By Sarwar Shah
Life can take unexpected turns. Sometimes, it pushes you far from the land you love, the people you grew up with, and the place you once called home. I never imagined I would have to leave Myanmar. But circumstances beyond my control forced me and my family to seek safety in Bangladesh. Becoming a refugee was something I never thought would happen. In the beginning, everything felt unfamiliar. My heart ached with the pain of loss.
But in this unfamiliar place, I found something precious — friendship. And it came from the person living right next to me: my neighbour, Zubair.
When we first arrived at the refugee camp, everything felt overwhelming. The camp was crowded and noisy. People were everywhere, each carrying their own pain and stories of escape. I felt lost, scared, and alone — even while being surrounded by so many others. It’s strange how loneliness can exist in such a crowded space. That’s when I met Zubair, the young man staying in the shelter next to ours.
Zubair was the first person to speak to me kindly. He greeted me with a smile and helped us find a spot to settle. He brought over some drinking water and shared a few bananas he had collected from the distribution center. That simple gesture meant so much. We had nothing at that time, and even the smallest act of kindness felt like a gift from heaven. From that day on, Zubair became more than just a neighbour. He became my first friend in Bangladesh.
Over time, we got to know each other better. We shared stories of home, our journeys to the camp, and the memories we carried. Zubair told me about his village near Maungdaw and how he used to fish in the creek with his cousins. I shared stories of quiet mornings in my village, the laughter of my siblings, and the dreams I once had. In those conversations, I began to feel human again. I felt understood.
What I admire most about Zubair is his calm and compassionate nature. Though he’s young, he carries himself with a strong sense of responsibility. He volunteers at the learning center when he can and helps new arrivals settle in. He is always ready to assist others, even when he doesn’t have much himself. Watching him reminded me that even in a place full of hardship, we still have the power to do good.
Our friendship grew through the simple things — waiting in line for rations, fetching water, fixing shelter leaks during the rains. We shared whatever little we had: a bit of rice, a piece of firewood, or a smile on a bad day. Once, when I was down with a high fever, Zubair stayed by my side through the night, bringing medicine and checking on me constantly. His kindness was quiet but powerful — it left a lasting mark on my heart.
In this camp, where everything feels temporary and uncertain, Zubair’s friendship has been one of the most stable and comforting things. He doesn’t see me as a stranger or a burden. He sees me as a brother — and I see him the same way. In the evenings, when we sit and talk, I forget — even if just for a moment — that we are refugees. I feel human again: alive, connected, hopeful.
Sometimes we don’t need words. We just sit in silence, watching the children play or listening to the wind rustling the plastic sheets above us. In those quiet moments, there’s a deep understanding between us. That is true friendship — not just shared laughter, but shared pain, shared strength, and shared silence.
I still miss Myanmar every day. I miss the smell of our land after rain, the sound of the evening prayer, the faces of people I may never see again. But through my friendship with Zubair, I’ve learned that even in the darkest times, light can still be found. Even in a place where so much has been taken from us, something beautiful can grow.
Zubair is more than a neighbour. He is my friend, my brother, and my reminder that kindness still exists. His presence makes this difficult life bearable. And for that, I am deeply grateful.
In a world that often feels broken, divided by fear and loss, it is friendships like mine and Zubair’s that keep the human spirit alive. We may not have much — but we have each other. And that, I believe, is enough to carry us forward.
