The Cold War, battered and deep-fried, played out in Harlem and Flatbush. Afghans, their clothes splattered with cooking oil, became soldiers of capitalism and the American Dream. I watched the numbers of Afghans in the country multiply as more and more families fled the war and resettled in New York and northern Virginia and San Francisco.

The year we lived in Istanbul, Mom asked me if I wanted to attend a Kurdish Nowruz celebration. I couldn’t resist the chance to revisit a holiday of my childhood. We watched heavy-bosomed grandmothers stand shoulder to shoulder in white dresses dotted with colorful pom-poms, kicking their feet in synchrony. I saw men leap over fires, cheered on by brothers and friends. A grandfather sang a ballad, his fingers plucking the strings of a tanbur.

It reminded me so much of home that I closed my eyes and listened, exchanging the Kurdish songs for ones stored in my heart. I felt the ground pulse with vibrations from the hundreds of people gathered to welcome a new year.

But when I opened my eyes, I saw a squadron of helmeted Turkish police officers closing in. I grabbed Mom’s hand, and she followed my gaze. Batons struck the backs of silver-haired men and women wearing embroidered vests, and shrieks filled my ears as we ducked into a narrow alley, knocking over a stand of copper vases on our way. We did not speak until we were in the safety of a taxi on the other side of the neighborhood.

The government was seeking to stamp out Kurdish traditions, and Mom was furious at herself that she hadn’t foreseen the crackdown. No one, though, had anticipated the Turkish reaction to the Nowruz celebration. We both steered clear of nostalgia after that. I told myself it would get easier with time.

But I am still drawn to my people. I have watched from afar as the country sank into civil war and then resurfaced with a new, fundamentalist face. I saw pictures of men with rockets on their shoulders and imagined the roofs falling, the barefoot survivors running toward a border. My ears perk up when I hear my mother tongue. I have dug up old songs on the internet and had small conversations with myself in Dari in the privacy of my apartment.

I look up at the apartment buildings on this block and wonder how many windows belong to people who used to be someone else too. Taking a seat on the low cement wall in front of one building, I look at the six-story structure across the street. Its glass-enclosed lobby holds two black armchairs and an artificial ficus plant.

The rain continues to come down gently while I wait.

My phone rings. If I answer Mom’s call, I will lose my nerve. I text her that I’m still at work and return the phone to my pocket.