“We grew up waiting”

Human Wrongs Watch

Interview and photos: Ratul Biswas Piul | The Norwegian Refugee Council*

Eight years of displacement for Abu and the Rohingya people

Abu, 18, has spent nearly half his life in this refugee camp.

For many days before that, there had been political and social unrest in Rakhine state. That day, it came to our door. With only dry food, a little money, and some clothes, my family and I left our home in fear. I did not even get a chance to look at our small house one last time, surrounded by mango, guava, and jackfruit trees.

That night, we stayed in a nearby village, but the next day, the violence spread there too. Houses were set on fire. Every day we kept moving from one village to another, sleeping wherever we could. For eight or nine days, we lived like that, running, hiding, and waiting.

Finally, like many others, we crossed into Bangladesh. First we stayed with a kind Bangladeshi family in Teknaf. They gave us food, clothes, and a place to rest for two days. Then we heard that temporary camps had been set up where aid agencies were helping people. We decided to go there.

“Life was full of fear and hardship. Only God knows how we survived in those early days.”

When we arrived, we saw hills covered in jungle. There were no proper places for shelters, no toilets, and no clean clothes. People were sitting in long lines on both sides of the muddy road.

Life was terrifying. We survived with the support of aid agencies and local people; they provided food and dry rations. Later, my family built a small shelter, like many other refugees did.

I still remember how we dug holes in the ground, put sticks around them, and wrapped plastic sheets to use as toilets. There was no other option. Life was full of fear and hardship. Only God knows how we survived in those early days.

Abu walks through the narrow paths of the Rohingya refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar. He’s no longer the boy who arrived in 2017, but a young man navigating displacement and hope.

Today, after eight years, life in the camp has changed in some ways. Now we live in a bamboo and plastic shelter. It is very hot in summer, and during the rainy season, the roof leaks and the hillsides are unstable.

Inside our home, nine of us – my parents, my siblings and I – live in just two tiny rooms. But at least we have a roof over our heads.

In the beginning, we had to stand in long lines for food. Now, we receive regular rations, though the food is very limited. If we want to eat something different, we must buy it ourselves, but money is always short. Many people in our community suffer from malnutrition.

There are some improvements. We now have safer toilets, though hygiene issues remain. We get water twice a day, but collecting it is difficult.

Our shelter is up a hill, and we must walk down and wait in line at the tap station. During the rains, the roads become broken and slippery, making it even harder.

Healthcare has also improved. In the beginning, there were no clinics in the camp, and we did not know where to go if someone was sick. Now, there are some hospitals run by aid organisations, but they cannot treat serious diseases and often lack medicine.

My father suffers from terrible headaches. He has gone to hospital many times and taken medicine, but he is still not well.

The camp itself has developed in some ways. Roads have been built, small markets have opened, and solar streetlights shine at night.

But there are still challenges. There are very few play areas for us in the camp. As a result, many young people get involved in unethical activities like online gambling. This is worrying for our future.

Abu sits on the floor surrounded by his backpack and books that keep his hope for education alive. His formal schooling stopped at eighth grade, but he continues to study.

Abu connects a solar battery to light bulbs during a vocational training session. Through NRC’s skills development programme, he’s learning practical tools for the future.

As a child, Abu dreamed of becoming an engineer. That dream faded in the camp, replaced by a new one: to become a doctor and help those around him who lack medical care.

Education is my biggest challenge, like other Rohingya youths. I attended learning centres run by aid agencies and studied up to eighth grade. After that, there was nothing more. For a long time, I stayed home with no school to go to.

One day, my mother and I went to a local market in Thangkhali, Ukhia.

On the way, I saw a group of children in their school uniforms carrying their books. They were laughing, walking to class. Seeing them made me feel very sad because I do not have the same opportunity to continue studying.

Recently, I joined a skills development programme run by the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC). I am learning vocational skills, which are useful, but after graduation, what should I do? There are still no jobs in the camps.

“We have no citizenship. We have no country to call our own.”

When I was a child, my dream was to become an engineer. I admired people in my village who became engineers and served the community.

But here in the camp, that dream slowly faded. Now I want to become a doctor after seeing all the people in the camp who suffer without proper medical care. I want to help them.

I don’t know if my dream will ever come true, because we do not have access to higher education. But I cannot stop dreaming.

There is something bigger than education, too. We have no citizenship. We have no country to call our own. Without citizenship, life feels uncertain and meaningless.

My greatest wish and the wish of my whole community is to return to our homeland with dignity and rights. Growing up without an identity feels shameful and painful.

When I feel sad or hopeless, I go to my comfort zone, my mother. She is my closest friend. I share everything with her, assist her in household chores, and she also shares her worries with me.

I also have a good friend, Naser*. With him, I study, play, and talk about the future. Sharing with friends helps me escape the camp’s sadness for a while.

Looking around, I see both despair and hope. The camp has improved in some ways, but our lives are still trapped by the fences around us.

Our dreams are also restricted. We cannot leave the camp without special permission. We cannot study freely. We cannot choose our future.

Outside the camp, young people live free, go to university, and plan their lives. We want that chance too.

My one message to the world is this: please do not forget us. We want citizenship. We want dignity. We want to go back to our country, to live not as refugees but as rightful citizens.

That is my dream, and the dream of every Rohingya. We are still waiting and have grown up waiting. I often wonder, how much longer will we wait?

*Names have been changed to protect the individuals’ identity.

NB: This story features a learner from NRC’s Skill Development Programme, with support from the Norwegian Agency for Development Cooperation (Norad) and the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida).

Read more about our work in Bangladesh

*SOURCE: The Norwegian Refugee Council. Go to ORIGINAL: https://www.nrc.no/feature/2025/we-grew-up-waiting 2025 Human Wrongs Watch