Dr Chris James – Page 2 – Publishing art, philosophy, human rights

June 13, 2025June 13, 2025

Author’s Note: I am Anower Solim.

This piece of writing is not just a collection of facts, it is a reflection of my lived experience. As a Rohingya youth born stateless and raised inside the world’s largest refugee camp, I write with the hope that my story and the stories of my people will not be forgotten. This is a window into the daily survival we endure in Cox’s Bazar. I invite you to read with empathy and I ask you to listen with heart.

Trapped in the World’s Largest Refugee Camp: A Rohingya Boy’s Account of Daily Survival in Cox’s Bazar
By Anower Solim

I still remember the day we crossed the border into Bangladesh. The sun was hot, the earth beneath my feet felt foreign and my heart carried a heaviness I didn’t yet know how to name. It was 2017. Violence had chased my family and I from our village in Maungdaw township, Rakhine State, Myanmar and like over a million others, we found ourselves in Cox’s Bazar. This sprawling refugee camp has since become our reluctant home, a place where life feels more suspended than safe.

A Shelter but Never a Home.

In the camps, our lives are boxed into limits. Quite literally. Each family is allotted a bamboo-and-tarp shelter measuring only 9 by 12 feet regardless of how many people live inside. Families grow but shelters don’t. Nights are sleepless, privacy is nonexistent and the air inside often feels too thick to breathe.

We are fenced in with barbed wire and denied the right to move freely. Stepping outside the camp requires permission we rarely receive. Higher education remains a dream, not a right. The camp may offer temporary safety but it does so at the cost of liberty, growth and dignity.

When Hunger Becomes the Norm.

Every month, we receive food aid from the World Food Programme. It’s barely enough. In fact, due to funding shortages, rations have dropped to the equivalent of just $6 per person per month. Imagine trying to feed an entire family with that.

Some families manage to scrape together a little extra by working for NGOs or running tiny shops in the camp’s makeshift markets. But for many, that’s not an option. Desperation pushes people toward darker paths selling drugs, gambling even becoming involved in human trafficking. Not because they want to but because poverty and hopelessness leave them with no other choices.

Living Without the Basics.

Sanitation is a daily battle. On average, one latrine is shared by around 37 people and sometimes more. Water isn’t always clean or accessible and healthcare is underfunded and overwhelmed. I have seen pregnant women give birth in overcrowded clinics or worse on the floors of their shelters. Disease spreads quickly when hygiene breaks down and many suffer in silence.

Recently, several health facilities shut down due to aid cuts. This has left thousands, especially the elderly and chronically ill without even the most basic medical support. If you fall seriously ill in the camp, your options are heartbreakingly few.

The Rise of Desperation.

Without legal status or work permits, Rohingya men and women are effectively locked out of formal employment. Over time, this has fostered an underground economy, one riddled with crime and risk. From 2017 to 2022, it has been estimated that more than 2,400 crimes were recorded in the camps with over 1,600 related to drugs.

These are not isolated incidents. They reflect a larger truth: when you deny people access to safety, purpose and opportunity, some will turn to whatever means they can to survive. Gangs take root. Arms and narcotics pass through like whispers. And all the while, the majority of us who long only for peace live in fear and under suspicion.

Growing Families, Shrinking Space.

As families expand, space does not. Children are born into cramped shelters and nothing changes to accommodate them. There is no room to grow physically, emotionally or intellectually. The result is a suffocating sense of stagnation. You exist but you don’t truly live.

I know families where four generations share one shelter. Teenage girls without privacy. Elders with no rest. Babies who wake not from hunger but from the sounds of the night: the wind against the tarp, the arguments next door, the echoes of hopelessness.

Where Light Still Breaks Through.

And yet, somehow, we hold on.

Community members volunteer to teach younger children. Women form support groups. Some youths like me have been lucky enough to complete education programs run by Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee (BRAC) University or other NGOs. I have completed Class 12 from Community School and graduated Refugee Higher Education Access Program-RhEAP from BRAC University’s Center for Peace and Justice, a program I will always be grateful for.

These may seem like small victories to the outside world but here, they are lifelines.

What Needs to Change.

To break this cycle of survival without hope, we must take bold and urgent action: We must

Ensure consistent humanitarian aid especially for food, water and medical care.
Grant access to legal employment so families can become self-reliant.
Allow movement outside the camp for education, work and dignity.
Strengthen community safety by addressing root causes of crime and trafficking.
Expand educational opportunities beyond basic literacy and offer real futures.

Not Just Statistics.

Too often, refugees are reduced to numbers in media reports. But behind each number is a face, a name, a story. I am Anower Solim. I was born in Myanmar. I am a son, a student, a youth leader. And I am not invisible.

This is not just my story, it’s the story of every Rohingya mother trying to cook dinner on an empty stove, every father who wakes up wondering how to feed his children, every youth dreaming of a classroom he is not allowed to enter.

We are here. We are surviving. But we are also dreaming, hoping and fighting for the right to live full lives again.

Anower Solim is a Rohingya youths leader, writer, poet and documentary photographer based in Cox’s Bazar refugee camp, Bangladesh. He is the Co-founder and President of the Rohingya Empowerment Network (REN) and serves as a Teaching Assistant at the Center for Peace and Justice, BRAC University. Anower is also a contributor to Rohingyatographer Magazine where he shares visual and written stories from within his community. His work is grounded in advocacy, storytelling and education, driven by a belief that the Rohingya people deserve dignity, justice and a future beyond survival.

June 13, 2025

Refugee children give hope to the community.

Ro Anis Hla Myint is with UNICEF Bangladesh and

2 others

at Cox’s Bazar- The Worlds Largest Refugee Camp.

I visited a learning centre in the Rohingya refugee camps today. Even with all the struggles these children face, one quiet moment stayed with me.

A group of children sat together, looking up at the sky through the open roof. They were calm and deep in thought. You could see the pain in their eyes—the stress, the hardship. But in that quiet moment, they were thinking deeply.

Their teacher told me they weren’t just watching the clouds. They were thinking about life skills—how to heal, how to cope, how to build a better future. Skills for peace, for understanding, and for living in a world that has not been kind to them.

That simple act of looking at the sky showed something powerful—their strength. Even after everything, they still want to learn, grow, and dream of a better life outside the camp.

It reminded me how important safe spaces are for learning, healing, and simply being.

These children carry so much pain, but they still look up. They still hope. They still want to learn.

June 13, 2025

Mohammad Omar’s Story.

A Dream Denied, A Voice Rising.

My name is Mohammad Omar, A Rohingya student and young activist.

I am a Rohingya. I was born in Mee Kyoung Zay village, Buthidaung Township, in Rakhine State, Myanmar — a country I loved, but that never accepted me as one of its own. As a child, I didn’t understand the meaning of oppression. I ran barefoot through the fields of my village, played in the rain, and looked up at the stars believing I was free. I was full of joy, full of curiosity, full of dreams. When I was five years old, I was admitted to school. I remember that day clearly. I clutched my schoolbag like it was a treasure, smiled at every face I passed, and felt proud to wear my uniform. I was so excited to meet new teachers and classmates — I believed it was the beginning of a bright future. But just days later, I started hearing a word whispered again and again: “Kalar.” At first, I didn’t know what it meant. Some of my Buddhist classmates said it with laughter. Others with disgust. Even some of the teachers used it — casually and cruelly. Confused and hurt, I went home and asked my father, “What does kalar mean?” He looked at me with eyes full of sadness, and said quietly, “It means they don’t see you as one of them. They think you are a foreigner here — not a citizen, not equal. They say it because you are Rohingya.” That moment shattered my heart. I was just a child. I didn’t understand politics. I didn’t understand ethnic cleansing. I only knew that I had been born into a world that had already rejected me. Still, I kept going to school. I studied hard. I wanted to become a doctor — not only to help the sick in my community, but to prove that we, the Rohingya, were just as capable and worthy as anyone else. But the older I got, the clearer it became: My dream was not allowed. I was not allowed. In Class 8, I had an incident I will never forget. A group of classmates began mocking me again, calling me “kalar.” This time, I couldn’t stay silent. I stood up and said, “I am not kalar. I am Rohingya. And this is my country too.” They beat me. They didn’t just hit my body — they broke something deeper. No teacher stopped them. No adult came to my defense. I was alone. That night, I cried in silence. But I also made a decision: One day, I will raise my voice for my people. But when I tried, when I spoke to elders and asked how we could fight back, I was told: “Keep quiet, Omar. If you speak up, they will come for you in the night. They will disappear you. That is how it has always been.” Fear replaced my dreams. And soon, the system did the rest. Rohingya were denied citizenship. Denied higher education. Denied freedom of movement. Denied dignity. When I finished middle school, I tried to continue my education. But I was told, “You cannot go to university. You are Rohingya.” I was born with dreams — but I was not allowed to live them. Then came 2017. The year everything changed. The military came to our village. They burned our homes. They raped our women. They slaughtered our people like animals. I saw bodies. I saw mothers screaming. I saw babies thrown into rivers. I saw everything that no child should ever have to see. My family fled. We crossed the border into Bangladesh, broken and traumatized, but still alive. I thought maybe — just maybe — I could rebuild here. But in the refugee camps, there is no path to higher education. There are only middle schools, overcrowded classrooms, and too many children with dreams too big for the fences around them. Again, my dream of becoming a doctor faded into a shadow. And yet… even in the darkness, I kept believing. I began working with NGOs, helping my people in any way I could. I listened to young people — just like me — who wanted education, peace, and justice. I met boys who wanted to be lawyers. Girls who wanted to be nurses. Youth who had so much talent, but no opportunity. I realized I wasn’t alone in my pain. We are a generation of the forgotten — but we are not gone. So I made a new decision. If I can’t go to university, If I can’t wear a doctor’s coat, Then I will raise my voice louder than ever. I founded the Rohingya Youth Network for Peace and Development, a youth-led organization dedicated to uplifting our community, advocating for education, and making sure the voices of Rohingya youth are never silenced again. Even in the refugee camp, I continue to work — as a student, as an activist, and as a dreamer. Because I still believe. I still hope. And I still fight. — Imagine a child — a student — a youth like you. One who wants to go to school, laugh with friends, wear a uniform, and come home safe. Now imagine that child being told, “You don’t belong.” Imagine them being beaten for their identity. Imagine them watching their village burn, running for their life, leaving behind books, toys, family — everything. That child was me. And there are thousands more like me. Imagine a child, a student, a youth — and a whole generation like you — thinking they are part of the world, dreaming they belong, and slowly realizing they are disappearing, becoming the lost generation. Right now. Still waiting. Still dreaming. Still unheard. — To the world, I say this: We are not stateless. We are not voiceless. We are not hopeless. We are Rohingya. We are students. We are survivors. And we are the future — if only the world dares to see us.

Thank you, Dr. Charis, for allowing our voices to be heard. And thank you to every single person reading this, for not turning away. Mohammad Omar is a Rohingya student, youth activist, and founder of the Rohingya Youth Network for Peace and Development. He lives in a refugee camp in Bangladesh after fleeing the genocide in 2017. Though denied education in both Myanmar and Bangladesh, he continues to fight for the dreams of his people, and hopes one day to study and become a doctor — not just for himself, but for all those who never got the chance.

June 12, 2025

Education changes lives.

A note from the author:

The piece is titled “What Education Means to a Rohingya Youth: From Camp Classrooms to Dreams Beyond Borders.” It tells my story and also offers a broader look at the education system faced by Rohingya children both inside Myanmar and here in the refugee camps of Bangladesh.

This article means a great deal to me not only because it reflects my personal journey but because I believe it can speak for many of us who remain unseen in conversations about education, dignity and possibility. I have tried to write it in a way that’s honest, human and informative grounded in my experience but backed by what’s happening more broadly in the camps and beyond.

My story:

“I Was in Fourth Grade When My Classroom Disappeared”

A Rohingya Youth’s Reflection on Education in Exile
By Anower Solim

I still remember the classroom I left behind. I was in Grade 4 in Maungdaw, sitting near the window of our village school, quietly dreaming of one day becoming a teacher. But dreams, for Rohingya children like me are fragile things.

In 2017, everything changed. Violence, fear and flames forced my family to flee our home in Myanmar. Like thousands of other families, we crossed the border into Bangladesh with almost nothing: no books, no papers, no idea what the future would hold.

I lost my classroom that year. And for a long time, I thought I had lost my chance to learn too.

Even Before the Camps, Doors Were Already Closing

Many people don’t realize that our exclusion from education didn’t start in the camps. It started long before inside Myanmar.

Before 2012, some Rohingya students could complete high school but almost no one could go further. After 2012, the restrictions tightened even more. Rohingya were banned from public universities. Many of our schools were closed or burned. Our teachers were pushed out and we were not allowed to travel freely to other areas to continue our studies.

Even brilliant students, those who dreamed of becoming doctors, engineers, or public leaders were left with nothing but their dreams and disappointment.

I was too young then to fully understand what was being taken from us. But by the time I arrived in the refugee camps, I knew what I had lost.

Learning in Pieces, Teaching Myself by Moonlight

When I first arrived in Cox’s Bazar, I believed naively that school would start again soon. A few months maybe. But months turned into years.

I didn’t attend formal school again. Instead, I studied through scattered opportunities: elders in the community would sometimes teach children under plastic tarps. I attended short, basic lessons in NGO-run learning centers. But they were only for children under age 14 and I was quickly growing too old to be included.

So I turned to what I had myself.

I borrowed books. I watched YouTube lessons on shared mobile phones. I studied English, history and science late into the night under the dim light of a solar-powered bulb. With no electricity, no desk and no teacher, I kept learning anyway.

That’s how many Rohingya youth survive through self-study, resilience, and hope. But I always wondered: was there a path beyond this? Or would I remain forever a student without a school?

A Glimmer of Hope: RhEAP and a Way Forward

In 2023, something changed.

I was selected to join the Refugee Higher Education Access Program (RhEAP) run by BRAC University’s Center for Peace and Justice. It was part of a broader partnership with the Open Society University Network (OSUN).

For the first time in years, I had structure. I had teachers. I had classmates. I had a reason to believe that my education mattered.

In 2024, I graduated from this program, a moment I never imagined would come. Alongside that, I completed technical training in ICT, human rights and photography. I also became involved with Rohingyatographer where I document stories from within our community. And I co-founded the Rohingya Empowerment Network (REN) to support youth like myself.

But while I’m proud of these steps, I also know how rare this opportunity is. And it shouldn’t be.

What’s Still Missing: The Bigger Picture

Right now, the education system for Rohingya in the camps remains broken. Yes, some children can attend learning centers. Yes, there are pilot programs for the Myanmar curriculum. But they stop at Grade 9. They’re not accredited. And without recognition or certification, our learning doesn’t count.

Vocational training is limited. Access to secondary education is nearly nonexistent. And even though many of us are fluent in Bengali, we are excluded from the national curriculum of Bangladesh. Refugee students are not allowed to take national exams, earn certificates, or work legally.

What does that mean for the future? It means another generation risks being locked out of jobs, of opportunity, of dignity.

What We Need And What You Can Help Us Advocate For

Education is not just about learning. It’s about belonging. It’s about having the right to shape your life and contribute to your community.

Here’s what could truly change things:

Recognition – Certify the Myanmar curriculum and LCFA up to Grade 12 so we can graduate and move forward.
Expansion – Build real secondary schools and vocational centers inside the camps.
Integration – Introduce bilingual options that include Bangla and help us connect with the host society.
Higher Education – Fund more programs like RhEAP that allow driven students to reach their full potential.
Teacher Training – Support refugee teachers with proper certification and professional development.
Legal Access – Allow us the right to work, learn, and contribute meaningfully.
Long-Term Funding – Move beyond emergency responses toward sustained investment in our education.

A Final Word: For the Boy Still Waiting

Somewhere in the camps, there’s a boy just like I was. Maybe he’s sitting cross-legged on a bamboo mat, reading by solar light. Maybe he’s waiting for a school that hasn’t been built yet. Maybe he thinks he’s been forgotten.

I want him to know he hasn’t.

I wrote this for him and for all the Rohingya youth still holding on to their dreams. Our stories matter. Our futures matter. And with the right support, we can go far beyond what anyone ever expected of us.

Thank you Dr. Chris for sharing this space. Thank you to every reader for listening.

Let’s make sure no child has to wonder if they’ll ever see the inside of a classroom again.

Anower Solim is a Rohingya youth leader, co-founder of the Rohingya Empowerment Network, and a graduate of the RhEAP program at BRAC University’s Center for Peace and Justice. He is also a contributor to Rohingyatographer and an advocate for education in displacement.

June 10, 2025June 10, 2025

Who is Maung Solaiman Shah? I am Maung Solaiman Shah, and I’m a Rohingya Activist, young leader, human rights advocate, and changemaker. I was born in Rakhine State, Myanmar, but like many Rohingya, I was forced to flee my homeland due to persecution. I’ve spent most of my life growing up in the world’s largest refugee camp, Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. Living in a place marked by displacement and struggle has never been easy. But even in the face of hardship, I found purpose through education, compassion, and an unshakable belief that every human being deserves dignity, justice, and the chance to live in peace. I started my journey as a young activist or leader because I couldn’t ignore the suffering of my community people especially the youth. I saw how we were left out of decisions about our future, how we were silenced or overlooked. That’s why I founded Youth Led Initiative (YLI), a grassroots organization that empowers Rohingya youth through education, climate action, digital literacy, and leadership development advocacy and training and resources. At YLI, our goal is simple but powerful: we train, support, and uplift youth so that they can become confident leaders and advocates, right here in the camps and far beyond. Through training sessions, workshops, and advocacy, we’re creating a generation that is informed, connected, and courageous enough to lead change. Outside of YLI, I also work part-time as a Contingent Worker with the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC), where I continue to serve and support my community. I’m currently studying Business Administration at the University of the People, and I have completed a Diploma in Human Rights at Spring University Myanmar with the support of Institute of Human Rights and Democratic Governance (IHRDG). I am also an active human rights advocate not only for the Rohingya, but for all people facing injustice. One of my major battles has been fighting against online fraud and digital scams, especially those targeting vulnerable communities like ours. I believe in using digital tools responsibly and ethically, and I want to make sure every Rohingya youth has the skills to protect themselves and their communities online. My commitment to the 17 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) keeps me going every day. Whether it’s advocating for quality education, climate justice, or gender equality, I believe these goals are not just global ambitions, but they are deeply personal missions for communities like mine. But more than anything, my dream is to serve the Rohingya people for the rest of my life to help build a future where we can live peacefully, with dignity, in our own homeland, Myanmar. I don’t just want to return but want to return as a builder of peace, a servant leader, a sel-less leader and someone who helps heal the wounds of the past. To me, “kindness is strength, and leadership is service.” These values guide everything I do. And here is my greatest dream: “A generation of Rohingya youth who are no longer voiceless, but digitally connected, empowered, and actively shaping their future.” This is not just a dream. It’s a vision I’m working toward day by day, session by session, voice by voice. Thank you for walking this journey with me. Thanks for listening my voice.

June 10, 2025

The Persecution of Rohingya Christians.

Peter Saiful is a prominent figure among the Christian Rohingya community residing in the refugee camps of Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. Born in Nayapara Registered Camp in Teknaf, his family fled Myanmar in 1991 and has since lived in various camps. Peter currently serves as the pastor of Bethel Church: Rohingya Christian Fellowship in the Transit Centre of Kutupalong, a role he has held since 2010. (dhakatribune.com, rohingyaphoto.com, rohingyarefugee.news) Under his leadership, the church has become a central hub for the approximately 2,000 to 2,500 Christian Rohingya individuals scattered across several camps. Despite being a small minority, they face significant challenges, including a lack of designated burial grounds and places of worship. Many Christians conceal their faith due to fear of persecution, and some have been pressured to convert to Islam. (archons.org, asianews.it) Peter has been an outspoken advocate for his community, highlighting issues such as the destruction of churches, forced conversions, and the kidnapping of Christian families by groups like the Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army (ARSA). In 2020, he reported that a Christian family was abducted, and their underage daughter was forced to marry and convert to Islam. (vision.org.au, heraldmalaysia.com) Additionally, Peter has been involved in efforts to translate the Bible into the Rohingya language, with nearly 10 books from the New Testament completed. However, these initiatives often lack external support, and many Christian children are educated informally due to the absence of NGO assistance. (dhakatribune.com) Through his work, Peter Saiful has become a vocal advocate for religious freedom and the rights of Christian Rohingya refugees, striving to bring attention to their plight and secure a safer environment for his community. (vision.org.au)

June 10, 2025June 10, 2025

Muhammad Jubair’s story.

My Name is Muhammad Jubair – I Am Rohingya I was born a Rohingya, but the world calls me stateless. My people once lived peacefully in Arakan, a region now known as Rakhine State in Myanmar. For generations, we farmed the land, raised families, prayed in our mosques, and spoke our Rohingya language with pride. We were citizens — recognized and included after Myanmar gained independence from British rule in 1948. But the tides turned. Successive military regimes began to erase us. In 1982, Myanmar passed a law that excluded the Rohingya from citizenship, declaring us “foreigners” in the very land where our ancestors are buried. Our identity was stripped away. We were banned from schools, denied healthcare, restricted from travel, and forced to register under false ethnic names. Then came the violence. In 2012, deadly riots broke out. In 2016 and again in 2017, Myanmar’s military launched brutal crackdowns — what the UN called a “textbook example of ethnic cleansing.” Entire villages were burned. Men were killed. Women were raped. Children were thrown into fires. I survived. Many of my friends and relatives did not. I fled to Bangladesh, like nearly a million others. Today, I live as a refugee — in overcrowded camps where hope is scarce but resistance lives on. I am not just a victim. I am a voice. I am a witness. I am a Rohingya youth activist who believes that our story must be told — not just as a story of suffering, but of survival. We are not stateless by choice. We are stateless because our rights were stolen. But we still dream — of justice, of dignity, of going home with our heads held high. Thank you for allowing me to share this. May our voices echo far enough to shake the silence. — Muhammad Jubair A Rohingya refugee, youth activist, and survivor

June 10, 2025June 10, 2025

My Neighbor, My Friend – A Story of Real Solidarity By: Sharuk Mohammedi (Age: 17).

I am a refugee. Behind those words is a history of displacement, survival, and strength. I didn’t choose to leave my homeland, but I had no choice. Like so many others, I crossed borders not just of geography but of identity—leaving behind familiarity for uncertainty. Yet, in the middle of that uncertainty, I found something powerful: the solidarity of neighbors who became friends. When my family arrived in Cox’s Bazar, we expected to be treated like strangers. Instead, we were met with a surprising sense of familiarity. The people in the host community spoke a language that sounded like home. Their words were not foreign. Their expressions, their customs, even their food reminded me of the village life we left behind. This closeness in culture helped bridge the gaps between us long before official programs or organizations stepped in. But even with this shared language and culture, there were still invisible barriers—barriers of fear, misunderstanding, and mistrust. Many of us Rohingya feared being judged, and many locals feared being overwhelmed by our presence. We had all suffered in our own ways. Yet slowly, that began to change—not through policies or press releases, but through the quiet strength of human connection. I remember one day in the early months after we arrived. It had rained heavily, and our shelter had started leaking. As we struggled to save our bedding, a local family from the nearby village came with tarpaulin and offered to help. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t hesitate. They simply saw neighbors in need and responded with action. That was the first time I truly understood what solidarity looks like. Solidarity is not just about giving—it’s about standing together. It means recognizing the dignity in one another, regardless of our status. It means sitting together in classrooms, working side by side in the fields, and sharing moments of joy and grief as equals. Now, I am growing up in this camp—not just surviving, but learning. I study hard and dream of a better future, not only for myself but for everyone who has suffered like I have. I may not have many opportunities, but I try to take every one that comes. I help other students when I can, and I listen to the stories of people around me. I believe our voices matter. And I carry with me the lessons I’ve learned from those who reached out to us—not as outsiders, but as part of one shared community. The theme “My Neighbor, My Friend” is more than just a phrase to me. It is a lived reality. I’ve seen young people from both the refugee and host communities play football together, share meals during Ramadan, and sit under the same roof to learn and dream. These are not just acts of kindness—they are acts of resistance against the forces that want to divide us. Being a refugee does not erase my identity. I am still someone’s son, someone’s classmate, someone’s friend. And while I have lost my home, I have not lost my humanity. It is the solidarity of others—neighbors who didn’t turn away—that reminded me of that truth. There is still a long way to go. Challenges remain—poverty, limited resources, and social tensions can sometimes test our unity. But I believe that the bonds we build now, at this grassroots level, are the foundation for something greater: a future where no one is left behind simply because they had to flee. To those reading this, whether you’re a refugee like me or a host community youth: solidarity is something we all can practice. It doesn’t always require money or power. Sometimes, it simply takes the courage to listen, to respect, and to walk beside someone whose journey is different from your own. Because in the end, true friendship isn’t defined by where you were born. It’s defined by how you treat those around you. And sometimes, the most meaningful friendships begin in the most difficult places. My neighbor became my friend. And through that friendship, I found the strength to keep going.

Yasin

June 10, 2025June 10, 2025

A story of hope.

Struggle To Strength My Journey to Hope.

This is Abdur Rahim from the largest refugee camp in Bangladesh I would like to share my story and my hope.I was born in Myanmar, a land once filled with the sounds of my childhood laughter and dreams. But as I grew up, those dreams were tested by the harsh realities that came with being Rohingya a people stripped of their rights, homes, and voices. My early memories are a mix of beauty and fear. Beauty in my family’s love, in our traditions, and in the simple moments of peace. But fear soon took hold fear of persecution, violence, and a future that seemed more uncertain with each passing day. When I was still very young, my family and I were forced to flee Myanmar. We left everything behind our home, our land, and the graves of our ancestors seeking safety across the border in Bangladesh. We arrived not as guests, but as refugees, carrying only our faith, resilience, and the hope of a better tomorrow. Life in the refugee camp has never been easy. But it has shaped who I am. It taught me the value of education, the power of service, and the importance of standing tall, even when the world tries to make you invisible. Despite the odds, I have pursued learning with determination. I now study at BRAC University under the Rohingya Higher Education Access Program (RhEAP), and I teach community children as a volunteer because I believe that education is our most powerful tool for change. Alongside my studies, I took the role of a community-based teacher, voluntarily educating children in the camp who otherwise would have no access to structured learning. This work is my way of giving back and nurturing hope among the next generation. I have also engaged in leadership workshops, debate competitions, and field research with humanitarian organizations such as Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF). In 2024, I received an Award of Excellence from NAMLAS and attended the OSUN Virtual Student Leadership Conference, experiences that deepened my commitment to justice, peace, and education. I am a stateless person. But I am not voiceless. I dream of pursuing higher education in Australia, studying peace and law, and becoming a voice for the voiceless advocating for the rights and dignity of my people. I want the world to see us not only as victims, but as survivors, learners, and leaders. I carry with me the pain of displacement, but also the strength of my people. I am proud to be Rohingya, and I am committed to building a future where no child has to flee their home, and where every voice no matter how small is heard. This is my story. A story of survival, resilience, and unwavering hope.

June 9, 2025June 9, 2025

A story of survival by Amin Mustafa, a Rohigya refugee living in the Bangladesh refugee camp.

On May 21, 2022, at around 6:30 in the morning, a tragedy unfolded off the coast of Myanmar’s Ayeyarwady Region—one that was barely heard by the world, yet deeply etched into the lives of those who lived through it. I am Amin Mustafa, a Rohingya survivor, and I carry the weight of that day not just in memory, but in responsibility—to speak the truth for the 49 souls we lost, including children. We were 90 people aboard a boat that set out with hope. Hope to escape persecution, poverty, and the suffocating limits placed on our lives as Rohingya. Among us were men, women, and children. Some were seeking freedom. Others just a future. The journey was dangerous from the start, but desperation pushed us forward. We had left Sittwe and made our way along the coast. But as we neared the Ayeyarwady delta, harsh weather overtook us. The boat capsized at 6:30 a.m. Chaos. Screams. Darkness in daylight. Some clung to the wreckage. Others were swept away by the river’s force. We—31 of us—survived by swimming for 15 hours. I fought the water, exhaustion, and fear for my life until I finally reached safety. Many others weren’t so lucky. The ocean claimed the lives of 49 people, including many children. Their dreams, their futures, their families—all lost to the waves. And yet, the suffering didn’t stop there. When we were rescued, instead of being helped or treated with dignity, the Myanmar authorities arrested us. We, the survivors of a deadly boat disaster, were sentenced to two years in Pathein Prison—punished simply for being Rohingya, for trying to survive. And the world was silent. No headlines spoke of our 15-hour battle in the river. No reports honoured the children who died. No human rights voice condemned the prison time we endured. The truth was buried with those we lost. We were not just numbers. We were families. We were students, mothers, fathers, dreamers—human beings. This wasn’t just an accident. It was the result of decades of oppression. A system that sees Rohingya lives as unworthy. A system that drives us into the sea and then locks us in prison when we survive. To the families of those who died that morning: I will never forget. I speak for them now. To the world: hear our story. Believe our pain. Share our truth.

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A suicide note of a little fifth-grade girl (at IDP camp in Myanmar)

“Dear Mommy, please be happy when I’m gone. I apologizes for causing you trouble by being here. Because I wanted to go to school, and you got to buy those things. There’s no money left, so you could’t buy anythings for me.

Dear Big Brother, my very beloved brother, thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me, your little sister. Please let me go the right way, brother. Let me say goodbye to Mom and Dad. I can’t stay in this life anymore.

Dear Friends, please tell my teachers I’m grateful for teaching me. If I were still there, I wouldn’t forget to thank them.

Dear Htwar Re, whom I treated like a brother, please forgive the wrong things I said. I can’t say it now, I have to write it. Brother, no one will let your little sister go to school anymore. Your little sister is very tired now.

Mom, your daughter is leaving now. I pray that Dad won’t be harsh like before. Love family.”

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