Nothing blew me away on this trip to Bangladesh more than my visit to the largest Rohingya refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar, the sprawling Kutupalong megacamp where about 600,000 Rohingya refugees are living in chronically overcrowded and squalid conditions … indefinitely. The camp quite literally extends in every direction with no end in sight. It’s dizzying to observe such never-ending need. I stood there, mouth agape, hypnotized by the sea of ramshackle huts, each one tilted in a different direction, all encroaching upon one another. Even when I took a photo and looked at it immediately, the image couldn’t begin to capture the enormity of the devastating view confronting me.
In contrast to the stillness of the smaller camp I visited on my first day in the camps — where Jewish World Watch has funded an expanse of shelters for the refugees — Kutupalong is swarming with people and has a busier, more frenetic energy. Making our way through the camp, I was distracted by the aggressiveness of our driver, who I feared would either send our van careening over a cliff or plow over a small child unable to make a split-second leap to safety. I constantly felt like we were in a vehicle with bad breaks, but the refugees didn’t seem bothered by the presence of this monster hurdling towards them, many not even flinching as they jumped out of the way, as if they had eyes on the back of their heads.
The camp quite literally extends in every direction with no end in sight. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
The hustle and bustle of this camp filled me with relief, particularly since the stagnation of the earlier camp weighed so heavily on my soul. Many people are walking around, including children with backpacks and women with sleeping babies nestled into their necks. Myriad stands line the streets, filled with vendors of all sorts of wares, as well as barbers, tailors, Internet providers. All are run by men. A farmers’ market area has all kinds of fruits and vegetables on display. The most common offering: betel nut leaves filled with a tobacco-like substance that many men chew all day long. “How do they pay for all of this stuff?” I inquire. “Some earn the money illegally, working as laborers in the host community. Some of the more educated ones earn stipends for their work as translators or program staff for NGOs. Some sell their surplus food rations so they can buy other things they need for their families, like vegetables,” one of my travel companions explained.
Today, I toured the facilities of two different organizations whose directors I had met the day before. I craved more interaction with actual refugees, particularly women, to truly get a sense of their quotidian lives, concerns, and hopes. Although those whom with I’ve been touring the camps are among the most genuine people I’ve ever met, for days I was surrounded exclusively by men.
I visited some of PULSE Bangladesh’s facilities in the camps. The first stop was a child-friendly space/learning center adjacent to a women’s counseling center. The children’s space was not as vibrant and joyful as those I had just seen in the slums, but I was happy to find that the two male instructors were Rohingya themselves, and they showed true adoration on their faces as the children chanted in Burmese. This “school” was surrounded by tons of empty space, and I couldn’t help but wonder: why not plant a lush garden here for the children to tend? Maybe put up a slide? I made a suggestion to PULSE’s kind director Atiqul. He seemed very open. It’s just with so much need and so many projects across so many sectors, it’s hard to consider all the little things that make a big difference. I understand.
Ann Strimov Durbin at a PULSE Bangladesh facility in a camp in Cox’s Bazar. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
I was also very pleased to be incontrovertibly forbidden from entering the women’s counseling center next door. Atiqul proudly told me that even a member of the British Parliament had been denied entry the week before. The staff came out to greet me instead: a vocational trainer, two psycho-social workers, a program coordinator. I spoke with the women (yes!) and assured them I completely respect their policies and would have been concerned had they permitted me to enter such a sensitive area.
I also toured two medical clinics run by separate prospective partners. I was impressed by their facilities. Each had an intake area, a pharmacy, a stock room full of months’ worth of supplies, doctors, medics, and neo- and post-natal care. One had ride-on toys to keep the children occupied, the other a breastfeeding corner where nursing mothers could receive lactation advice.
With Obat Helpers, I visited a pilot mobile learning center, where children sat in a half-circle with tablets and headphones. Immad, Obat’s executive director, explained that this system was much more efficient because the teachers — who speak neither English or Burmese, the two permitted languages for informal education in the camps — act more like facilitators, and the content is provided in a much more interactive, game-based way. I must admit that as a parent who actively works to minimize my children’s dependence on electronic devices, I was a bit concerned that the students’ entire curriculum was delivered via tablet. A mix of socialization, play, and tablets would surely be ideal, but it was clear the idea was to get as many children engaged as possible. The pilot targets 90 children in total: three shifts of 30 children each.
Notably, this was the only classroom I visited where the children didn’t immediately jump up and start performing in some way, which actually pleased me. They seemed genuinely engrossed in what they were doing, I’m just not sure if that was entirely a good thing. In talking later about this programming with other prospective partners, we agreed that a combination of mobile learning, play, and art would be ideal. To his credit, Immad is an extremely driven and strategic leader who thinks hard about every choice he makes. My feeling is that he hopes the mobile learning will be more efficient so that more time will open up for other activities when school is not in session, such as sports, games, and crafts.
A student writes on the whiteboard in a school in a camp in Cox’s Bazar. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
The undeniable highlight of my day in the megacamp was visiting a women’s learning center, also run by Obat. There, I found a group of about 15 women working at sewing machines in a spacious facility. Immad had scooped up some of the best real estate in the camps because he foresaw that competition for land that would inevitably ensue after the crackdown. As one of the first organizations to respond to the 2017 mass exodus from Myanmar, Obat strategically organized its various facilities to form a kind of invisible circle around a piece of the megacamp, essentially carving out a target community. “It’s all about community-building for us,” he told me.
His commitment to building local capacity is evident in one of Obat’s program coordinators, Haleem, whom Immad has taken under his wing and essentially groomed to be a young leader. Haleem, whose name I have changed to protect his privacy, was born into the registered UNHCR camps, which were established to deal with a large influx of fleeing Rohingya in 1992. Despite the fact that the refugees of this earlier wave have official UNHCR refugee status — something the recent arrivals do not — they nevertheless enjoy only marginally more freedom than those who fled Myanmar in 2017.
Ann Strimov Durbin with OBAT Executive Director Immad Ahmed at the OBAT School. Photo by Rares Michael Ghilezan
Their camps don’t look much different, either. On my last day in Cox’s, I got to visit the registered camps, albeit unexpectedly. Despite some more permanent structures, the poverty level seems akin to that in the megacamp. I learned that day that although the registered refugees had been able to learn in Bangladesh’s public school system for many years, that privilege was taken away from them last month.
Haleem is one of several remarkable Rohingya young people I immediately wanted to take back home with me so he could enjoy the educational and livelihood opportunities such a resilient, luminous and driven young leader deserves. I found another such bright light in the sewing center.
Yasmin, whose name I also have changed, was the only one to stare straight at me when Haleem asked if anyone would be willing to talk with me. The other women hid their faces and giggled, while Yasmin’s gaze was resolute, a slight smile signifying her willingness. She told me that but for being rescued by a neighbor, she would have died in Myanmar. Her father was killed, so now she had just her mother and brother. When I asked her if she enjoyed coming to the facility, she said, “Yes, because I finally have something to do. We had nothing to do here for almost two years. At least now I can learn something.” I could tell she felt emboldened, so she kept going, her voice getting louder, her gaze more determined, almost defiant. “But, why isn’t there a light in here, when we must stare at the stitches all day? And, we need a fan, a wash facility!” I agreed with her, it was quite dark.
I assured her that I had come to listen to anything she wanted to share, so she spoke for long periods of time, her eyes blazing. “They put this place so high up on a hill, and it is far from my home. I must walk a great distance to be here. Why must I have to walk all the way back to my home to use the toilet?”
Haleem explained to me the structure of the program. A trainer sits in the middle, with three women around her, each at her own machine. The women have full ownership of the process. They had come together to form an association, with democratically elected leadership. The plan was for the center to produce uniforms for the children in Obat’s learning centers. All of the proceeds would be pooled and dispersed by the leadership. Future projects would be decided upon by the women themselves. The trainers are paid, but the trainees were not. Yasmin took issue with this: “Why are they the only ones that make money? I have been here for 8 weeks of training already and earned nothing!” I explained to her that the idea was to teach her a skill so she could go on to earn money. She understands this, but her frustration was palpable.
I inquired whether she had received adequate treatment in the camps for whatever injuries she had sustained in Myanmar, without asking her to elaborate on what she had actually been through. She told me her back still aches constantly, but that the medical facility near her home has not treated her properly. “I have gone there three times already, and each time they have done nothing!” I told her that Obat runs an excellent clinic, but she said it was too far for her to go. With such a vast and sprawling camp, I can understand how getting to the best service provider can be challenging, if you even know of its existence.
I turned to the other women, who were listening silently, more and more of them walking over to us to observe. My face hides nothing. I’m not sure whether they found me silly, curious, or genuinely empathetic. I asked them if anyone had anything to add about their experiences or concerns. They shook their heads. “They are all too shy, but I have told you everything already,” Yasmin said. “We just need something to do, some way to live and help our families. We have been here already so long, what is going to happen to us? I am grateful to be able to come here… .” “But it is not enough,” I finished her sentence in my head. I told her I would voice her concerns to the Obat team. I told her I see great strength in her, and that I will remember her as a leader of women. She finally smiled.
As heartbreaking as it is to see such raw frustration, I appreciate the fight in Yasmin. She is a vital voice in a sea of voicelessness brought on by poverty, persecution, fear, culture, and perhaps just relinquishment in the face of countless vicissitudes. Yet as long as people like Haleem and Yasmin continue to reach higher, I, the team at JWW, and you, our incredible supporters, will do our best to give them shoulders to stand on.