Surviving Silence: A Rohingya Childhood, Memory, and Resistance

This is not a biased account. This is not only evidence presented by The Gambia at the International Court of Justice. This is my lived reality. This is my firsthand experience as a Rohingya who grew up witnessing systematic exclusion, humiliation, and violence—policies and practices designed to erase us slowly, silently, and completely.

What I write here is not driven by hatred, but by memory. Memories that return again and again, uninvited, shaping who I am and fueling my determination to stand against injustice—no matter how many obstacles stand in the way.

A Childhood Shaped by Exclusion

As a child in Myanmar, I learned very early that I was considered different, unwanted, and dangerous simply because I was Rohingya. We did not need official announcements to understand this; it was enforced through everyday life.

We were ethnically divided from others. Even our faith was treated as a threat. The call to prayer was not allowed. Open worship was restricted or punished. Practicing Islam openly as Rohingya was seen not as a right, but as a crime.

These are not stories I heard later in life. These are things I saw with my own eyes.

When Silence Was the Only Survival

Today, at least we can speak. We can write. We can testify. We can document. We can expose how we feel and what we have endured.

But in the past, when we lived in Myanmar, our feelings—thousands upon thousands of them—were forced into silence. Fear was constant. Speaking out meant arrest, torture, disappearance, or worse.

Racism was normalized. Violence was routine. Killings, rape, shootings, and village burnings were treated as ordinary tools of control. There was no shock, no accountability, no justice. For the perpetrators, these acts were done without fear of consequences.

We were blamed for our own suffering. We were called “Bengali,” a label used to deny our identity and erase our history. With that single word, we were stripped of belonging, dignity, and rights.

Denied the Right to Live a Normal Life

Our rejection was not only social—it was structural.

We were restricted from going to school. Our movement from one place to another required permission that was rarely granted. Gathering in groups was prohibited. Celebrating religious or cultural festivals was forbidden. Even building or repairing a home required approval that almost never came.

Imagine living in a place where existing as a community is illegal.

This was not accidental discrimination. It was a carefully designed system meant to make life unbearable—to force us into submission, disappearance, or death.

Survival as Resistance

And yet, we survived.

We survived not because the system allowed us to, but because human dignity is stronger than oppression. Survival itself became a form of resistance.

Every Rohingya family carries stories of loss, displacement, and trauma. But we also carry stories of endurance—of parents protecting children, of communities supporting one another in silence, of faith practiced quietly in the heart when it was forbidden in public.

This is how we survived then.
This is how we are surviving now.

Why I Speak Today

The memories of my childhood do not fade. They return repeatedly, reminding me why silence is no longer an option. Speaking out is not easy. There are endless barriers—political, social, financial, and emotional. But injustice thrives where silence is enforced.

Today, I speak not only for myself, but for those who could not.
For those whose voices were buried with them.
For those still trapped in fear.
For those whose suffering the world still struggles to fully acknowledge.

This is not a story of the past. It is a living reality for many Rohingya today.

And as long as injustice continues, our survival will remain an act of resistance—and our voices, a demand for dignity, justice, and recognition.