I had the privilege of meeting some extraordinary women over the course of this past week in Cox’s Bazar. There is no better time to tell their stories than on International Women’s Day. I spoke with them sitting cross-legged on the dirt or cement floors of their impermanent dwellings, and they let me catch a glimpse into their lives and courageous hearts. Despite their lack of education and the degradation and fear that has shaped them since the day they were born — at the hands of a country that has systematically tried to blot them out and break their spirits — my conversations with these women affected me more profoundly than most any I have had in my life. The outside world needs to hear what they have to say.
Shamila and the voice of the people
I met Shamila on a very rainy day. I’m a relatively adaptive person, but going to the camps in the pouring rain definitely tested me. It took about 3 hours to even get there. Were it not for Rares Michael Ghilezan and his Rohingya friend accompanying me, I might have given up and turned around.
Rain amplifies the devastating circumstances in the camps, starkly illuminating the challenges of day-to-day life. Most of the people run around barefoot in the mud, which is really more like thick orange sludge that’s more slippery than anything I’ve ever encountered. Just walking around is a formidable feat, and you never know what you’re stepping in, as all the dirt, debris, garbage, and waste runs together. Most of the shelters begin to leak as the water finds its way between the metal sheeting and cardboard and plastic haphazardly assembled to create the semblance of a roof. When I think of how often it rains here in Bangladesh, it makes me shudder. The monsoons can quite literally push these dwellings over the edge.
I took off my shoes and entered the tidy, relatively spacious home of Shamila’s parents. Colorful mats were spread over the floor, where I joined her. Shamila works for a communications organization that produces and distributes radio programming throughout the camps. She travels around the camps interviewing Rohingya on various topics, ranging from early marriage and child trafficking to water sanitation and chickenpox. She also works to dispel rumors floating around the camps, like the one about vaccinations being a tool of religious conversion. With pervasive illiteracy and limited access to information, rumors spread at a frightening rate, often having the calamitous effect of preventing the Rohingya from accessing the services they desperately need.
Her style of reporting is “vox pop,” which translates to “voice of the people.” Vox pop is a media tool to provide a snapshot of public opinion on any given topic. Her interviews are combined with other materials to create radio programs on diverse issues. The Rohingya join together in listening groups to hear the newest program off of someone’s phone.
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Shamila is articulate and competent. Even though I don’t speak Chittagonian, I can tell by the passion and earnestness in her voice and how she carries herself that she is exceptional. “It must feel good to play such an important role for your people and to have a voice,” I say. “I feel good, but not great. I want to be a real journalist and travel the world reporting on stories, but I can’t leave the camps.” I tell her she is a real journalist, but I get how those constraints hold her back from realizing her dreams.
We talk for a while about the various people she’s met through her job. She tells me that yesterday she was with the Public International Law and Policy Group (PILPG). If you recall, PILPG is the law firm that was contracted by the U.S. State Department to investigate the atrocities committed against the Rohingya in the 2017 crackdown by the Tatmadaw. PILPG ultimately found that there were reasonable grounds to conclude that genocide had been committed, though the State Department still classifies the situation as ethnic cleansing. Shamila is representing her people before organizations that I probably couldn’t even get a meeting with, yet she cannot step foot outside the camps. Could you imagine knowing you have such potential but literally being barred from realizing it?
“We hear the word human rights, and we are human, but where are our rights? I would rather die in Myanmar than waste away my days here.” If there were a single sentence that could capture the Rohingya predicament, this would be it.
We dive into a discussion of many different issues, which I will summarize here. With regard to what people in the camps need most, Shamila says healthcare. Chronic patients simply cannot get the help they need. She also tells me that education is crucial, particularly for women. “In Myanmar, there were various forms of discrimination holding us back, but what is the reason for depriving us here?” She says there should be vocational skills training centers in every single camp, multiple even. “I have only seen one sewing center for women in Camp 3. They should be everywhere! That would be good.” I’m used to women talking about women’s issues, but Shamila is equal opportunity when it comes to identifying gaps. “The men, they sit idle because there is nothing for them to do. It’s dangerous. They’re like in prison.”
And, then, we turn to trauma. I didn’t ask Shamila about her journey here. I see that she is surrounded by family — her mother and father, her sisters, her baby girl and husband — and I am thankful for that. She is one of the lucky ones, but she can still see the effects of trauma gone untreated. “The problem is, even if they receive psychosocial support, they have no way of moving beyond what happened to them. Most of the people here are ignorant. They can’t read or work, so they sit around thinking about the horrors that happened to them. If they were busy, they would be able to heal. Many women here were raped or had their husbands killed in front of them. They get interviewed by many who come through the camps, but they get nothing in return. They just feel that pain again and again. Their minds get stuck. Women want to do crafts, make something with their hands. Many women here are very talented; they can make beautiful things, but they don’t have the materials.”
While Shamila and I are talking, her father quietly walks in. He is a tall and handsome man, very stoic in his demeanor. There is nobility about him. I turn to him and say, “Your daughter is an inspiration, you must be so proud!” His reply: “I could not make her what I wanted. I wanted her to be educated.” Shamila was in her third year of university when she and her family had to flee. As the conversation continues, he cradles his grandson in his lap and wipes a lone tear from the corner of his eye.
I want to be able to tell Shamila that I can help her, that I can get her out of the camps and back at university, but I know I can’t. She is more deserving of the opportunity to learn than most, but it will remain beyond her reach until the status of the Rohingya people is recognized, justice for the crimes perpetrated against them is served, and they can safely, voluntarily, and sustainably return to their homeland.
ACLAB’s Listening Group
Rohingya women listen to radio programming during an ACLAB listening session.
After meeting a reporter, it was only appropriate that I visit a listening group, too. I had originally made plans to meet with the staff of ACLAB in Cox’s Bazar city near my hotel. But a last-minute switch in plans allowed me to experience the full circle of communications efforts inside the camps.
ACLAB is a Bangladesh-based organization that operates the only radio station permitted by the government of Bangladesh to broadcast inside the camps. It is called Radio Naf, after the river that runs between Bangladesh and Myanmar. ACLAB partners with the organization that employs Shamila, but they are separate entities. ACLAB also deploys a team of reporters, both Bangladeshi and Rohingya, to interview refugees and produce content that is broadcast weekly in listening groups throughout the various camps.
Outside of an unassuming hut, no different from the rest, was a sign indicating that a listening group was in session. About twenty men sat crowded around a small red radio. I was ushered into the room and given a small stool, but opted to sit on the floor. The men smiled and stared. I asked where the women were, if they had a different group just for them. “They’re in the other room,” said ACLAB Program Director Rashidul Hasan. “Oh, well I guess I’m in the wrong place then,” I answered, as I got up to leave, thanking the men as I exited. I walked next door to enter the women’s hut, which was dark and warm. About ten women sat on the floor, some with babies on their laps. Some younger girls and boys were also present, straining to hear the radio programming through the curtain separating the two rooms.
A female employee from ACLAB translated as I told the women about JWW and why I was in the camps. They greeted me very warmly. I immediately spotted the dominant female, a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with a baby boy at her breast, whose name I didn’t catch, so I will call her Noreen. I asked the group what their needs were. Noreen immediately replied, “Clean Water. More Food. Gas for cooking. Getting rid of the insects and rats. Stopping the flooding.” And finally, “more pots.” All of the others shook their heads in agreement, chatting excitedly amongst themselves.
I asked if they had a chance to take advantage of any of the services in the camps, like psychosocial support or skills training. Noreen pointed to a girl standing in an adjacent room with her daughter. “Her husband’s head was cut off in front of her, so she was not well when she came, but she has improved. I looked at the young woman’s exquisite face, and she nodded. Though it was dark, I could see white scars all over the neck and chest of her daughter. She looked to be about 10. I could tell the widow didn’t want to talk about it, so I quickly changed the subject.
“What about the rest of you, do you go to classes or do other things in the camps?” I inquired. “We are mostly confined to the home doing household tasks, but sometimes we go to the women-friendly spaces,” Noreen again answered. I asked whether the children go to school. All of the women responded with an impassioned “Yes!”
“That is the best, best part of being in the camps. What our children couldn’t do at home, they can do here. We are happy they are finally getting an education!” The others, once again, resoundingly agreed.
I must admit to being surprised by this new perspective. Here I am worrying about what language they’re teaching in the learning centers, while many of the Rohingya feel blessed just to have their children getting any kind of education. Sometimes I forget that the massacres and mass exodus from Myanmar destroyed everyone’s lives, without prejudice. The Tatmadaw did not distinguish between rich or poor, educated or ignorant. The military wanted to wipe all of them out, and their genocidal actions cut all the Rohingya down to the same status in life — survivor. Rich or poor, educated or ignorant, they all crossed into Bangladesh with empty hands and broken hearts. Some just fell from higher up than others.
One of the baby boys squatted next to me and I stroked his shaven head. It made me miss my own sons terribly. I asked the ladies if they wanted to see pictures of my children. This had become my go-to for breaking the ice or getting a laugh. They passed around the photos, admiring them. They thought they were girls because of their long hair. By the number of barbershops I’ve seen in the camps, I can tell that Bangladeshi men take their haircuts very seriously. When I told them they were boys, they giggled, embarrassed. “They are beautiful,” they all told me. “So are yours.”
In this dark, crowded hut on the other side of the world, I felt like I was among girlfriends, sharing the things that concerned us, doting on our children. The Rohingya women have formed their own support groups, their own communities. They hold each other up, so that they may hold up their respective families in the face of incomprehensible loss and unconscionable violations. I will think of them whenever the challenges of my privileged life seem too much to bear. I honor them on this International Women’s Day for their daily heroism and strength.