Some memories of the genocide
This page is what I saw with my own eyes. I saw people arrive with nothing but the clothes on their bodies, carrying children and carrying grief. I stood there with my camera, but what I witnessed could never be contained in a frame.
They reached Teknaf exhausted, soaked, and uncertain of what would come next. The shore was not safe in any full sense, but it was the first piece of ground after the terror and the crossing from Myanmar.They had survived. It was an act of will, carried through water, fear, hunger, and loss.
Behind them, across the water, Myanmar was still visible. Home had not disappeared from sight, but it had already been made unreachable.This distance was cruel. Close enough to see, too dangerous to return. For many Rohingya, exile began with their own villages still on the horizon.
Many arrived with whatever they could hold: clothes, utensils, documents, food, children, and sometimes a solar panel. In the camps, a solar panel was not just an object. It was light, connection, news, a phone charged, a small claim to dignity.People carried the remains of lives they had built, and the tools they hoped might help them begin again.
Mothers carried children through water, mud, heat... Some carried more than one child. Some carried infants too young to understand why their world had been torn apart.These images are not only about suffering. They are about endurance - the strength of women who held families together when everything around them was being broken.
Arrival did not mean the journey was over. It meant the beginning of another kind of struggle: life in exile, in crowded camps, under restriction, waiting for a future that still has not come.n this moment, survival is visible not as victimhood, but as labour. Every object had to be carried. Every child had to be protected. Every step forward was part of rebuilding life after flight.