RO Maung Shwe
At 74, Mohammad Yosuf sits quietly in a tarpaulin shelter at a Rohingya refugee camp in Bangladesh. His weathered face tells the story of a man who has seen more than a lifetime’s worth of hardship, resilience, and survival. Born in the peaceful village of Howshypara in Aykab, his life was once one of promise, filled with the laughter of family and the bustling trade of gold and dry fish. Today, that life feels like a distant memory, overshadowed by years of grief, loss, and displacement.
Yosuf’s story begins with tragedy. At the tender age of 12, he lost his mother. Three years later, his father passed away, leaving him an orphan. Despite his loss, Yosuf refused to give up. Under the care of one of his father’s friends, who later became his father-in-law, Yosuf built a thriving business as a gold trader. He traveled tirelessly across townships, trading goods and forging connections.
Marriage brought a brief period of stability. After tying the knot with his first wife, Yosuf embarked on a business trip to Thailand that unexpectedly lasted a year. He later moved to Malaysia for a short stint before returning to Aykab to resume his trade. But fate dealt another cruel blow. His wife passed away suddenly, leaving him alone to care for their 12 children. Over the years, one by one, he lost 10 of them.
“I buried 10 of my children,” Yosuf recalls, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Each time, it felt like a part of my soul was being ripped away.”
Desperate for a fresh start, he moved to Buthidaung with his two surviving children. There, he remarried, and life began anew. His second marriage brought four more children, but tragedy struck again when two of them passed away. His wife’s death followed soon after, leaving Yosuf grappling with unimaginable pain.
In a gesture of compassion, Yosuf’s first wife’s family stepped in once more, offering her youngest sister as his third wife. With her, Yosuf tried to rebuild his life, but the shadows of political violence soon darkened his world.
On June 3, 2012, the peaceful streets of Aykab erupted into chaos as Rakhine Buddhists and Rohingya Muslims clashed. The Myanmar government, fueled by genocidal intent, unleashed a wave of violence. Mosques, homes, and markets were burned to the ground. Families were torn apart, women assaulted, and countless lives lost.
“We had no choice but to flee,” Yosuf recounts. “We walked for days, leaving everything behind.”
Arriving in Bangladesh, Yosuf found himself in a crowded refugee camp, where life was anything but easy. Initially, he managed to support his family through small businesses, but strict camp restrictions soon robbed him of those opportunities. Today, he struggles to provide for his family of 11, which includes nine children under the age of 18.
“Alhumdulillah, I’m still strong enough to work,” Yosuf says. “I’ve worked all my life, and I can speak several languages—Burmese, English, Hindi, Thai, Malaysian, and Rohingya. But what good are skills without opportunities?”
The reduction in humanitarian aid has made life even more precarious for families like Yosuf’s. Malnutrition is rampant, and access to healthcare is limited. Yosuf’s grandchildren, like many other children in the camp, are growing up in a world defined by hunger and disease.
Despite everything, Yosuf remains a testament to resilience. He dreams of a day when his family can thrive again, free from the confines of the camp. “I want my children to have the chance to learn, to grow, and to build a life better than mine,” he says.
Mohammad Yosuf’s story is not just his own—it is the story of thousands of Rohingya refugees who have endured unimaginable hardships. It is a plea for compassion, for opportunities, and for a world that does not turn its back on those in need.
As he sits in his modest shelter, Yosuf is a reminder that survival is more than just staying alive. It is about holding onto hope, even in the face of despair. And it is about dreaming of a future where the skills and resilience of people like him can finally be put to use.
