The Rohingya are described as "world's most persecuted minority"
Originally a muslim ethnic group from Myanmar, which is a Buddhist majority nation, they were refused citizenship and were murdered, pilfered, raped and driven out of their homes in masses in 2017, by Myanmar’s military rule.
Since then, they have become the largest stateless population of the world. They don’t count in the census of any nation. A human race, that doesn't really exist for the world.
Over a million of them have been taking refuge in neighbouring countries such as Bangladesh and India but even in those nations their status is that of an “illegal immigrant” and not “refugee”.
Needless to say the conditions in which they live in those camps isn’t for the faint hearted.
The camp that I visited in Delhi did not have a toilet for an entire camp with over 500 refugees. So they walk almost a km to an open field, each time they need to attend to nature's call.
But despite being the most marginalised community perhaps on earth... it isn't that the tussle between the powerful and the weak ends here. The Rohingya men perpetuate this circle of social abuse by oppressing women from their community and stripping them off the most basic human rights.
But whom do these women go to find redress? How do they break the cycle of abuse? How do they secure the future of their children? And most importantly, How do they become Visible again?
Originally a muslim ethnic group from Myanmar, which is a Buddhist majority nation, they were refused citizenship and were murdered, pilfered, raped and driven out of their homes in masses in 2017, by Myanmar’s military rule.
Since then, they have become the largest stateless population of the world. They don’t count in the census of any nation. A human race, that doesn't really exist for the world.
Over a million of them have been taking refuge in neighbouring countries such as Bangladesh and India but even in those nations their status is that of an “illegal immigrant” and not “refugee”.
Needless to say the conditions in which they live in those camps isn’t for the faint hearted.
The camp that I visited in Delhi did not have a toilet for an entire camp with over 500 refugees. So they walk almost a km to an open field, each time they need to attend to nature's call.
But despite being the most marginalised community perhaps on earth... it isn't that the tussle between the powerful and the weak ends here. The Rohingya men perpetuate this circle of social abuse by oppressing women from their community and stripping them off the most basic human rights.
But whom do these women go to find redress? How do they break the cycle of abuse? How do they secure the future of their children? And most importantly, How do they become Visible again?
This work has been supported by @theazadiproject
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Nur Safiya. She is a poser.
“How did your hand burn?” I asked.
She strikes a pose in response!
“Does it hurt?” I persisted.
Another pose!
“I hope you are being safe around fire now Saifya?”
This time she holds my hand and walks me to her 15 sq ft home.
Once we get there, she stands dangerously between a makeshift kitchen and a bed with nails casually hanging out… and she poses… as “Agni”, the goddess of fire.
“Be safe,” had I said? I turn scarlet with embarrassment, extreme heat and the smell of a curated stench that comes from lives rotting away slowly.
Safety is a luxury in their world… where life itself is a wager.
Safiya understands it only too well that the satire called Life, is being directed by someone else. All she has to do… is Pose!
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“How did your hand burn?” I asked.
She strikes a pose in response!
“Does it hurt?” I persisted.
Another pose!
“I hope you are being safe around fire now Saifya?”
This time she holds my hand and walks me to her 15 sq ft home.
Once we get there, she stands dangerously between a makeshift kitchen and a bed with nails casually hanging out… and she poses… as “Agni”, the goddess of fire.
“Be safe,” had I said? I turn scarlet with embarrassment, extreme heat and the smell of a curated stench that comes from lives rotting away slowly.
Safety is a luxury in their world… where life itself is a wager.
Safiya understands it only too well that the satire called Life, is being directed by someone else. All she has to do… is Pose!
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“Ronak”. Her name literally translates to radiance or celebration. She is 3. No. Maybe she is 5. Her mother couldn’t decide what her exact age is. When life is such a strife, you just get on with it. You don’t celebrate occasions. But somehow amidst all of this endless struggle, Ronak knew how to celebrate herself. She had a little box of embellishments. When I went into that choking little, blindingly dark and cluttered space in which she lives with her three other siblings and parents, she quickly took out her “makeup” and started to paint her beautiful face. No care in the world. Unfazed. Just sheer innocence. A magical childhood in the heart of a raging turmoil.
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