When I fled Myanmar in 2017, I carried very little with me. My family escaped violence, persecution, and fear.
We walked for days through forests and mountains before reaching Bangladesh. Along the way, we lost our home, our security, and the future we had imagined.
But there was one thing I refused to leave behind: My belief in education.
Today, on World Literacy Day, we often think about literacy as the ability to read and write. For refugees, it means much more.
Literacy can mean understanding your rights, accessing reliable information, communicating with the world beyond a refugee camp, challenging misinformation, and finding the confidence to speak for yourself.
For me, education became one of the most powerful forms of protection.
As a Rohingya refugee in Bangladesh, I watched thousands of young people grow up with extremely limited access to formal education. They had dreams of becoming doctors, teachers, engineers, lawyers, and community leaders.
Displacement did not take away their talent or ambition. It took away their opportunities.
This distinction matters.
Refugees do not choose to become refugees. No child chooses to flee war, persecution, or violence. Yet once displaced, refugee children are often expected to carry the consequences of decisions they never made.
They encounter restrictions on movement, lack of legal documentation, poverty, discrimination, language barriers, and limited pathways to higher education.
The result is not simply an education crisis. It is a loss of human potential.
When a young person spends years in a refugee camp without meaningful access to education, we should not ask why that person has failed to progress. We should ask why the systems around them failed to provide an opportunity.
I know what that feels like.
For years, I tried to find a way to continue my education while living as a stateless Rohingya refugee in Bangladesh. There were moments when the possibility of attending a university seemed almost impossible.
I had the desire to learn. I was willing to work. What I did not have was the legal status and opportunity that most students take for granted.
Yet I continued.
In 2024, after seven years as a refugee in Bangladesh, I came to the United States as a student. This year, I graduated from New York University with a bachelor's degree in social science, concentrating in international studies.
My journey from a refugee camp in Cox's Bazar to a university classroom in New York has taught me something important: Talent is universal, but opportunity is not.
I am not the only Rohingya young person capable of reaching a university. There are students in the refugee camps today who could become doctors, lawyers, teachers, entrepreneurs, researchers, diplomats, and leaders.
But talent cannot substitute indefinitely for access.
Through the Rohingya Student Network, which I founded while living in the refugee camp, I have seen what happens when young people are given opportunities to learn.
Education does more than transfer knowledge. It builds confidence. It develops leadership. It gives people the tools to understand the forces shaping their lives and the ability to participate in decisions about their future.
That is why literacy should also be understood as a question of power.
A person who can access information, evaluate it critically, understand their rights, communicate their ideas, and tell their own story is harder to silence.
For a stateless community whose identity and history have repeatedly been denied or misrepresented, that matters enormously.
Literacy also matters in the digital age. Refugees increasingly receive news, communicate, organize, study, and understand events through phones and social media.
Being literate today therefore requires more than reading words on a page. Young people must also be able to distinguish information from misinformation, understand how digital platforms influence what they see, and use technology responsibly.
For the Rohingya, these skills are particularly important. We have already witnessed the devastating consequences of misinformation, hate speech, and dehumanizing narratives.
Education must therefore prepare young people not only for employment but also to think critically, challenge hatred, engage peacefully with others, and become responsible participants in their communities.
The international community often speaks about durable solutions for refugees. Education must be at the centre of that conversation.
Investing in refugee education is not charity. It is one of the smartest investments governments, universities, and donors can make in human potential.
Educated refugees contribute to economies, strengthen communities, promote social cohesion, and help build peace.
They become problem-solvers rather than being viewed solely through the lens of humanitarian need.
My life changed because people and institutions eventually saw beyond my refugee status and recognized my potential as a student. That should not be an exceptional story.
On this World Literacy Day, I hope we move beyond asking how many refugee children can read and write. We should ask a much bigger question: How many have been given the education necessary to determine their own future?
Food keeps people alive. Shelter provides safety. Humanitarian assistance helps people survive displacement.
But education gives people the tools to move beyond survival.
For a refugee, a book can be more than a book. A classroom can be more than a classroom. And literacy can be more than the ability to read and write.
It can be the beginning of freedom.
Maung Sawyedollah is a Rohingya student and activist currently living in New York City. He graduated from New York University this spring with a BA in social science and is currently preparing to start a JD.