Witnessing the Rohingya Genocide: A Field Diary from Cox’s Bazar

by Luthfunnahar Shancyi

Editor’s Note

Rohingya Khobor is launching a monthly series based on field experiences from the Rohingya camps. The author is a humanitarian worker with a background in law who has been involved in the Rohingya response since 2017, particularly in gender-based violence work.

This series documents lived realities from the ground, focusing on testimony, survival, and the conditions shaping everyday life in displacement.

My call from the roots to witness the shadow of ‘Genocide’

My birthplace is Cox’s Bazar. In the beauty of the world’s largest sea beach, where I was supposed to grow up and build my childhood memories, I was separated from that city for a long time due to the demands of life. Dhaka became my home because of studies and family responsibilities. Life moved forward in its own rhythm. However, returning to Cox’s Bazar in 2017 transformed my life in a way I could never have imagined. I did not know then that going back to my childhood place would confront me with a reality so heavy that it would permanently reshape how I understand humanity, suffering, and responsibility.

When I received an offer to join research work from the Center for the Study of Genocide and Justice (CSGJ) of the Liberation War Museum, I felt a deep internal hesitation. It was not fear in a simple sense, but a kind of uncertainty about what I was about to face. Like many others, I had grown up hearing stories of the Liberation War of 1971. I had listened to elders describe violence, loss, and brutality. But those stories existed in the past, contained within history. The word “genocide” had meaning, but it was distant, almost abstract.

This time, it was different. I was preparing myself to witness something ongoing, something alive. I understood that I was about to encounter a living manuscript of violence being written in real time on the soil of my own birthplace. Our task was to collect testimonies from Rohingya survivors. But even before starting, I knew that what we would encounter could not simply be reduced to documentation.

The dusty path of Kutupalong: Where humanity stops

In October 2017, the camps were not what they are today. There was no organized structure, no systematic layout. Kutupalong was vast, chaotic, and overwhelming. Temporary settlements stretched across hills, unstable and exposed to the elements. With even a small amount of rain, the paths turned into thick mud, making movement difficult and dangerous.

Everywhere there were small bamboo huts covered with plastic sheets. These were not homes in any meaningful sense, but fragile shelters holding entire families. There was no proper water supply, no sanitation system, no infrastructure to support the scale of human presence. Each space was overcrowded, compressed beyond dignity.

But what unsettled me most was not the physical environment. It was the eyes of the people.

There was a deep emptiness in those eyes, something beyond exhaustion. As we entered the camp, the sound of children crying echoed continuously. At the same time, there was an overpowering smell that filled the air. It was a mixture of mud, sweat, sickness, and something more difficult to define.

Rohingya people were still arriving during that period. Many had mud covering their feet, their bodies worn out, dirty, and soaked. Some had clearly walked for days. What struck me most were the fresh wounds and dried blood marks on their bodies. These were not isolated injuries. They were visible traces of violence, each mark carrying a story of loss.

Local interpreters accompanied us, which became essential. Although I understand the Chatgaya dialect, I had lost fluency after years of living in Dhaka. We were assisted by a local schoolteacher and a young scout member who volunteered to help. Their willingness to support us reflected something important: the role of local communities in the earliest phase of the crisis.

From Ukhia to Teknaf, it was the local population who first responded. Before large organizations arrived, these individuals provided clothes, food, shelter, and support. Some helped people cross the Naf River. Others shared their own limited resources. Young people used their pocket money to provide food. These acts were not organized by institutions. They were spontaneous responses rooted in human empathy.

This dimension of the crisis often disappears in later narratives. But it is essential to remember that before the humanitarian system became visible, it was ordinary people who carried the first burden of response.

The tragic story of a deprived community: When detergent becomes coffee

While moving through the camp with a Majhi, we came across a small interaction that, at first glance, appeared minor. A field worker was speaking to a teenage boy. We approached and learned that the boy had attempted to drink detergent powder from a relief package, believing it to be coffee.

On the surface, this might seem like a simple misunderstanding. But it revealed something far deeper.

Coffee holds a particular cultural meaning among Rohingya communities. It is associated with dignity, with a sense of normal life. The boy’s attempt to drink detergent was not ignorance in a simplistic sense. It was a reflection of long-term deprivation, of being cut off from basic forms of knowledge and everyday life.

This moment forced me to confront a difficult realization. Genocide does not only kill people. It also dismantles the structures through which people understand and navigate the world. It disrupts the most basic forms of recognition, leaving individuals unable to distinguish between what sustains life and what harms it.

Silence between words: A fragment of a trauma manuscript

Our first interview took place in front of a small hut. A woman stepped out to speak with us. There was no hesitation in her expression. Instead, there was an intensity that was difficult to interpret.

As she began speaking, it became clear that her narrative was not linear. She would start describing an event, then suddenly stop. The silence that followed those interruptions was not empty. It was dense, heavy, almost suffocating.

When she resumed, her story often shifted. The sequence of events had broken down. Her memory moved between fragments, unable to maintain continuity. At times she cried silently. There were no words in that crying, only sound. Then suddenly she would become still again, as if nothing had happened.

This was not confusion. It was the manifestation of trauma.

At that moment, I understood that we were not simply recording testimony. We were witnessing the limits of language itself. Her inability to narrate coherently was not a failure. It was a form of protection, a way for the mind to survive overwhelming violence.

At the end of the interview, she said something that stayed with me: “I am happy today that someone listened to me. I want the world to know what happened.”

I wanted to respond, but I could not. I wanted to express sympathy, to acknowledge her suffering, to say something meaningful. But nothing felt adequate. I remained silent.

Before leaving, I asked whether she was receiving medical care. She said she did not know where to go and had only received basic medicine. Later, with the help of volunteers, we managed to guide her toward proper treatment. But even then, it was clear that medical support could not address the deeper damage.

Tasteless afternoon: Hunger overshadowed by guilt

After leaving the camp, we were physically exhausted and mentally overwhelmed. Our bodies were weak, but hunger did not feel real anymore.

At that time, Kutupalong had very few proper places to eat. It took us a long time to find a restaurant. When we finally sat down, it was already late afternoon. We ordered food, but the quality was poor. The curry carried a strong smell of raw spices.

Despite our hunger, we could not eat.

The problem was not the food itself. It was the contrast between our situation and what we had just witnessed. Sitting there with a plate of food in front of us felt disconnected from the reality of the camp. It felt excessive, almost inappropriate.

In that moment, hunger lost its urgency. Guilt became stronger.

None of us finished the meal.

Conclusion: Salty water stains on our hearts

That night, around 9:00 p.m., we sat together for a team briefing. But there was very little to say. The experience had left us in a state where language felt insufficient.

Later, I wrote in my diary. I wrote that I had not witnessed the genocide of 1971, but I had witnessed something that forced me to understand its meaning differently. I had seen how an entire people could be pushed toward erasure.

That experience changed my direction. Human rights was no longer an abstract field of work. It became a responsibility shaped by what I had seen and heard.

Kutupalong remained with me. Not only as a memory of suffering, but as a point of orientation. It became something that would continue to shape my decisions and commitments in the years ahead.

Luthfunnahar Shancyi is a law graduate and human rights professional. She entered the humanitarian sector during the 2017 Rohingya genocide response, an experience that defined her work in transitional justice and capacity building. Beyond her expertise in GBV prevention, she leads youth-based community advocacy in Bangladesh, focusing on empowering the next generation of human rights defenders.