In a fluorescently lit room I didn’t know existed, tucked in the corner of a distant relatives house, I found a wall of photographs, half askew. Some were from practically a century ago; others tacky color shots of the newest generation that’s crawling about even as the family’s eldest settles deeper into their armchairs. There’s a section for wedding pictures; a row of baby photos; an area of family pictures where everyone looks younger and happier.

Pictured here is the original of a photo I first saw years ago as a kid, continents away on the menu of my aunt’s Kurdish restaurant in St. Paul, which remains the only Kurdish restaurant in the U.S.

Here, in age-blurred black and white, my grandfather is unrecognizable as a child with thick black hair. He and his sister give no hint of the seven younger siblings on the way. Seated is their father, Abdul Karim, and standing is my great-grandmother, Hepsa Han, who my great-aunt Saadia says I resemble.