Dramatic stories from the world’s largest refugee camp

On August 25, 2017, a horrifying series of events unfolded in Myanmar’s Rakhine State. Entire villages were razed, thousands of Rohingya were slaughtered by the Myanmar army, and Doctors Without Borders alone documented 6,700 violent fatalities. The Rohingya have been systematically discriminated against in Myanmar for decades, a fact underscored by an Amnesty International investigation which revealed that this repression began in earnest in 2012, during a period of rampant violence between Buddhist and Muslim communities.

Today marks the five-year anniversary of these traumatic events. UN High Commissioner for Human Rights Michelle Bachelet has pointedly noted that it is still not safe for Rohingya refugees to return to Myanmar, in light of the repression that triggered their mass exodus to neighboring Bangladesh. “Regrettably, the current situation across the border indicates that the conditions for return are not yet in place,” Bachelet stated, following a four-day visit to Bangladesh.

Thousands of displaced individuals were forced from their homeland, having endured unimaginable violence. Consequently, in 2017, over 700,000 people fled to Bangladesh to escape the carnage. Along with other Rohingya refugees who had sought asylum from previous outbreaks of violence, they now constitute a population of nearly one million people residing in the world’s largest refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh.

We felt belittled and fearful. In the country where our forefathers resided, we were stripped of our voting rights. Our hearts sunk when we were labeled as intruders. Their unjust treatment of us escalated to the point where we were forced to leave.

Five years after fleeing Myanmar, the situation for these individuals remains unchanged. Two distinct generations of Rohingya, 15-year-old Anwar and 65-year-old Razi, who are currently living in Cox’s Bazar, shared their present realities and future prospects with Médecins Sans Frontières. Their narratives paint a picture of decades-long oppression and targeted violence, crushed dreams, fractured families, uncertainty about the future, and a longing for a safe return to their homeland.

I dream of becoming a doctor, but I don’t think I’ll make it

Still vivid in 15-year-old Anwar’s memory is the moment he left Myanmar five years ago. Back then, he was an ambitious student with a bright future. Now, he frets about the direction his life is taking.

“My name is Anwar. I am a 15-year-old student, soon to be 16, originally from Myanmar. We left our neighborhood in Myanmar and now reside in Jamtoli, a camp in Bangladesh.

I can still recall the moment we left Myanmar. It was an afternoon when our neighborhood came under attack by the army, forcing us to flee to a nearby area. As our homes were set ablaze, we had to run even further. We were fortunate to survive, but many of our relatives and neighbors were not as lucky.”

We embarked on a lengthy journey in pursuit of safety. I recall how we ran and walked for nearly 12 days until we reached Bangladesh. It was perilous: we traversed rugged roads, scaled hills, and crossed bodies of water. We encountered numerous corpses along the way.

Upon our arrival in Bangladesh, we took refuge with relatives and neighbours and now reside in this camp shelter.

I was attending school when we had to leave, so my education was abruptly interrupted upon arrival here. I was a diligent student with high grades. I have a passion for learning, but now I’m unable to study or access the books I need.

Only rudimentary education is available in the Rohingya refugee camp, nothing more. Our only opportunity to learn something new arises when community teachers gather with Rohingya children for instruction. They teach us with all their heart.

Some of my friends skip classes because they have to support their families. I understand their predicament. But if they receive training, they can pass on their knowledge to others, creating an educational chain. Only then can our community progress and our generation make a positive impact.

My dream was to become a doctor, to contribute to my community. Ever since I was a child, I’ve admired how doctors help people and strive to do their best. Now, I understand that this dream may never become a reality. But I still find joy in attending classes and spending time with my friends. We strive to find happiness amidst our studies and play.

Life in the camp is challenging. My father’s earnings are inadequate to support our family. Sometimes, when I return home from school at night, I don’t feel safe.

I urge young people like me around the world to seize the opportunity to learn as much as possible. We, the Rohingya refugees, lack such opportunities.”

We were treated like outcasts

Mohamed Hussein served as a civil servant in a ministerial office in Myanmar for over 38 years. In 1982, due to his Rohingya ethnicity, he was stripped of his citizenship. Since then, Mohamed Hussein has witnessed his rights and freedoms diminish. Forced to escape to Bangladesh, he has lived in a refugee camp for the past five years.

“I completed my secondary education in 1973. I was working as a government employee, as the Rohingya were recognized by the Constitution at that time. We were appointed immediately after confirmation of our secondary education completion.

After gaining independence from British rule in 1948, the government acknowledged us as citizens. If one’s father and oneself were born in Myanmar, both were recognized as citizens. People of all nationalities enjoyed equal rights. No one faced discrimination.

Everything changed in 1978 when Naga Min, also known as the Dragon King, took control of the population census. The census delineated who was a citizen of Myanmar and who was a citizen of Bangladesh. Numerous people were detained due to lack of necessary documentation. Fearing for my safety, I fled. Later, the Myanmar government repatriated us. An agreement was reached with the Bangladeshi government, promising us that our rights would be safeguarded upon our return. However, this promise was unfulfilled. While our land was given back, our rights remained unprotected. This marked the onset of our oppression. We were treated as outcasts, subjected to escalating deprivations, culminating in persecution.

The authorities revoked our Myanmar citizenship. Despite this, the Rohingya were recognized as foreigners within the country. News about the Rohingya communities was circulated across different districts. However, following the military takeover, our radio station fell silent. If we were indeed foreigners, why didn’t the previous constitution acknowledge us as such?

We were barred from pursuing further education. Travel restrictions were imposed on us, and the army coerced us into conflicts with Buddhists. A curfew was enforced, and guest visits to homes were met with torture. Consequently, we began to withhold information about events occurring within our community.

Each year, new orders were issued, and those who failed to comply were arrested. Despite everything, we retained the right to vote. We elected representatives who participated in parliamentary debates. However, in 2015, even our voting rights were stripped away.

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We felt marginalized and anxious. We were no longer allowed to vote in the land our ancestors once inhabited. We were disheartened when labeled as invaders. Their unjust treatment forced us to leave.

One morning in 2017, we heard gunshots. On a Thursday night, gunfire erupted from a nearby military base. The following morning, we discovered that several Rohingya had been killed. As people saw the army advancing into our area, panic ensued. The army was indiscriminately arresting and killing people. Fleeing to save our lives, we reached Bangladesh. We were fortunate to have survived the journey. Bangladesh has been incredibly supportive and stands with us.

Upon our arrival, we were hopeful. But now, we feel trapped. Life has become challenging. My heart feels weary. Each time I step out, I’m subjected to searches by the guards.

I’m even restricted from visiting my children. One of my daughters resides in Kutupalong, and the other lives nearby. Every time I attempt to visit their shelters, it’s a long journey. The confinement is stifling. I’m filled with concern for the future, as our children are not receiving the education they need. Whether they remain here or return to Myanmar, what prospects will they have without an education? We’ve had countless sleepless nights pondering this very question.

I receive treatment for diabetes and high blood pressure at a Doctors Without Borders facility within the camp. However, they’re unable to treat my kidney condition. I can’t leave the camp to seek this treatment, so I must make do with what’s available here.

Now, as I advance in years, I know my time is limited. I wonder if I’ll get to see my homeland once more before I die. My deepest desire is to draw my last breath in Myanmar. Yet, I’m uncertain if this wish will ever be fulfilled. My heart yearns for our repatriation, but only under the assurance that our rights will be safeguarded and we’ll never face persecution again. The mere thought of enduring such oppression again fills me with dread.

In Myanmar, if we were recognised as citizens, we could be treated as equals. We should have the right to education, to control our own destinies, and to move freely like any other citizen. We should have the right to vote, participate in elections, and have our voices heard in Parliament. However, now that all these rights have been stripped from us, we are nothing more than walking shadows. The world was created for everyone to inhabit, yet we find ourselves without a country.

I want to convey to the world that we are humans just like you, and we yearn for a decent life. We implore you to help us live as human beings should. My ultimate wish is for rights and peace.”