Haunted by Loss
Mohammed, a Rohingya man, found his purpose in fatherhood and now struggles to move forward after a genocide that claimed his children.
When I see those children who used to play with my children, I’ve felt ... like my insides are burning.
The holidays trigger the madness he struggles to repress.
Watching children receive gifts from their parents as part of the Muslim Eid celebration, Mohammed remembers the bicycle and new clothes that he purchased in another life. A life he shared with his wife, three teenage sons, and a baby on the way.
The daily indignities from those years—when the government restricted access to higher education, most job opportunities, and travel—had not dimmed his ambitions for his sons. He smiled remembering how hard they studied in school and how much they enjoyed riding their new bike along the road near their home. His own parents had not been able to afford a bike for him, and he took great pride in surprising his own children.
During this time he held himself together even as daily life deteriorated and curfews prevented him from attending the neighborhood mosque, where he was a Mullah, for evening prayers.
But now, without three of his children, he feels lost.
Mohammed Anwar witnessed his two older brothers being dragged away and killed. Photo: Greg Constantine
Staying Positive for his Family
Survival and sanity in Maung Nu required relentless optimism. That is what Mohammed tried to model for his family. When his children were banned from school, he took them to religious studies at the mosque. When the curfew prevented them from going to the mosque, his family recited their prayers at home. And on and on.
When there is nowhere to go, you look at the person sitting across from you, and Mohammed’s large and close-knit family looked to him. Even before the Burmese authorities placed such severe restrictions on their lives, Mohammed tried to set an example. He prioritized education. His entire extended family made sure that the youngest generation attended school—in whatever capacity the authorities would allow. After, they made sure these same teens found work, no matter how limited the opportunities.
As the restrictions on daily life multiplied, Mohammed and the elders in the family made sure that the younger generation knew what had once been possible.
“We could be police officers and politicians. We too could serve in the military. We could travel freely throughout our country.”
Knowing their history would inspire his family and keep them going. That had been his most fervent hope.
August 27, 2017
When Mohammed heard the Burmese military entering his village on the morning of August 27, 2017, he was with his youngest son, Mohammed Anwar. He grabbed the 13-year-old’s hand and started to run.
They ran as fast as they could alongside family, friends, and neighbors. In the chaos, his son let go of his hand and fled in a different direction.
Mohammed raced toward the forest outside of town. He searched everywhere for his boys. He finally found his youngest in the forest. The boy told his father what had happened during their separation. He had fled into a large, nearby compound, crowded with other children who sought safety in numbers. But the home he had entered would turn out to be the site of the mass slaughter of up to 100 Rohingya. He told his father he saw his older brothers—Salamat and Zahid Ullah—dragged away and killed.
Soldiers killed Mohammed’s sons, Salamat Ullah, 17, and Zahid Ullah, 16, during the attack on Maung Nu.
Photos: Greg Constantine
Still in Pain
With almost no food and none of their possessions, Mohammed, his son, and his pregnant wife arrived at the border with Bangladesh. But the loss would not stop. Soon after settling in a camp, Mohammed’s wife delivered a baby boy. He died almost immediately.
As time passes, Mohammed says his pain is slowly getting better. But the masses of displaced Rohingya and the constant noise and stress of camp life make escaping the memory of his lost boys and other relatives nearly impossible.
“At night or when we gather at festival time, when I see those children who used to play with my children, I’ve felt very uncomfortable,” Mohammed says. “Like my insides are burning.”
Photos: Greg Constantine
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