Identity crisis

I stand between worlds, neither here nor there, Feet planted in Eritrea, yet Arabic fills the air. My father’s tongue, Tigre, I do not know, Nor the Tigrinya of my ancestors, lost in echoes low. My mother, born in Saudi’s golden sand, Half Eritrean, half Yemeni, yet she never took Arab’s hand. She speaks of home, but in which land? Eritrea’s shores or Yemen’s stand? My father’s roots near Sudan’s embrace, A borderland life, a shifting space. Yet I, their child, feel misplaced, A name, a bloodline, a culture erased. I yearn for the rhythm of my grandmother’s speech, But her words are distant, just out of reach. When they speak in their tongue, I strain to hear, Yet Arabic flows from me, strong and clear. They ask me, Where are you from?—I hesitate, A heart split in two, a soul lost in fate. I search for excuses, a tribe, a name, But the language I carry is not the same. Eritrean blood, but where is my song? A culture I cherish but don’t quite belong. Raised in a tongue that isn’t mine, Yet it shaped my thoughts, my every line. I long to speak without a divide, To greet my roots with arms open wide. To understand my parents’ past, Before the years drift by too fast. But am I less because I was taught another way? Is identity language, or more, they say? For though my words may twist and turn, The fire of my heritage will always burn.