In the sprawling camps of Cox’s Bazar, where monsoon rains turn paths into rivers of mud, the Rohingya speak less about food parcels and more about home. Over 930,000 Rohingya refugees have lived in limbo here since 2017, when Myanmar’s military launched a campaign the UN described as bearing “the hallmarks of genocide.” Today, aid flows steadily tents, rice, water but what they ask for, again and again, is not more assistance, but the right to return to Rakhine State under safe, dignified, and voluntary conditions.
According to the UNHCR, fewer than 1,000 Rohingya have been repatriated to Myanmar since 2018, despite multiple bilateral agreements between Bangladesh and Myanmar. Most refugees refuse to go back without guarantees of citizenship, security, and property restitution none of which have materialized. Meanwhile, Bangladesh’s government, citing security and environmental strain, has relocated over 30,000 refugees to the remote island of Bhasan Char, a move criticized by human rights groups as isolating and unsustainable.
In Camp 18, near Kutupalong, 72-year-old Nurul Amin sits on a bamboo stool, his eyes fixed on a faded photograph of his village in Maungdaw. “My mango tree still stands,” he says softly, tracing the image with a trembling finger. “But who waters it now?” Around him, children play barefoot in the rain, their laughter briefly lifting the heavy air. Yet the camp’s reality is stark: overcrowding, restricted movement, and no access to formal education beyond age 12. The loss isn’t just of land it’s of language, lineage, and the rhythm of a life once known.
Despite the uncertainty, resilience pulses through the camps. Women like Fatima Begum lead informal schools under tarpaulin roofs. Young men repair solar panels donated by NGOs, while others document oral histories to preserve their culture. A youth initiative called “Voice of Rakhine” now broadcasts weekly radio segments in Rohingya dialect, sharing news and poetry. These acts aren’t replacements for justice but they are assertions of existence.
International pressure on Myanmar remains fragmented. While the International Court of Justice ordered provisional measures in 2020 to prevent further genocidal acts, enforcement is weak. Meanwhile, climate change compounds the crisis: rising sea levels and cyclones threaten both Cox’s Bazar and the low-lying villages of Rakhine. Yet Rohingya leaders insist that environmental risk should not delay repatriation it should accelerate the creation of safe, sustainable return pathways. “We are not asking for charity,” says Kyaw Hla Aung, a former teacher now advising refugee councils. “We are asking for what belongs to us.”
Aid keeps bodies alive, but only justice can restore souls. Until Myanmar recognizes the Rohingya as citizens with full rights and until the international community treats return not as a logistical footnote but as a moral imperative the camps will remain open-air prisons draped in good intentions. And somewhere, beneath the mud and monsoon, a child will keep drawing a house with a red roof, a green tree, and a door left open just in case.
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