Kerem Durdag came to the United States at eighteen with two hundred dollars in his pocket and a dream that felt impossible. Turkish/Pakistani and raised under dictatorship, he arrived at a Catholic Benedictine university in Minnesota as a Muslim immigrant who had never heard of the state before landing there.
What happened next helped to shape the trajectory of Kerem’s path. Monks saw something in him. They offered grace when the institution offered xenophobia. They gave him an open tab for books and supplies with a single condition: pay it back when you can. No contracts. Just trust.
Decades later, after being spit on, called a towel head, told to go back home, Kerem has built a life rooted not in resentment but in decency. And around a fire in Maine, he shared what that journey taught him about love, fear, and what it takes to stay human.
Fear Simplifies. Love Seeks.
One of the most striking things Kerem said was this:
“Fear is reductive. It’s a cudgel, a hammer, a laser beam that can reduce you to nothing. Whereas love, you have to seek it. You have to find the scale of it.”
I’ve been thinking about this a lot since our conversation. Fear gives us easy answers. Simple explanations. It tells struggling men that immigrants took their jobs, that vulnerability is weakness, that control equals safety. Fear loves instant gratification and certainty.
Love asks for more. It wants us to seek, to put in effort, to expand. It invites us to sit with complexity and discomfort. To trust that connection matters more than control. To choose decency even when the world hasn’t been decent to you.
Kerem lives this tension every day. He knows what fear can do because he’s lived under it in a dictatorship. And he knows what love requires because he keeps choosing it.
The Etchings on His Ribs
Near the end of our conversation, I asked Kerem what fires we need to tend in ourselves and in society. His answer came immediately and personally.
“You’re talking to somebody that was spit at for being a Muslim. You’re talking to somebody that was slapped around and told to go back home. The etchings that are on my ribs, bone marrow. The only way I can say I’m going to be okay, sustain myself, nourish myself, and be a participant in giving back is by being decent.”
Decency. Not as weakness. Not as naivety. But as the only response that keeps us intact.
He could have chosen bitterness. He could have armored up. He could have let fear reduce him to nothing. Instead, he chose to tend the fire of decency, empathy, gratitude, and grace.
For me, this is on expression of love-based masculinity. Not soft. Not passive. But strong enough to stay open even after the world has tried to close you down.
Why Physical Proximity Matters
Kerem also talked about something we’re losing: physical proximity. The actual presence of bodies in space, around tables and fires, in communities that know your face.
“Physical proximity is our essential oxygen,” he said. “From those physical communities comes public benefit and public good. From those physical communities comes the belief that your vote matters and your voice matters.”
For me, this is one of the reasons why Campfire Conversations exists. Why I keep coming back to the fire. Some things can only happen face to face, voice to voice, human to human.
Connection Is What We’re Fighting For
This conversation is part of my Heart-Strong Adventure, an exploration of where love and fear show up in our world, especially in the lives of men. Kerem’s story reminds me that healing isn’t just personal. It’s political. It’s cultural. It’s choosing decency when fear would be easier.
If Kerem’s story sparks something for you, I’d love to hear about it. And if someone comes to mind who might need to hear this, please share it with them.
The stories we tell each other around the fire have always been how we change.
Learn more about the Heart-Strong Adventure: adventure.heart-strong.org
