I am a long-time admirer of Japanese cinema and so I was surprised to learn that a substantial Kurdish community lives in Saitama Prefecture, north of Tokyo, and that it has been the main subject of at least two films: a drama and a documentary.
So, when I was looking for a Japanese film to entertain myself over the weekend, I was staggered to discover My Small Land, a 2022 film about Kurdish refugees in Japan. Directed by Emma Kawawada, My Small Land depicts the life of a Kurdish family seeking asylum. The film focuses on the eldest daughter Sarya, who is optimistically making plans for her future in Tokyo to become a teacher. However, her family’s asylum application is rejected, turning their lives upside down. As her family’s situation evolves, they must face the harsh reality of life in Japan, struggling not only to make ends meet, but also to preserve their cultural identity.
After reading the summary of the film, I was so dubious that I searched for more information that would confirm that it was about Kurds. Admittedly, I never imagined that Kurds would seek asylum in Japan, given the distance and Japan’s immigration system. However, the film changed my mind and provided me with more insights about migrants and asylum seekers in Japan, one of my favorite countries.
Language and culture
My Small Land was profoundly moving and worth watching, as it allowed me to reflect on some of my innermost fears – and perhaps desires – about being a Kurd on screen. Yet I also have some of the portrayals of Kurdish culture did not fully satisfy me.
For instance, there are scenes that did not seem genuine, at least in my experience as a Kurd. First, I was puzzled as to why they were speaking Turkish. While the father was trying to teach Kurdish to the youngest child, the eldest child could not speak Kurdish and both used Turkish for their daily communication with each other. It seems that the director wanted to accentuate that Kurds in Turkey are not allowed to learn Kurdish in schools and families are forced to speak Turkish instead.
I am a Kurd from Iran. There, we are taught Farsi in schools, but many Kurds, Turks, Arabs and other linguistics minorities are at least bilingual. So, as a member of a generation that spoke Kurdish at home and learned Farsi in schools, I believe it is the parents’ choice to teach their children either their native language or the official one.
Proponents might argue that the academic performance of these children could suffer, but I prefer that new generations learn Kurdish at home and accept it as their first language. Language is far more important than, for instance, the allegedly Kurdish practice of praying before a meal, which the father in the film insisted on performing, even slapping his daughter for questioning it.
The father’s obsession with praying before each meal seemed more like an imitation of the Japanese practice of Itadakimasu – a Japanese phrase meant to show respect and gratitude before eating – rather than a part of Kurdish culture. Some people may still thank God for the meal, but not in the way it was shown in the film, and it is not a common practice. It is likely that this was overemphasized to show similarities between Japanese and Kurdish culture and consequently to arouse sympathy and a sense of closeness between cultures.
Despite this criticism, I must admit that, as a Kurd, I have concluded that the portrayal of Kurdish culture by non-Kurdish artists is sometimes fragmented and, therefore, superficial. They often highlight Kurdish dance, music, or the perpetual fight for freedom and hardship. The issue is not the display itself, but how it is presented, which often does not feel genuine to me as a Kurd. It appears as if these elements are shown solely as symbols of Kurdish culture rather than integral parts of the characters’ lives. While the intention may be to draw attention to the situation of Kurds, there is still room for improvement in not using cultural elements as mere superfluous decorations.
Envisioning cosmopolitan citizens
Regardless of these concerns, there are several reasons why My Small Land was so touching and relatable to me: some of the characters’ experiences are common among refugees or minorities with different backgrounds, while others are more specific to those from stateless nations.
One poignant moment was when Sarya is asked, “Where are you from?” This is a question that no one with a complicated background wishes to be asked, as it often leads to comments or gestures based on stereotypes or expectations. Depending on the situation, I, like Sarya, have answered differently. Some recognize my Kurdish accent, while others do not. In these cases, I introduce myself as Gilak, Armenian, or a Kurd from Iraq. Having lived in the Tehran for over 20 years, I have yet to become accustomed to questions about my accent, and it remains irritating.
For Sarya and her family, the answer to this question determines their rights and ability to plan for their future. Sarya does her best to fit in and be recognized, but she is still excluded. When she shouts, “Where do I belong?” she expresses the main concern of all people seeking recognition and a sense of belonging, rather than a feeling of exclusion or perhaps in-betweenness.
There is a meaningful dialogue between Sarya and her Japanese friend Sota, during which she explains why she lies about being German and tries to tell him where she is from:
“I am from Kurdistan, but I am sure you do not know where it is.”
“Kurdistan? I really do not know.”
“No one knows.”
“Have you ever been to the World Cup?”
“No, we cannot participate.”
“Isn’t your team good?”
“No, it’s not about that.”
This situation is familiar to people from stateless nations. When asked where you are from, you want to say, for instance, “Kurdistan” without further explanation, but it is not possible. As a member of a stateless nation, when you introduce yourself by your ethnicity’s name, you often have to specify your country, or you may not be recognized. This can be heartbreaking, especially for those who are seeking freedom.
Frankly, I would like to be optimistic and envision a world where you can be a cosmopolitan citizen, where barriers will be dismantled, and where people can be accepted because of their differences rather than be excluded.
Tala Rostami is a researcher and has an MA in sociology.
