By: RO Maung Shwe
Mohammed Anas, a 17-year-old Rohingya student from northern Maungdaw Township in Rakhine State, Myanmar, now lives in the overcrowded refugee camps of Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. He studies at a madrasa outside the camp.
For Anas, Eid al-Fitr is no longer the joyful celebration it once was—it has become a bittersweet reminder of his homeland’s identity, loss, and fading traditions.
Before the military crackdown in 2017, Eid in his village was a time of happiness and preparation. Weeks before Eid, families would begin shopping for clothes, food, and decorations. Anas’s father would take them to the local market to pick out outfits, but the final decisions always rested with his mother.
As the only young boy in the family, Anas often became the errand runner, buying and exchanging items not only for his immediate family but also for neighbors and relatives. In a society where women rarely went to markets, his role was vital. While it cut into his playtime, he was rewarded with small gifts—coins, fruit, and festive snacks.
He remembers how the neighborhood would buzz with anticipation. Young children eagerly awaited new clothes and gifts, and families prepared traditional sweets like semai.
Anas, an agile tree climber, would help neighbors gather coconuts used in cooking Eid delicacies. These tasks, though tiring, gave him a sense of pride and community. In the evenings, families would gather to clean the surroundings, decorate homes with simple lanterns, and share tea while discussing their Eid plans.
His last Eid in Myanmar—2017—is etched into his memory. That morning, the familiar aroma of semai drifted through their modest home. He woke early, bathed in the nearby stream, and dressed in a white kurta his mother had carefully saved for. Though simple, the garment made him feel proud.
As he walked to the mosque, he noticed the silence—many families had already fled, and fear hung in the air. Still, the Eid prayer offered a brief moment of unity and peace.
Returning home, he found his mother preparing rice, a small portion of meat, and semai. His siblings played outside, unaware of the looming danger. Neighbors visited to exchange food and blessings. These simple acts brought warmth and a fleeting sense of normalcy.
Despite their limited means, the sense of unity and compassion among villagers made the occasion special.
But even during Eid, reminders of discrimination were inescapable. As a Rohingya, Anas faced constant restrictions. He and others in his community were denied citizenship, barred from university, and subjected to curfews and checkpoints. Celebrations had to be subdued, always under the watchful eyes of the military.
That fragile peace shattered soon after. During a military raid, Anas’s mother was killed in a bomb blast. With her, Eid’s joy vanished. Fleeing with what little remained, Anas and his family crossed into Bangladesh, joining hundreds of thousands of other Rohingya seeking refuge.
Life in the refugee camp has been a stark contrast. Gone are the vibrant Eids filled with gifts and laughter. Ration cuts, unemployment, and limited freedom have reduced the festivities to mere survival.
This year, Anas can’t afford a new kurta, let alone buy gifts for others. His father’s income once allowed for Eid shopping and visits to nearby villages. Now, movement is restricted, and daily life revolves around aid distributions and long waits in line. With most of the family’s possessions lost in their escape, they now rely on donations and food vouchers.
Despite these hardships, Anas holds tightly to his memories. He remembers the love his mother poured into cooking, the excitement of shopping trips, and the unity of his community during Eid.
These memories sustain him and give him strength. Sometimes, he shares these stories with younger children in the camp, keeping the memory of those traditions alive.
“I still pray to return to our homeland,” he says. “I dream of celebrating Eid again in my village—without fear, without fences, and with the dignity we deserve.”
He adds, “The graves of our elders call for Fatiha, but we are not there. The Qurans they once read now lie in ashes. Yet, our faith remains.”
Even as Anas navigates life in exile, he remains committed to preserving his identity and faith. He continues his studies with dedication and believes that education will one day empower his generation to reclaim their rightful place in society. His dream is to become a teacher so he can uplift and inspire other displaced Rohingya children.
Mohammed Anas’s story is one of thousands among the Rohingya community—young lives uprooted by violence and forced into exile.
Eid, once a celebration of joy, is now a day of mourning and survival. Yet in the face of loss and hardship, the Rohingya continue to find strength in their memories, faith, and collective hope. Anas’s longing to return reflects a powerful truth: even in exile, the dream of dignity, justice, and home endures.
His story reminds the world that behind every refugee is a life full of memories, resilience, and the unbreakable will to live with dignity.
Thanks you for sharing and for writing this piece. Your writing is sensory and beautiful. Thank you Anas for sharing a bit of your life.