif Region). “I would choose something Arabic rather than something in Tarifit […] because I didn’t feel comfortable with it. Or maybe it was that shame thing again.”
Another report by the Economic Research Forum indicates that internal migration, in contrast, is seldom driven by educational reasons. Instead, Egyptian women primarily relocate to be with family and for marriage, and men relocate particularly for employment reasons. Despite education not being the primary motive for internal migration, it can, however, still impact educational opportunities for Egyptian children. Internal migration patterns in Egypt predominantly involve movement from rural to urban areas. The demographic most involved are adults. Notably, the children of individuals involved in rural-to-urban migration exhibit prolonged school attendance and a higher likelihood of completing secondary or advanced education compared to the children of those who stay in rural areas.
“My parents sent me to Turkish class”
Language as a site of inherited adaptation
Azad grew up speaking three languages: German in kindergarten and at school, Kurdish (Kurmancî) at home – and Turkish. In primary school, his parents even enrolled him in extra Turkish classes. It was important to them that their children learn Turkish – even in Germany, where it wasn’t strictly necessary. When asked why he thinks that was so, Azad explained: “One argument they always made, of course, was that […] every additional language brings a certain benefit. I also vaguely remember them saying a few times that if I ever traveled alone in Turkey, it would definitely be helpful to speak Turkish. For various reasons. Even if I were in Kurdish areas and could get by in Kurdish, things would stop when it comes to official or bureaucratic matters. For that, I’d need Turkish. I think that might have been part of their reasoning as well.”
Azad’s parents themselves didn’t grow up speaking Turkish. They spoke Kurdish and only began learning Turkish later in life, after moving to bigger cities. It wasn’t a language they learned by choice, but one they needed to survive in a country that denied their own language any recognition. Precisely because of that experience, they wanted things to be easier for their children. Even though they were now living in Germany, they insisted that Azad learned Turkish, in case he ever went to Turkey alone. There, especially in official or bureaucratic contexts, speaking Kurdish wouldn’t be enough.
At the same time, their decision was also shaped by the migrant context in Germany itself. Within the Turkish-speaking diaspora, where Kurds are often marginalized or invisibilized, knowing Turkish can become a form of protection – a way not to stand out, not to be excluded. Passing on the dominant language, even within exile, became a strategy to help Azad navigate those unspoken boundaries.
Similar to Azad, the official language of her parents’ country of origin still plays a certain role in Numidia’s life – even if it’s not a dominant one. She too attended Arabic lessons when she was a child, and at home, her parents would occasionally speak Arabic when they didn’t want the children to understand. Growing up, Arabic was not a language of connection for Numidia. Instead, it existed on the margins – as something distant, coded, and heavily charged. She explained: “I know, for example, that for my mother, Arabic is a very, very, very burdened language. For one thing, she doesn’t speak it very well, and I think there’s a lot of shame that comes with that. And she told me that she was beaten in school for speaking Arabic poorly. So, for her, I think, it’s a very, very burdened language.” This burden didn’t end with her mother. Even though Numidia was not directly subjected to violence, the emotional weight of the language was passed on. Arabic remained part of her environment but never became hers.
“Assimilation doesn’t stop here – it continues in the diaspora”
Adaptation within the migrant community
For Azad, adapting to the Turkish-dominated migrant community in Germany often felt like the more pragmatic choice – simply to avoid constant explanations or confrontations. “It’s just easier to say ‘Yeah, go ahead, call me Turkish,’”he said.
In addition, Azad points out that repressive structures rooted in Turkish nationalism persist within the diaspora. He mentions mandatory patriotic rituals in Turkish language classes and the fear of speaking openly about Kurdish identity due to potential consequences when re-entering Turkey. He said: “Assimilation doesn’t stop here – it continues in the diaspora.”
Even in personal relationships, the topic is often avoided. Azad describes a friendship with a Turkish man where his Kurdish background is never explicitly discussed, even though Azad had made his Kurdish identity clear early on. "We never talk about politics – not about what the Turkish state is doing, not about Rojava, not about Afrin. Nothing. It’s like an unspoken boundary. And even though he’s not a political person in general, it still feels strange that there’s never even a ‘Hey, how are you doing as a Kurd with everything the Turkish state is doing right now?’”
Interestingly, Numidia also felt the pressure to adapt to Turkish-dominated migrant circles. Growing up in a small town, she had little contact with other Amazigh. The few Moroccan families in her area spoke only Arabic, and most of the other migrant youth were of Turkish or Kurdish background. “I especially adapted to the Turks,” she recalls. “I wouldn’t do that now.” She learned a lot of Turkish, listened to Turkish music, and followed the social codes of her Turkish friends – while her own cultural background was rarely reflected. Even her Kurdish friends, she remembers, had largely assimilated into Turkish norms. But this adaptation was one-sided. Amazigh or Kurdish music, for example, was rarely shared or appreciated – Turkish culture dominated, while other identities remained in the background. Numidia’s heritage wasn’t explicitly rejected, but it wasn’t truly seen either.
Today, Numidia still moves primarily in migrant-dominated spaces – and by choice. It’s where she feels most at home. But the way she navigates these spaces has changed. She no longer adapts in the same way she did as a teenager. What might look like adaptation now often comes from a place of genuine interest. She enjoys learning bits of other people’s languages – picking up phrases from Syrian or Vietnamese friends, asking about special expressions or everyday words. “I think it’s also a way of showing respect for their background – and simply because I find it beautiful to share those things with each other.” But even in these exchanges, she notices a recurring pattern: the flow of interest is often one-directional. She learns a lot from others – but rarely does that curiosity come back toward her background. “I just have more of a feeling for their realities than they have for mine.”
“Above all, I would simply wish for genuine interest”
Wishes and hope
When asked what he wishes for from the German majority society and other migrant communities, Azad replies: “That people finally understand that we exist.” He longs for recognition – not just symbolically, but in everyday life. He’s tired of constantly being mistaken for Turkish or Arab and wants to be taken seriously in his Kurdish identity. This confusion, he says, is more than just annoying – it's a symptom of a deeper invisibility. “I just don’t want to be constantly associated with Turkish or Arab things anymore – like I’m somehow supposed to be familiar with them.”
What troubles him most is the double standard he sees in many social and political spaces: “When it comes to Kurds, solidarity often just stops.” From the German state, Azad calls for stronger institutional support and protection of the Kurdish language. Compared to other languages, he says, Kurdish continues to receive far too little structural recognition.
Numidia, on the other hand, no longer holds any expectations of the German state. Her experiences with racism and the normalization of right-wing discourse have eroded her trust. “I’ve been disappointed so many times in my life that I can’t even formulate any wishes or expectations anymore.”
Within migrant communities, she wishes for greater awareness and nuance. “Above all, I would simply wish for genuine interest.” She wishes that it would be recognized that not all migrants share the same realities. Power structures and hegemonies from the countries of origin don’t disappear upon arrival in Germany; they continue to shape diaspora spaces as well. “We may all be racialized as migrants, but we carry different histories, experiences, and layers of marginalization with us.”
Author’s Bio:
The authors, who prefer to remain anonymous, are Germany-based students specializing in Languages and Cultures of the Islamicate World. Their academic interests include indigenous cultures of the MENA region, with a particular focus on Amazigh and Kurdish identities. Alongside their studies, the authors explore creative expression through filmmaking and music production, with one working in film and the other as a singer. Their work reflects a shared passion for blending personal experience, social engagement, and creative storytelling.
