How our neighbours, Bangladeshi people, and the government of the People's Republic of Bangladesh extended their hands to the Rohingya victims of genocide.
I was born in Kyaung Na Hpay village, known as Horron Nappi by the locals, in the northern Maungdaw township of Arakan state, now called Rakhine, in Myanmar. Our peaceful village was destroyed in September 2017 when I was just 10.
Although discrimination had existed for a long time, our village was full of life -- green fields, neighbours helping one another with harvest, or cultivation. With strong faith, we celebrated Eid together, shared food with the poor, and prayed shoulder to shoulder in the Masjid. We had lived there for generations, farming the lands, raising the children, and learning side by side.
In 2017, my elder brother was enrolled in grade 9 while I was in grade 4. Suddenly, all local schools were closed on August 25 without a clear reason, leaving us without access to education. Our local bazaar, Kha Maung Seik Market, or Foira Bazar in the Rohingya language, was seized by the military, cutting off our access to food, rice, oil, salt, soap, etc. Every day became harder. Our daily lives fell into a state of fear and silence.
Then, the violence came -- during Eid-ul Adha, the day we should have been celebrating.
In 2017, two days after Eid-ul Adha, an ethnic group who lived in our forest, began looting our green paddy fields, properties, and gardens -- while the Myanmar Military was patrolling along the roadsides.
We were not soldiers, we were farmers, children, mothers, elders, and students. Yet, they treated us like our existence was a crime. The day before we fled, a Military Commanding Officer ordered all adults to bow under the tough heat and separated Islamic teachers for questioning.
My father is an Islamic teacher, and he was among those targeted. For a long time, we feared wearing religious clothing due to brutal treatment from the military, and we were restricted from praying and calling the Adhan. On the same day, a military personnel member took my grandfather, a retired government headteacher, under a bridge and pointed their guns at him for questioning. After that, the commanding officer spoke in Burmese and asked my grandfather to translate into Rohingya for the villagers.
My elder brother watched from home and was threatened when an escort fired a bullet into the air as a warning.
On September 8, 2017, my village fled. We became a flood of broken people walking through hills and forests. I remember the long lines of mothers carrying babies, of elders walking shakily, of children too stunned to cry.
I just recalled that I was carrying a blue school bag. We had no food, no water, no protection -- only each other.
We had lost our village. But not our hope.
We all moved together toward the border of Bangladesh. It was our only chance to stay alive. For days, we crossed mud, jungle, and rain. Some fell sick. Some fell behind. Some kept going.
When we reached the border, we were scared.
Would we be returned? Would anyone help us? But what we found on the other side was not rejection. It was kindness. People from local communities came to the border with food and medicine.
On the other hand, the border guards of Bangladesh were driving away the bandits.
Firstly, we took shelter in a narrow tent on the border of Naikhongchari. We were piled up around 12 people huddled together in that tent. Our mother country had denied our existence. But here was a stranger calling us neighbors -- treating us like friends.
Life in the refugee camp was difficult. There were not enough shelters, food, clean water, or education. My mother often cooked with dirty water. Taking a bath or washing was impossible. However, Bangladesh, with its own struggles, kept helping. After four months in Naikhongchari, we were relocated to Kutupalong camp. The government worked with international organizations and other governments to create a safer place. We pray together under a plastic roof.
Every year on World Refugee Day, we remember those we lost and those who helped us stay alive. Bangladesh didn't just share land -- it shared heart. Bangladesh is our neighbour: Bangladesh is our friend.
In the darkest moment, it was a neighbour's kindness that gave us light. We are thankful to Bangladesh, and we hope that one day we will return to our homeland with our heads high, and rebuild what was taken from us.
Faizul Islam is an 18-year-old Rohingya refugee. This essay won first prize in an essay competition organized by Rohingya Refugee Response partners under the shared umbrella of “My Neighbor, My Friend” for World Refugee Day (WRD).
