From the Ashes of Arakan to the Frontlines of Advocacy
By Abu Hubibe | Camp 2W, Kutupalong | May 1, 2025
My name is Mohammed Asem, and I am a Rohingya youth, a survivor of genocide, a social worker, a photographer, and a voice for the voiceless. Born in Thea Chaung—known in Rohingya as “Moli Zaga”—in Myanmar’s Rakhine State, I lived a quiet life with my family under the shadow of state discrimination. That fragile peace was shattered forever on August 25, 2017—a date engraved into the soul of every Rohingya.
At just ten years old, I was forced to flee with my family as the Myanmar junta unleashed a coordinated campaign of mass killings, arson, and rape. They burned our villages, slaughtered our men, violated our women, and murdered children in cold blood. Survival meant escape—and escape meant leaving everything behind.
Family, Flight, and a Massacre on the River
I come from a family of five. My father, U Shahid Alom, is an Islamic teacher currently living abroad. My mother, Daw Dil Newas, is the pillar of our family—strong, loving, and steadfast. My elder brother, Mohammed Muslim (20), is a student and a teacher at an NRC learning center, and my younger brother, Mohammed Salem (15), is pursuing Islamic studies.
As our home burned, we joined a group of families and fled on wooden boats. But midway across the river, Myanmar soldiers opened fire on us. One of the boats behind ours was hit. We watched helplessly as every soul on board was killed—children, women, elders. It was a scene of horror I will never forget.
We hid on a forested island, exhausted and terrified. Hours later, we reached the border of Bangladesh—but our suffering wasn’t over.
The Border That Almost Didn’t Open
At the border, Bangladesh Border Guard (BGB) initially refused us entry.
“Go back to your country,” they said.
But where could we go? Our homes were ash, our neighbors dead.
After pleading and spending another night in the wilderness, we made another attempt—only to be robbed by mobs along the riverbanks. Our last possessions were taken. But finally, under pressure from higher authorities and humanitarian organizations, the border was opened.
We were received by compassionate villagers, who gave us biscuits, water, and shelter. After two days, we were relocated to Kutupalong Refugee Camp (Camp 2W). Even in safety, we had to buy a small plot to set up a makeshift home—as opportunists had begun selling land even within the camps.
Fighting for Education in Exile
I had studied up to Class 4 in Myanmar. After arriving in Bangladesh, my education was abruptly halted. I searched everywhere for a way to resume learning. After four months, I began private studies with community teachers, and then joined a UNICEF-run NGO school, where I studied for seven months.
But I longed for formal education in the Myanmar curriculum. On August 12, 2019, I enrolled in a community-led school inside the camp. Despite the odds, I persevered—and in 2023, I passed Class 10, one of the proudest achievements of my life.
From Student to Storyteller: Finding My Voice
As I grew older, I realized survival alone wasn’t enough—I needed to speak out. At first, I had no phone, no access to social media. I occasionally used my mother’s mobile to browse Facebook. One of my teachers saw potential in me.
“Why don’t you make a video?” he said.
I was terrified. I had never spoken publicly. But I tried.
My first video was titled “Rohingya Powerless.” I followed it with another on the education crisis in the camps. Slowly, I found my voice.
I opened a Twitter (now X) account named “RHR Asem”—short for Rohingya Human Rights Asem. I wanted the world to hear our stories—not as statistics, but as human beings.
Later, I connected with the Rohingya Human Rights Network, who amplified my voice. I began documenting injustice, sharing survivor stories, and calling for justice—not only for the genocide in Myanmar, but also for the quiet suffering inside the camps.
A Dream Born from Pain: Becoming a Doctor
My greatest dream is to become a doctor. I’ve seen too many people—children, mothers, the elderly—die without treatment while fleeing, or inside the camps. That pain became my purpose.
But as a refugee, this dream often feels unreachable. Education is limited. Opportunities are scarce. It’s like dreaming from within a prison. Still, I hold onto hope.
“If I can learn, if I can speak, then maybe I can serve.”
Final Reflections: We Are Not Silent Anymore
My story is only one among hundreds of thousands. We, the Rohingya youth, carry scars and strength. The world may forget us. The politicians may dismiss us. But we remember who we are.
We are Rohingya.
We are survivors.
We are the future.
And our voices will rise—louder, stronger, and clearer—until the world listens.
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