When I was studying IT at university, I was always looking for a way to earn a living without being physically present at a workplace. I tried typing jobs and online projects, but none of them were exactly what I was looking for. By sheer chance, I came across a YouTube video of an American woman trading gold on the global market. That’s when I first learned about online trading, the Forex market, and buying and selling in Forex and cryptocurrency. My passion for learning, pursuing, and turning my dream into reality grew every day. Gradually, I decided to enroll in online and in-person courses, which at the time were only offered in Tehran.
After a few months of online training, an in-person seminar was scheduled in Tehran. In February 2013 (Bahman 1391), I traveled from Kurdistan to Tehran to attend a seminar on financial markets. I had been to Tehran once or twice before with my father and brother, but this was the first time I was traveling alone.
Throughout the entire journey, the poverty of my land and people, and the inequality compared to the central regions of the country, were strikingly evident. From the transportation system to the icy, snow-covered, and potholed roads, which were completely unlit at night, it was all visible. From Zanjan onward, the road to Tehran became a proper highway with adequate lighting for driving.
Seeing the smoke and noise from the factories and industrial plants along the way from inside the bus, I couldn’t help but feel sorrow for all the educated and talented young Kurds who risk their lives every day to make a living, only to be shot by border guards for the crime of kulbari (carrying goods across the border).
The sheer size of Tehran’s Azadi Terminal, the crowd of passengers, the bustling atmosphere, and the large number of buses intensified my anxiety about traveling alone. It was nothing like the small terminal in my hometown, which had only four buses and two or three ticket booths. At the same time, the terminal’s well-planned surroundings, cleanliness, food stalls, and basic passenger amenities were entirely new to me, and in a way, heightened my feeling of being out of place.
Seeing the green spaces, trees, and luxurious high-rises of Ajodanieh made my own city feel parched and small by comparison. It was as if my city and region didn’t even belong to this country.
From the terminal, the metro provided access to all corners of Tehran. When I got off and walked the short remaining distance to the seminar venue in north Tehran’s Ajodanieh neighborhood, it felt like I had stepped into another world. It was as if my city and region didn’t even belong to this country. In my hometown, apartments rarely exceeded five floors. Even though my city has plenty of greenery and a pleasant climate, seeing all the green spaces, trees, and luxurious high-rises of Ajodanieh made my own city feel parched and small by comparison.
Nothing in Tehran can be compared to smaller cities in terms of welfare, education, or healthcare. The best of everything is in Tehran: the top universities, the most advanced educational facilities, and the best hospitals. You’d see people who had come with patients, spreading mats near their cars to rest—clearly they had come from far away.
There are dozens of examples of inequality, often measured by “poverty indices in Iran,” “educational facilities,” “healthcare access,” and other indicators. These are occasionally published by Tehran-based journals and research organizations.
In Iran, a Kurd cannot become president. According to the constitution of the Islamic Republic, only a Twelver Shia who passes the screening of the Guardian Council and the Supreme Leader can become a presidential candidate. Therefore, a Sunni or Yarsani Kurd is legally barred from running for president.
During the reform era, the late Mohandes (Engineer) Adab, who served several terms in the Iranian parliament representing the people of Sanandaj, spoke about a Supreme National Security Council directive concerning Kurds. According to this directive, a Kurd could not become a minister, deputy minister, speaker of parliament, member of the parliamentary presidium, or head of national organizations. His remarks were covered in newspapers and also published in the weekly Sirwan in Sanandaj.
When I entered the (seminar) classroom, several participants were already seated. The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, slightly sloped, around the instructor’s podium and facing the projector. As more people arrived, I became increasingly certain that I was the only woman in the room. After the instructor came in and introduced himself, he tried to create a friendly atmosphere by asking everyone to introduce themselves. When it was my turn—the only woman present—he asked my name, and I replied, “Kezhvan.” He asked me about its origin and I said it’s a Kurdish name meaning keeper of the mountain.
Out of nowhere, one of the boys in the class, Amir, turned his head in surprise and asked, “Do Kurds even know anything about financial markets?” The room became heavy with tension. All the old, deeply rooted traumas in my mind and soul were reflected in the intensity of my gaze. Shocked and angry, I paused for a moment before replying, “Why wouldn’t we know?” Amir quickly said, “I apologize, I meant no disrespect!!”
The first thought that came to my mind was Amir’s racist attitude, and I wondered if he opposed having a Kurdish girl in the seminar. But then I told myself: Why would someone truly against my presence feel embarrassed or compelled to apologize because of the tension in the room?
After a few seconds, he started speaking almost involuntarily: “My father was a civil engineer, and sometimes I went with him to work. Once, a tall, broad-shouldered man with calloused hands and a kind face, wearing Kurdish pants, came up to us and offered me and my father some rice cookies. I took a few without permission. In a sweet, broken Persian accent, he said, ‘Take more—it’s a souvenir from our town. Eat, nosh-e jan.’ My father told me his name was Diako. He was from Kermanshah and had been working with us for many years. He said Diako was an honest and dedicated foreman, and everyone liked him.”
Amir tried to lighten the mood and said, “Before I met Amou (uncle) Diako, the only thing I knew about Kurds was that they led a nomadic life in the mountains along Iran’s western border.”
In my angry mind, I told him, “Kurds weren’t the ones living on the border; it was the borders of Iran that retreated so far that they leaned on the Kurds.” Even after seeing Amir’s rudeness, I still didn’t dare say this out loud. There were many reasons for my silence: my lack of confidence as the only woman in the class, as the only Kurdish speaker present, and the long-standing oppressive power and audacity of the Persians in Kurdish regions.
Amir said that, as he grew older, he would go with his mother to the local fruit and vegetable market. Most of the sellers there wore clothes similar to Amou Diako and spoke in the same accent. Every time he visited, he would think of Amou Diako and miss his rice cookies.
Hearing Amir’s words quickly silenced all the unfair judgments I had held. But this time, a profound sadness replaced the anger and frustration I felt before.
I could hear the instructor’s voice continuing to speak about Kurds after Amir, but honestly, the clamor in my mind kept me from absorbing a single word of his praise.
Why were we all unconsciously trying to maintain the camaraderie in the class? Who was responsible for this heavy, racist gaze and all the ethnic discrimination?
It seemed that we were all inadvertent culprits in the situation—not by our own choice, but under the weight of systemic pressure. The greatest culprit, however, was the regime. Its centralization, disregard for peripheral regions, and neglect of the basic rights of my ethnic minority class had created these conditions.
I think the main reason for this discrimination is the lack of awareness among people in the capital about the country’s other ethnic groups. The fact that non-Persian languages and cultures have no place in education, universities, or the media—and the failure to recognize my basic rights, first as a Kurdish speaker and then as a woman—was what made me so angry and what had given Amir this false sense of entitlement.
The only way to eliminate this sense of superiority is to establish a law guaranteeing equality for all ethnic groups and nationalities in Iran. This would mean equal rights and opportunities—including access to education and welfare—recognition of all languages and cultures, and the decentralization of power.
All of this happened within the first ten minutes of the course. Although it wasn’t the first time I had experienced such behavior in society, recalling this bitter memory after years of working as a trader in financial markets still weighs heavily on me.
I had experienced similar behavior during my university years in Urmia: from discrimination by some professors between Shia and Sunni students, to classes where, because the instructor was an Azeri speaker, we had to follow the lecture in Azeri even though we didn’t know the language. Or when I applied for a teaching position in my hometown’s education department, despite passing the written exam, because during the Gozinesh (selection, a discriminatory interview law), I couldn’t answer a question about the last Friday Prayer sermon in my city, I was disqualified. They hired a Shia woman from an Azeri-speaking city.
The financial markets seminar was held over two days. Due to the long journey and fatigue, I decided to stay in Tehran for an additional two days to rest and visit some sights. I explored places like the Tabia’at (Nature) Bridge and Chitgar Lake; the city’s urban planning was captivating. Yet feelings of estrangement and homesickness called me home to Kurdistan.