Mir Hojaifa Al Mamduh
Thinking about the sorrow of the Rohingya’s makes me feel so helpless! I cannot even imagine being exiled from my own country and living in a seven-by-ten-foot room in a camp in some other country. None of life’s basic rights would be there. For food, I would only receive fifteen taka per meal.
No education, no access to entertainment, no real life. Just a faint, distant hope that someday, maybe, I could return to my land. But alongside that hope, my generations would waste away—without education, without awareness, without a capable leader to advocate for the right to return. I truly don’t know where my end would lie. And with that, an infinite grief for the loved ones I would have lost. I can’t even bear to think of it.
Listening to the stories of the Rohingya’s made me realize that we have our own Israel-Palestine happening, just across the border.
Not far away—if you stand on this side of the river, you can hear the gunshots from the other side, see the burning houses. Sometimes, you’ll witness the desperation of those who have fled, seeking refuge.
I feel so disheartened. As a human being, I feel utterly useless.
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