“We don’t have to wait for it to be called Assyria in order to return… and it will never be called Assyria if we don’t.” - Dilan Adamat
For many Assyrians in the diaspora, the homeland exists somewhere between memory and imagination. It lives in stories from our parents, church hymns, and grainy photos of villages we’ve never walked. But for some, that connection becomes something more, a decision to return, invest, or rebuild.
Recently, I spoke with several Assyrians connected to the homeland in different ways. Some never left. Some returned after decades abroad. Others are working to build bridges between the diaspora and those still on the ground. Their stories reveal something important: there is no single Assyrian experience, but there is a shared commitment to survival and continuity.
While diaspora conversations often centre on “return”, it’s easy to forget that millions of Assyrians never had the option to leave. They stayed through war, sanctions, displacement, and political instability. For them, the homeland isn’t an idea — it’s daily reality.
Many describe a life shaped by uncertainty but grounded in identity. Economic hardship remains one of the most consistent struggles. Unpaid salaries, lack of infrastructure, and limited opportunities push younger generations to consider emigration. And yet, many still choose to remain. Why?
Because leaving doesn’t just mean moving countries and gaining opportunities — it can mean losing language, land, and continuity. For some, staying is an act of quiet resistance. A refusal to disappear.
Despite the difficulties, there is pride. Pride in maintaining churches, preserving dialects, and keeping communities alive in the places where Assyrian civilisation began.
Then there are those who leave and come back.
For returnees, the journey is rarely simple. Many arrive with idealism shaped by diaspora longing, only to encounter a complex reality: bureaucracy, limited jobs, political fragmentation, and cultural differences between diaspora Assyrians and locals.
But alongside these challenges comes something else — clarity.
Several returnees describe a powerful shift in perspective. Living in the homeland transforms identity from something symbolic into something tangible. Faith, language, and history stop being abstract concepts and become part of everyday life.
For some, return is permanent. For others, it becomes cyclical, moving between diaspora and homeland, building ties in both worlds.
Either way, one thing becomes clear, Assyria stops being a dream. It becomes real and for many Assyrians, the homeland is not an abstract idea, it is simply home.
Odisho (60), a lifelong resident of Duhok, describes a life that may surprise those imagining constant instability. When asked what daily life looks like, he answered plainly:
“Daily life for me as an Assyrian here is peaceful and normal. Everything is okay, and we live like everyone else in the city.”
That sense of normality appears repeatedly across conversations. Routine. Family. Work. Community. Yet beneath the calm, real pressures remain, especially economic ones.
Odisho spoke openly about one of his biggest struggles:
“Currently, one of the biggest challenges I face is not being paid my monthly salary on time, which creates financial pressure for me and my family.”
His concerns are not rooted in fear, but in long-term sustainability. Representation, equality, and opportunity remain unresolved questions. When asked about the future of Assyrians in Iraq, he reflected:
“My biggest concern for Assyrians in Iraq is the lack of equality… this limited representation makes our future uncertain.”
And yet, despite this uncertainty, he remains grounded in identity and belonging:
“Being Assyrian means taking pride in my history and preserving my language and culture while living peacefully in Iraq.”
Dani (39), who also lives in Duhok, describes a life that is both simple and deeply rooted.
When asked what being Assyrian means to him today, he answered without hesitation: “It is a privilege to be Christian and Assyrian, and I am proud of that.”
For Dani, pride is inseparable from memory. He speaks of his mother’s side from Alqosh with reverence, recalling the town’s courage during the Simele Massacre and its long history of protecting Assyrians. His perspective reflects a recurring theme among many who responded — identity not as nostalgia, but as inheritance.
For others, Assyrian identity is expressed not just through history, but through daily life and cultural continuity.
Diana (41), who has lived in Duhok since 2014, shared a glimpse into that lived reality. Her days revolve around work, family, and community, but culture remains deeply embedded in routine. She described the ways traditions stay alive:
“We try to keep our Assyrian traditions alive. For example we wear (Khomala), the traditional Assyrian clothes, at wedding parties. At home, we speak our language.”
Even in a modern city environment, identity is not disappearing — it is adapting. She also spoke about safety, a topic often misunderstood in the diaspora:
“Yes I do feel safe… the city is quiet, there is a police presence, and I feel comfortable walking outside even in the evening.”
Her words reflect a theme echoed by others: stability exists, but it is not the whole story.
Yet even among those who feel stable today, there is an undercurrent of realism. Ramsin (29), who also lives in Duhok, described the subtle emotional weight of being a minority in your own homeland.
“I have all the freedoms that other people here have,” he said, before adding, “but I don’t feel like I’m a true member of society. I feel like a guest wherever I go.”
Another one of the clearest reflections of this layered reality comes from Sinhareeb (52), who has lived in Duhok since 2014.
“We go to work, send our children to school, attend church… and try to live with dignity like any other community,”
he explains, before adding that beneath this normality, “life becomes more about survival and preservation than progress.”
Despite this, his sense of identity remains firm:
“Being Assyrian means authenticity, courage, and faith.”
When asked about return, his answer is measured and realistic:
“There is no simple answer… Our survival does not depend only on geography, but on conscious commitment.”
Despite concerns, very few spoke about leaving as an easy solution. Many responses carried an almost stubborn attachment to the homeland — a refusal to abandon it, even when opportunities elsewhere might offer more comfort.
While many conversations in the diaspora focus on return, voices within the homeland often highlight something else — resilience.
Matti (32) , who has lived in Iraq his entire life, represents a generation that never left but continues to endure the same structural challenges. Despite hardships, his outlook is grounded in endurance rather than despair. At one point he reflected simply:
“I think here Assyrians living in Iraq, we are very resilient. Whatever happens, we have a solution for it.”
That mindset is perhaps one of the most defining traits shared across all the interviews.
Not blind optimism. Not denial of hardship. But a refusal to disappear.
A common thread across all responses is honesty. No one described life as easy, let's face reality, it isn't. Economic instability, political marginalisation, and uncertainty remain constant undercurrents. Yet what stands out is not why people leave — but why many stay.
Family. Language. Church. Land. Memory.
And something harder to define: rootedness. Even when speaking about diaspora Assyrians considering return, Odisho offered a balanced perspective:
“Coming back is not easy. There are challenges… but living here also allows them to reconnect with their roots, family, and our Assyrian community.”
This duality — difficulty paired with meaning — sits at the heart of the homeland experience.
While many Assyrians have never left, a new generation is beginning to reimagine the relationship between diaspora and homeland.
This is where initiatives like The Return, founded by Dilan Adamat, enter the picture, not as a romantic vision, but as a practical effort to reshape how Assyrians think about presence. Rather than framing return as a sacrifice or failure, the project challenges deeply ingrained stigma.
As Dilan explains, one of the goals is simple but powerful:
“Returning should not be seen as failure in western society — it should be celebrated and seen as commitment.”
He has also pointed out how narratives shift depending on geography. Speaking about economic struggles in the West, he says:
“If housing shortages and slow wage growth were happening in Iraq people would be complaining and saying look how broken the country is, how can you live there… but when it happens in the West it’s seen as normal."
At its core, The Return is a long-term project focused on integration, investment, and soft power — from assisting with land purchases to creating pathways for employment and connection.
One of its most ambitious ideas is The Hub, a future space designed to provide housing and work opportunities specifically for returnees, a physical anchor for rebuilding presence.
But perhaps the most confronting idea Dilan raises is this:
“We don’t have to wait for it to be called Assyria in order to return… and it will never be called Assyria if we don’t.”
It is a statement that reframes the entire debate — shifting the focus from conditions to responsibility.
What becomes clear when listening to these stories is that Assyrian connection to the homeland exists on a spectrum.
At one end are those who never left, carrying the weight of survival on their shoulders. At the other are diaspora Assyrians searching for ways to reconnect after generations abroad.
In between are people like Dilan and many others working to close that gap.
This spectrum matters because it challenges a common but unhelpful narrative — that authenticity is measured by geography. The reality is far more complex. Staying, returning, visiting, investing, and advocating are all different expressions of the same instinct: to ensure Assyrians remain a living people, not just a historical one.
It would be easy to frame the Assyrian story only through hardship. The struggles are real and ongoing. But focusing solely on decline ignores something equally real, the growing number of Assyrians actively trying to shape a different future.
From return initiatives and grassroots investment to cultural tourism and digital organising, a new kind of engagement is emerging. One that doesn’t rely on nostalgia alone, but on action.
Efforts like The-Return.org represent more than individual ambition. They reflect a broader shift in mindset among younger Assyrians who no longer see the homeland as unreachable, but as something that can be engaged with in practical, modern ways.
Not everyone will return permanently. Not everyone can. But more people are beginning to ask a different question:
If we can’t all go back, how can we still move forward together?
The future of the Assyrian homeland will not be shaped by one path alone. It will be shaped by those who stay, those who return, and those who build bridges between the two.
What matters most is not uniformity, but momentum.
Every village that remains inhabited, every young Assyrian who learns the language, every initiative that reconnects diaspora communities to their roots, these are not small things. They are acts of continuity.
And continuity, for a people who have survived as long as we have, is everything.
So whether you are visiting, returning, investing, or have never left —
Atra lives within all of us.
