Myanmar denies my identity
In fear of my return to my homeland.
Bangladesh acknowledges my identity
In fear of my prolonged stay within their territory 
Meanwhile, the Rakhine ethnic rejects my identity,
In fear of having to share our historical legacies. 

I will not speak of
The term 'Rohingya' 
That remained unburnt 
In the documents I safeguard
During the flames of genocide. 
 

I will not mention 
The pages of ‘Rohingya’ 
That have been erased from the annals of history, 
Evidence of my existence.

I will not highlight
The ancestral photographs 
I stumbled upon years later
Within my grandparents' dilapidated box.

Neither I will remind you
Of the historical heritages, 
That still endure on the soil of Arakan, 
Obscured by overgrowth and debris. 

I will not sing the ancient melodies—
Folksongs, lullabies, and poignant verses—
That encapsulate the lives and 
narratives of my forefathers. 

There exist numerous other substantiations 
Of my identity as a Rohingya,
An Indigenous inhabitant of Arakan,
I opt against elaborating on these. 

Why does my profound affection for Arakan 
Course through my veins,
Permeating my very being? 
Is it a falsehood?

How can I discern 
The subtle nuances of the winds 
that transverse the skies? 
The air in Arakan beckons to me,
As if acquainted with me for an eternity. 

Why does the resonance of my voice
Echo across the Mayyu Mountain from far? 
When I call out, it responds me, 
Seemingly lamenting for me incessantly.  

Why do the waves of the Naf River 
Pound against my heart until they reach the shore,
As it awaiting to reunite with me? 
Every crest and trough seem to vocalise 
A yearning for my return. 

The breeze crossing the border 
Carries with it the essence of Arakan.
As I inhale it, every cell in my body
Longs to return home. 

Because of this identity,
I found myself seeking refuge in a distant land,
Directly under the shelter of a tent,
Away from the genocidal landscape
Where my once beloved home stood.