One by one, the faces of the Tekkal sisters appear on my screen – each of them from a different place: one sits on a bench in the sun, one is in a Berlin tram, another is on her lunch break during a workshop. Only Tülin is at home, slightly surprised: “Are you all out and about?”
Between appointments and responsibilities that each sister has in her personal life, a shared space now forms in which all sisters come together as a team. And so, with the participation of each individual, a conversation emerges that does not simply take place, but gradually comes together.
The conversation takes place in the context of their book Wut und Wärme: Wie wir mit Schwesternschaft Deutschland verändern, in which they tell their story – one that grew out of family and evolved into a form of sisterhood shaped by conviction.
Growing up in a Kurdish-Yazidi family of thirteen in Hanover, together with two more sisters, their four brothers and their parents, the five sisters Düzen, Tuna, Tuğba, Tezcan and Tülin Tekkal understood early on that they did not belong – at least not in the conventional sense.
“You knew as a child that you were different,” Tezcan recalls. “Not necessarily negatively, but it was always there.”
This “being different” was not a sudden realization, but a state. Something that ran through rules, rituals and unspoken boundaries. Something that manifested itself in everyday life – in things that were allowed and in those that were not. And above all: in the questions of others.
At the latest in school, a diffuse feeling became a concrete reality. While classmates chose between Protestant, Catholic or Islamic religious education, a different kind of educational process began for the sisters: self-definition. “You always had to explain who you are,” Tezcan recalls. The understanding of their own identity and the feeling of being part of a minority came above all through their grandmother. “She always told us stories – about persecution, about pain, about what our community experienced, and what was passed down through generations. And at the same time, she was something that many people could not quite classify,” Tülin recalls.
Yazidism, unknown to many, for others a projection surface for prejudice: the labels came early and directly: “infidels”, “devil worshippers”, “those without a land”. Words that became part of the sisters’ everyday school life long before terms such as discrimination or structural exclusion became part of their vocabulary. The experience of being part of a minority did not only arise through difference, but through friction. “We realized very quickly that we are Yazidis because we were attacked as Yazidis,” says Düzen.
But the tensions did not only run along societal lines. They also existed within the family – as a balancing act between protection and control, between care and restriction. The parents of the Tekkal sisters were strict. They say that themselves. But in this strictness there was more than discipline. It was shaped by experience, by flight, by the fear that identity could be lost. “We have experienced forced conversion in our immediate surroundings,” says Tuna. “It was always about knowing where you come from – that you remain who you are.”
What may appear as restriction from the outside was, for the parents, a protection mechanism. An attempt to preserve stability in a foreign society. Their mother, the sisters describe, was strict and clear – but has a heart as big as the world. She is a woman who commands respect without having to explain it.
And yet there were fractures. Especially along gender roles. “We had the great luck that we had a father who made no difference between boys and girls,“ Tuna recalls. „With my mother it was different at that time. There were situations in which people were sad when another girl was born.” At the same time, being a daughter was connected with traditional expectations. “If my brother met a friend of mine in the club, the first question was: where is Tezcan? Either I was lucky and was not there or I had to hide.” Tezcan recalls.
The sisters tried to sensitize their brothers to their idea of a self-determined life: “We said: either you stand by us and we do not lose the connection to each other or we go our way anyway – no matter how you see that.” Their brother Tekin was the one who eventually registered Tuğba, who had initially been forbidden to play football by their parents, at TSV Havelse.
The parents endured that their daughters developed their own ideas of how they wanted to live their lives – even if they received criticism from their surroundings for doing so. At the same time, they were there for others. “My parents took on a mediating role – they listened and found solutions for others. People knew them,” Tülin recalls. “You grow up with the awareness that you do not live only for yourself. Today I see a lot of them in us again.”
Even today, the topic of marriage is still present for the five, as this is the way for Yazidis to secure their survival. Since the constant question often creates more pressure than anticipation, Tülin found her way out through humor. When her mother recently told her that marriage would provide protection and that she would not be alone, she replied: “Mom, I’m not alone. You gave me ten siblings.”
In addition to the struggle of not being treated differently because of their gender and finding individual ways of dealing with the rules of Yazidism, there was another challenge for the sisters: finding themselves and their own path. Because in a family with eleven siblings, identity does not arise in a vacuum. It is positioning. It is reaction.
“You don’t automatically have your place,” “You have to find it,” says Tülin.
The large family becomes a social microcosm. A place where conflicts are inevitable, but also productive. A space in which every voice has to find its place – whether loud or quiet. “I have withdrawn a lot in my childhood, tried to deal with many things on my own,” says Tuğba. “I have only found my strength again when I started playing football, when I could let go, prove myself.” For Tuğba, sport became a way to assert herself.
Some of the sisters were more rebellious, others more harmony-seeking. “Outwardly, I wasn’t the quiet one. But at home, I was very harmony-seeking. I was always trying to figure out how to adapt,” Tuna describes her role – one in which she was less visible, but often balanced tensions.
When the sisters later realized as adults that they function as a team, these differences became their strength. “So spiritual as it may sound, but I believe we were prepared our whole lives for what we are doing today,” says Tezcan.
Today this dynamic is part of their work. As activists, entrepreneurs and founders of the international human rights organization HÁWAR.help, they have created a system based on these differences. Each of them brings something different – “Düzen is the visionary, Tuna our social butterfly, Tülin the creative, Tuğba with her strength from sports and myself with the strength to bring things into structures – that is how each has her role. If we were all the same, then I don’t think it would work,” says Tezcan, who keeps the day-to-day operations running and creates the structure that allows the others to act outwardly. “We are our biggest critics,” says Düzen. “But also our biggest supporters.”
2014 marked a turning point. The genocide against the Yazidis in northern Iraq brought the stories of their childhood back – suddenly no longer as stories, but as reality. Düzen traveled to Iraq to report in Shingal, the homeland of the Yazidis, on the atrocities against her community. From this journey, the film HÁWAR – My Journey to Genocide emerged in 2015. This project was like a domino effect for everything that followed, no longer carried by Düzen alone, but by all sisters working together as a team.
“I didn’t want anything to do with it for a long time,” says Tülin. “It was too much, too heavy.” But staying out of it was not really an option anymore. What united them was the decision to get involved, to become loud, to create structures that they themselves had once lacked. Their organization grew – at times to over 70 employees. Today they work at the intersection of human rights, education and political participation.
“It was not a choice,” says Düzen. “It was a decision we had to make.”
While they themselves had to negotiate their identity between tradition and modernity, Tülin now observes a new generation that is growing up with other, but not less complex questions. “Everyone should be individual,” she says. “But please with the same opinion.” The “Instagram paradox”, as she calls it: the desire for uniqueness in a system that rewards conformity. Yet she also sees potential. Young people are more political. But also under pressure to commit early. “This moment of doubt is being lost,” says Tülin. “I have the feeling that one has to go more into dialogue. Allow questions. Also allow that one can think or be unsure.”
And this is exactly where the sisters begin with their work: with GermanDream, Tülin goes into schools to speak with young people about democracy and values, with the Scoring Girls Tuğba creates a sense of community in football and with HÁWAR.help, all of the sisters implement development and education programs in Iraq, Syria and Germany. They create spaces in which questions are allowed and in which listening is more important than taking a position.
For the Tekkal sisters, it is now hardly possible to separate private and professional life, because their roles constantly overlap. “We act as sisters, but also as colleagues,” says Tülin. This creates not only very close relationships among them – it can also lead to friction. “The worst thing for us is when someone doesn’t live up to their potential – even among ourselves,” says Düzen. “That is something we can argue about.”
Starting as a minority in a society full of unresolved injustices, they have made themselves visible as sisters and have become active. The sisters agree: “We have turned pain, attacks and genocide into strength and built resilience without collapsing ourselves. That is why we wrote our book, because it was time to tell the whole story – not only the beautiful part, but also the painful one.” It is important for them to say:
“Sisterhood is not a given. It is a decision.”
All Photography by PAUL KÜSTER