When I was a young girl, I knew two things for certain. First, I was Rwandan. Second, I would not be a refugee my entire life, even though I had been born as one.
My parents had fled from Rwanda to Burundi before I was born, forced to leave their homes, livelihoods, and community behind to seek safety from the violence tearing through their country.
I grew up with a refugee card and the knowledge that my heritage, my identity, lay across the mountains on the other side of the border. I knew my heart belonged there, and that one day I would return home.
From several points across the Rohingya refugee camps near Cox’s Bazar, you can see Myanmar. Green hills in the distance that, on sunny days, stand sharply defined against a blue sky. Nine years ago, more than 700,000 people crossed those hills, fleeing deadly violence and persecution, and made their way to these camps on foot. The 40-minute walk from the border to the camps turned into years of displacement.
Whenever I speak to refugees in the camps, they often unconsciously gesture toward those hills when talking about their lives in Myanmar.
Home is never far from their minds. Older people reminisce about the lives they left behind; young adults remember childhoods spent in freedom, not within the barbed-wire confines of a refugee camp. The younger children may have only vague memories, but their Rohingya identity is kept very much alive by parents and older siblings.
There are thousands of miles between Burundi and Bangladesh, but the refugees’ harrowing stories of the violence that forced them to flee are eerily familiar.
Stories of burned homes, physical violence, indiscriminate killings, and sexual violence echo the same testimonies I heard from my parents and the community I grew up in.
They are the same stories I have also heard in Sudan, South Sudan, Yemen, Ethiopia, Algeria, and Peru throughout my humanitarian career.
For nearly 42 million refugees around the world, fleeing across an international border was the only way to find safety when their homes became places of fear and danger.
Just as the Rohingya once did. Just as millions of Bangladeshis did in 1971. Just as my parents once did.
Each time, the safety offered by a neighbouring country saved lives. The right to seek safety belongs to all of us. Because none of us knows if, one day, we might become a refugee.
But finding safety isn’t the end of the story, especially when short-term shelter turns into protracted displacement.
When I promised myself that I would not be a refugee forever, it was rooted in hope and the belief that something better was possible.
In the Rohingya refugee camps today, I see that hope fading.
In recent years, a new wave of refugees has arrived, bringing with them those same familiar stories of destruction and violence. Stories that paint a picture of anything but safety.
The road back to Myanmar may feel impossibly steep, while opportunities to rebuild lives in Bangladesh are extremely limited. Livelihood opportunities exist for only a few, and access to higher education remains out of reach.
Many people told me they feel trapped: Unable to return home, yet unable to move forward. And when hope disappears, desperation can lead to unimaginable choices, such as boarding fragile boats to cross dangerous seas in search of a better future. Far too often, Rohingya refugees perish in the Andaman Sea.
In refugee camps like those in Bangladesh, restoring hope means creating the conditions for people to see a future again. It means expanding access to education and livelihoods, especially for young adults, so they can regain a sense of purpose and provide for their families.
It also means supporting community initiatives that build connection and agency, giving future leaders the space to grow. But as funding continues to decline, humanitarian agencies are forced to prioritize their assistance to bare-bones, life-saving support only. And programs like these are most at risk of being cut back.
The Rohingya refugees themselves, the people of Bangladesh, and the entire humanitarian community share one clear aspiration: For the Rohingya to return home to Myanmar when conditions allow them to do so voluntarily, safely, with dignity and full rights.
No one wants to see them return only to face danger again or to be forced to flee again within months.
If we truly want refugees to be able to return and rebuild their communities, then placing hope at the centre of humanitarian support in Bangladesh is non-negotiable.
This ensures that people feel supported where they are, can contribute to the communities they live in now, and can turn time spent in displacement into a period of growth rather than stagnation.
When the day comes for them to safely return, they are ready to lead the rebuilding of their communities. This is not just about meeting immediate needs; it is about investing in possibility.
Like the Rohingya who gaze toward those distant hills, I know what it means to belong to a place you cannot reach. It was hope that carried me from displacement to possibility, and it is that same hope that lives in every refugee camp around the world.
If we protect and nurture it through education and opportunity, one day it will guide people home. Because when we choose to empower people, not just shelter them, hope becomes more than an idea; it becomes the foundation for rebuilding lives.
Juliette Murekeyisoni is the Deputy Representative of UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency, in Bangladesh. Her humanitarian career has spanned 20 years and four continents.