[On Aug. 29, the day before I traveled to Bangladesh, I stood in my new apartment in Bangkok — where I’d just moved to begin work as The Times’s Southeast Asia bureau chief — surrounded by boxes of possessions I did not need or even remember that my family owned: too many glasses for liqueurs I do not drink, mildewed paperbacks, Legos chewed by the dog.]
By
Hannah Beech
 |
|
A
Rohingya refugee girl holds the unconscious body of her father on Sept. 3 after
crossing
into Bangladesh from Myanmar. Credit Adam Dean
for
The New York Times
|
Noor slid to the ground. “It seems I will die
here,” he said, with an almost clinical detachment. “I will die in this place.”
Minutes before, in the Balukhali refugee camp
in Bangladesh, Noor had tapped my shoulder. It was an unusual sensation in a
Muslim community where men and women keep to themselves.
I turned around, and he showed me his bullet
wound. Bruises mottled his body. Noor’s story was consistent with many I had
heard from refugees fleeing Myanmar, a mass exodus of at least 400,000 Rohingya
that began toward the end of August and that the United Nations on Monday
labeled a “textbook example of ethnic cleansing.”
The 25-year-old farmer was in his fields in
Maungdaw Township when the Myanmar military descended. The village men, and
even some of the boys, were beaten, then told to run. Some made it, others
didn’t. Noor was lucky. A bullet only grazed his right shoulder. He could still
walk after his beating.
But days of trekking through jungle on the
way to Bangladesh had broken his body.
Refugee camps are overflowing with Rohingya
in need, hands outstretched for food or water or lifesaving medicine. You
cannot help everyone, so you walk on, promising yourself that documenting their
suffering is a form of aid.
On Aug. 29, the day before I traveled to
Bangladesh, I stood in my new apartment in Bangkok — where I’d just moved to
begin work as The Times’s Southeast Asia bureau chief — surrounded by boxes of
possessions I did not need or even remember that my family owned: too many
glasses for liqueurs I do not drink, mildewed paperbacks, Legos chewed by the
dog.
Two days later, I stood in a creek near
Bangladesh’s border with Myanmar, as a never-ending column of barefoot humanity
trudged through the water. Many people carried nothing but babies too
traumatized to make any noise.
Other Rohingya, who had only a few moments to
prepare before the Myanmar military burned down their houses, balanced bamboo
poles on their shoulders, heavy with sleeping mats, water jugs and solar
panels.
I thought about what I would take from home
if I could only grab a few things: some antiques, perhaps, photos not on the
Cloud, and all-important documents.
Most Rohingya, however, have been rendered
stateless by the Myanmar government, which seems to be using a Rohingya
militant attack on police posts and an army base three weeks ago to justify a
campaign to rid the country of this long-persecuted minority.
Their licenses, diplomas and other paperwork
mean nothing to officialdom. Besides, you cannot eat documents. Live chickens
and bags of rice are more sustaining.
Noor, shivering and taking shallow breaths,
was convinced he was dying. I’m no doctor, but having covered conflict, I knew
his condition was grave. We had a car and could take him to a clinic. Maybe
reporters aren’t supposed to change the story, but this was not one that I
wanted to end with yet another Rohingya death.
Noor refused to go. He had fled without his
wife. One of the last things he heard from his village was the screams of women
dragged away by soldiers and vigilantes. Noor had no idea if his wife had been
raped or killed.
The morning of the day we met, he had finally
heard that she was in another refugee settlement in Bangladesh. She might come
by the next morning.
So Noor bought tarp and bamboo. He lashed
them together. The effort drained the little energy he had left, but he wanted
to make a home for his wife.
He could not bear the idea of going to the
hospital without seeing her again.
My Bangladeshi colleague, AKM Moinuddin — who
speaks a language very similar to Rohingya and helped with translations during
the week I was there — pleaded with him. The photographer Adam Dean suggested
that Noor would be more useful to his wife alive than dead.
A crowd formed, as it invariably does in a
refugee camp. Dozens of people concurred: Noor should not die here, slumped in
a mud puddle. An imam showed up and exercised his authority.
We put Noor in our car and rushed to the
clinic.
“Mother, mother,” he repeated, as his eyes
rolled back in pain. “Mother, mother, help me.”
Half an hour later, he disappeared into the
clinic. I did not see him again.
