by Nuri Bhuiyan

To feel like a refugee in one’s own country

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Is to realize that the boundaries we’ve built

In naming our “country” or our “land”

Are irrelevant.

You are a refugee

Regardless

Of the lines you have crossed

Or have not crossed.

You are a refugee

Regardless

Of the start point

Or of the end point

Because the start point was home,

And the end point isn’t.

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To feel like a refugee in one’s own country

Is to realize the complexity of belonging

It is to realize the many boundaries,

Drawn within and through others,

That keep you both in and out.

The lines of Bangladesh that assure you you are home,

The very lines drawn in part by those who are not of your own,

The lines that mark the space of your old village that you have fled from,

The lines that mark the space of your new home in Dhaka,

The lines of your conception of what home should be, pushing up against

The lines that keep you trapped and suffocated in the capital’s slums.

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And the ultimate delineation,

Redrawn closer and closer, day by day,

By the slow lull of saltwater.

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