Yesterday was my first day in the camps. Haythem, from one of our partner organizations, met me and my traveling companion/friend/photographer Rares Michael Ghilezan at the airport at Cox’s Bazar. We quickly dropped off our luggage and then we were off to the camps, anxious about whether or not we would even be permitted to enter. The camp administration has stopped issuing passes to foreigners since an incident a few weeks ago when a team of documentarians was attacked because some refugees mistook them for traffickers when they led some children away to fetch sweets from a food stand.
Cox’s Bazar is the primary beach destination for Bangladeshis and is not geared towards foreigners in the same way. It’s simple and authentic. A beautiful, expansive ocean with life-as-usual on the streets adjacent
There are countless construction projects lining the main road to where the Rohingya live – about an hour’s drive away from the beach resort area – and most of the nicest buildings bear the names of organizations I know to be working in the camps, signifying the influx of cash the Rohingya situation has catalyzed. After nearly an hour of bumpy roads, taking in this tableau of Bangladeshi life, Haythem said, “the host community is on the left, the camps on the right.” At first, I couldn’t believe how seamless the transition was from one to the other. A bustling marketplace faded away very gradually. There was no line of demarcation, no checkpoint, no fence. The activity just started to dwindle, like the color was being washed out. There were still little huts with wares on display, but no one was bustling around them. Stoic faces peered out from behind the hanging bags of chips and candy that no one seemed to be buying.
The Rohingya are forbidden from working in Bangladesh. They can sell to other Rohingya, but they cannot work for aid organizations or outside the camps. Not legally, at least. So, the path was peppered with these little stands and sellers, waiting for someone to come.
We drove a ways into the camps, but had to continue the rest of the way on foot. The first order of business: visiting the refugee homes JWW funded our partners to construct — sturdy bamboo shelters that can withstand the pounding of Bangladesh’s relentless monsoons. We had to walk through the camps for about 10-15 minutes to reach these structures. Immediately, I noticed the stillness, the inactivity of the place. Children would notice us, give me a coquettish smile, practice their few phrases of English, follow alongside us for a while. Michael engaged in some soccer with a group of agile boys. I was happy to see that none of the children had the distended bellies signaling malnourishment, nor were they covered in flies, as in other camps I had visited. Some of the little ones wore bright red lipstick and fancy earrings, others didn’t have any clothes. Some had traditional markings painted on their beautiful faces.
We crossed paths with very few adult women. Some of the men would smile, others would stare suspiciously. The most noise came from babies sitting in the dirt, calling out until an older sibling ran along and scooped them up. And, from inside the madrasas—religious schools where children are taught the Koran. “Not my favorite thing, but necessary for building trust because it’s so important for the community,” Haythem said. I spied an old, stern instructor whipping a child with a long reed.
The camps were not quite as I had imagined. Sure, there were the dilapidated structures, pieced together with UNHCR sheeting, sticks, and garbage — what you would expect in camps, unsuitable for human habitation. But there were also sturdy structures, bamboo bridges, a large soccer field with goal posts fashioned from bamboo. And, despite some primitive plumbing, it didn’t smell bad.
A Rohingya refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
My heart skipped a beat when we approached a group of bamboo structures proudly displaying signs with JWW logo. I had seen photos of some of them before, but they were much more impressive in real life. The bamboo was beautifully woven — by hand by the Rohingya themselves — and the structures appeared sturdy, large, and strong. They truly stood out from all the other huts I saw in the camps.
“The most important part is the foundation,” explained Haythem. “You see the concrete foundation. We are the only ones who do this. This is what distinguishes them from all the rest. They will not fall.”
Ann with Haythem in front of one of the 50 JWW-funded bamboo shelters in Cox’s Bazar.
JWW funded building 50 of these structures, and our friends Haythem and Atiq are planning to build more in “Phase 1” of their work. “When I first started in the camps, they were much, much worse. Difficult to bear, really. Things are much better today from a habitation standpoint. We’re going to replace as many of the deteriorating structures as we can with our structures. Then, the plan is to establish schools with tablets, then sewing academies where women can work to provide for their families and have a sense of purpose,” Haytem said.
“Go inside,” urged members of our party. I hesitated. It felt like an invasion of privacy. I didn’t feel like funding the structures gave me any special privileges to enter into their lives. I made the translator confirm the inhabitants’ comfort levels several times before I agreed to go inside.
Haythem and I had discussed my intentions during the drive. “Are you looking for testimonials? Do you want to interview these people? Take photos with them?” I said — as JWW’s communication director’s face flashed before my eyes — that I needed to do so for my organization and our membership. But I stressed that I wanted things to happen organically. “The last thing I want is to be taken to the token rape survivor to re-traumatize her again. I’m not looking for a carnival act. This isn’t about exploitation, it’s about learning.” “Good,” said Haythem, noticeably relieved. “Because I’ll tell you something, the majority of the people here haven’t experienced the slaughter of a loved one or gang rape or anything like that. Sure, there are some among them who have. You can find some in each of the camps, but they’re not the majority. It’s been 19 months now since the genocidal violence that led to their exodus from Myanmar. Many of them are integrated now.”
I must admit, it worried me to hear that 19 months was deemed “enough time” to overcome gang rape or the murder of a child.
The first structure I entered was dark and cool inside. Maybe a bit too dark. The concrete floor was clean, and many of the inhabitants’ possessions were carefully stored above the bamboo beams that ran across the ceiling. A beautiful young woman looked out at me. She looked uncomfortable. I motioned to ask if I could take a photo of the inside of her home. I could tell she didn’t want me to. The others in my group — all men — tried to convince her to relent and told me it was fine and to go ahead, but I could see in her eyes that she didn’t want to, so I made everyone leave. “Please don’t push anyone,” I said. “There are 50 of these structures here.”
I was surprised to see the variety of ways people had configured their homes. Some used fabric to separate different areas, other bamboo walls. Some had constructed loft-like spaces to hold their belongings. One of my favorite things was a baby bassinet made of bamboo that hung from the rafters.
The inside of a bamboo shelter in Cox’s Bazar. Photo by Ann Strimov Durbin
Almost all of the women were inside, in their homes, tending to their children, cooking, washing dishes. The Rohingya women are some of the most beautiful I have ever seen, with their dark, shy eyes. The children’s smiles lit me up from within. I only spoke to the women, not the men.
One woman with three young sons spoke openly about her family’s experience. “We heard the commotion outside. The screaming. The soldiers had come into our village. I just scooped up my kids and ran, I didn’t take a single thing. Not one. We lost everything. Getting here with three small children was very, very hard. This house is good, we like it very much, thank you.” I told her I have three boys, too, just like her. I took out a photo of my sons and showed her. She smiled for the first time, her children giggling with excitement, passing the picture around. I asked if I could take a picture with her. All of the other women I had asked immediately blushed and hid their faces in their headscarves. This mother was willing, but didn’t smile.
Ann with a Rohingya family living in a JWW-funded bamboo shelter. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
We visited many of the JWW-funded structures. The last one, No. 50, was a different design. It had not only the concrete floor, but also concrete pillars going around the entire perimeter. “This is our new design,” Haythem said. It is much more durable. Now, if the bamboo sheeting is ripped or damaged, we can just replace it, but the structure is still sound. This will last many years.” As I entered, I immediately saw an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine marked with the familiar intricate gold design. A piece of bright pink cloth lay upon it, a project in the works. This was the first sewing machine I had seen here. This woman was bolder than the rest. She engaged with us freely, quite self-assured. I asked her what the machine was for, she said that she made and sold clothes in the market. Her smile conveyed pride at her ability to actually do something. It made me feel better seeing this sturdy home with this proud woman, sewing machine, and expertly woven baby bassinet hanging from the ceiling. She said she had been pregnant with the now-giggling toddler when they fled.
I kept hungering to see programmed activities for the refugees, especially the children, who wove in and out of the impermanent structures or sat in the dirt. Prior to coming, I had carefully studied the highly coordinated aid machinery with myriad organizations, implementing partners, cluster meetings, trainings, assessments. “It used to be much worse,” my companions kept assuring me. It wasn’t the look of the camps themselves that left me concerned. It was the lack of anything for people to do. The stillness and inactivity were deafening, a cloud of lethargy blocking out the sun.
Ann signs a guest book at a learning center in the Kutupalong Camp in Cox’s Bazar. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
We stopped next at a school, it’s outside painted with colorful images. When I popped my head in, all the children began to laugh and cheer. They looked truly happy. I had interrupted an English lesson. Immediately, they broke into a song in English, something to the effect of “Welcome, welcome, thank you, thank you. We are so happy, thank you thank you.” I went to shake the teacher’s hand. She didn’t understand me. She didn’t speak a word of English.
Something came over me, and I just started to cry. Not because I was touched by the children and their cheerful “welcome,” but because of the contrived nature of it all — how they had been trained to sing when they saw a foreign face, not even understanding the words. Rohingya children are not allowed to get a traditional education. Their “informal” curriculum may only be taught in English or Burmese, not Bangla — the language they actually speak and the language used throughout Bangladesh. This creates an invisible barrier between them and the host community, diminishing the possibility of assimilation, eliminating the choice to stay.
It didn’t all really hit me until I got back into the car. Then a wave of sadness engulfed me. I felt flattened by the heaviness of it all. All the listless eyes peering out at me; all the children with untapped potential sitting in the untended dirt; all the women confined to their homes, with nothing to do. Now that the Rohingya have shelter and their basic needs are being met, they need a sense of purpose. A one-room school for all the children I saw in my trek through Camp 4 is not sufficient. “We have to do something.” I beseeched Haythem. “Yes, yes, I know. That will be phase 2.”