I was born in the 1980s, only a few years after Myanmar’s military regime stripped the Rohingya of citizenship. Yet my parents, like my grandparents, held National Identity Cards once issued in the early 1950s -- documents that affirmed our belonging to the country we called home.
As a child, I watched the Rohingya participate enthusiastically alongside other citizens in the nationwide demonstrations supporting the 8888 student uprising, and take part in subsequent parliamentary elections in 1990, winning four seats.
Many Rohingya believed that Myanmar’s future could still include us.
That belief did not survive. What followed instead was a long, deliberate process of exclusion that culminated in the forced flight of close to a million in 2017 like me. Today, as the International Court of Justice (ICJ) weighs Myanmar’s responsibility for genocide, international law has become my last remaining hope for justice.
For a genocide survivor like me, the ICJ’s verdict is not merely about compensation or legal recognition. It is about the right of a people to exist. Our survival is threatened not only by decades of systematic, state-sponsored violence, but also by the indifference of a world that once vowed “never again.”
We are not only victims of institutionalized persecution but have become hostages to geopolitical calculations. From Nuremberg to the ICTR, ICTY, and ECCC, the international community built mechanisms to confront atrocity. As the Rohingya genocide case proceeds at the ICJ, we ask whether those principles still hold meaning -- or whether they will remain words inscribed in history while a people disappears before their very eyes.
A genocide that began long before 2017
The mass violence that expelled Rohingya from Myanmar in 2017 did not erupt overnight. It was the endpoint of decades of systematic marginalization rooted in law, policy, and propaganda.
Rohingya have lived in Arakan -- today’s Rakhine State -- for centuries, participating in its political and economic life. Following independence in 1948, Rohingya voted, held public office, and were recognized as a native community of the region.
This fragile inclusion began to unravel amid rising xenophobia and militarization. The sectarian violence of 1942, which unfolded during the British retreat from Arakan, marked an early rupture.
Tens of thousands of Muslims were killed, leaving deep scars that successive regimes would later exploit. Still, in the parliamentary period under Prime Minister U Nu, Rohingya retained limited respite through the Mayu Frontier Administration.
That recognition, however, proved conditional and reversible.
Promises made -- and broken
The military coup of 1962 shattered even those limited guarantees. General Ne Win’s regime dismantled the Mayu Frontier Administration and replaced civilian governance with centralized military control. Over time, Rohingya were removed from public service, erased from official ethnic narratives, and increasingly portrayed as foreigners despite generations of residence.
This was not mere neglect. It was a calculated reversal. Rights once granted were quietly withdrawn, then openly denied. Restrictions on movement multiplied. Access to education and employment narrowed. The message became unmistakable: Rohingya no longer belonged, regardless of history or documentation.
Choosing reconciliation -- and paying the price
One of the most overlooked chapters in Rohingya history is the decision by Rohingya armed groups in the early post-independence period to surrender and seek reconciliation with the state. This was not an act of weakness, but of trust -- a belief that peaceful accommodation would lead to recognition and security again.
That trust was betrayed. Instead of political inclusion, the military intensified surveillance and repression. The narrative of Rohingya as a “security threat” persisted, even as Rohingya leaders repeatedly chose ballots over bullets. The lesson was devastating: Even reconciliation would not be rewarded.
Four exodus, two repatriations
Since the military seized power in 1962, Rohingya history has been shaped by repeated cycles of displacement and coerced return. In 1978, General Ne Win’s regime launched Operation Nagamin -- or “Operation Dragon King”-- apparently to conduct a national census.
In reality, it was a campaign of mass arrests, sexual violence, and killings designed to expel Rohingya ahead of population verification. Nearly 250,000 Rohingya fled to Bangladesh to escape the crackdown during that operation.
Under intense international pressure and bilateral agreements, Myanmar later recognized these refugees as Rohingya and subsequently repatriated most of them. But the recognition was short-lived.
In 1982, immediately after repatriation, the regime enacted a new Citizenship Law that eventually stripped Rohingya of nationality altogether, rendering them the world’s largest stateless population in their own homeland where their ancestors lived for centuries.
Despite this legalized erasure, Rohingya continued to pursue inclusion through peaceful means. Rohingya political leaders and student activists -- including members of Rangoon University Rohingya Students Association (RURSA) -- actively participated in the 1988 pro-democracy uprising and the following 1990 general elections. Rohingya candidates won four parliamentary seats, demonstrating civic engagement and political commitment.
The response was swift. The military promptly formed NaSaKa, a special border security force that would become synonymous with systematic abuse, and launched Operation Pyey Thaya -- “Clean and Beautiful Nation.”
Once again, nearly 250,000 Rohingya were driven into Bangladesh. Many remain refugees for over three decades with no access to livelihood and formal education. Peaceful participation, it seemed, was punished as harshly as resistance.
Citizenship removed
The 1982 Citizenship Law institutionalized Rohingya exclusion. Citizenship was replaced with temporary “white cards” that conferred no rights and could be revoked at will. Statelessness became a tool of governance.
Marriage required official permission, often delayed for months. Childbirth was regulated. Restrictions were imposed on family size. Travel between villages required permits. Higher education was effectively closed off, even to those who met academic requirements. These restrictions were not imposed on other communities in Rakhine State.
When law itself becomes a cage
For nearly three decades, daily life resembled existence in an open-air prison. Rohingya could not repair even bamboo homes without permission. Fish farms and small businesses were routinely looted by security forces or their agents. Mosques were demolished or repurposed under bureaucratic pretexts.
Humiliation became routine. At checkpoints, Rohingya passengers were forced off buses, men ordered to remove traditional clothing, women compelled to uncover themselves, while Buddhist travelers remained seated and unquestioned.
Rohingya villagers were seized as porters, forced to carry military supplies, and at times used as human shields during operations. New Buddhist settlements rose on land Rohingya families had owned for generations.
Manipulated participation: The 2010 election
The pattern repeated during the military’s controlled democracy transition. In 2008, a new constitution legalized temporary white-card holders -- including Rohingya -- to vote.
For many Rohingya, this appeared to signal a path back to citizenship. In the 2010 general election, Rohingya voters overwhelmingly supported the Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP), a military-backed proxy led by former generals.
Once again, trust was extended. Once again, it was betrayed.
In 2012, Rakhine State erupted in another wave of violence. Nearly 200 people were killed, and more than 140,000 -- mostly Rohingya -- were displaced. More than a decade later, Rohingya remain confined there, while displaced Rakhine Buddhists have long since been resettled.
In 2013, President Thein Sein told António Guterres, then the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, that Myanmar would take responsibility for its “ethnic nationalities” but could not recognize Rohingya, whom he described as illegal migrants. He proposed resettling them in third countries. The message was clear: Even participation would not lead to belonging.
2017: The endpoint
By 2017, exclusion had reached its logical conclusion. Under the guise of “clearance operations,” Myanmar’s military unleashed a campaign of arson, mass killing, and sexual violence that drove more than 700,000 Rohingya into Bangladesh in weeks. Villages were erased. Families were destroyed.
The world reacted with shock. For Rohingya, it was grimly familiar.
Safety remains elusive
Exile did not bring safety. Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh remain confined to overcrowded camps with uncertain futures. Meanwhile, renewed conflict since 2023 between Myanmar’s military and the Arakan Army has once again placed remaining Rohingya civilians in danger. Human rights groups have documented forced recruitment, village burnings, and killings by both sides.
The persecution did not end with flight. It merely changed form.
Why the ICJ matters now
After decades of broken promises, manipulated participation, and repeated expulsions, no domestic avenue for justice remains. The case brought by The Gambia at the ICJ is not symbolic -- it is existential. A ruling would affirm that what happened to the Rohingya was not accidental or communal, but systematic and unlawful.
The question before the world is simple: Will international law protect a people facing erasure -- or merely record their disappearance?
For me, and for millions like me, the answer may determine whether justice is still possible in our lifetime.
Sabit Hamid is a Rohingya genocide survivor and human rights advocate. Since 2012, he has been documenting human rights violations carried out by the Myanmar authorities against the Rohingya in Myanmar. Currently, he serves as a translator and interpreter for Human Rights Watch.
