Written by Ibrahim Alom
The streets are loud, the placards glare,
Their chants are sharp, their anger bare.
They cry for walls, for lines to divide,
A land that tells me I’m denied.
But I remember those before,
Who left their Sylhet to reach this shore.
My grandfather mourned as Bangladesh bled,
Yet chose to stay, to forge ahead.
My parents grew with two worlds inside,
Sylheti warmth and British pride.
At home they kept the tongue, the prayer,
Outside they wore the weight of stare.
And I, their child, have never seen
The rivers where their lives had been.
Yet in their stories I still know
The soil from which our roots can grow.
I ache for what we had to leave,
The history I can barely grieve.
But still I try to piece each thread,
To honour those who fought, who bled.
Though crowds may rage and headlines blame,
We have endured and will remain.
Their love my anchor, their faith my guide,
No storm can cast me from their side.
