Short Story: The Rohing of Rohingyas

By Shahida Dj

 

“My sons were the beauty of my life, the soul of my universe, the peace of my heart, the solution to all my problems. But life turned everything into opposite of my wishes and dreams”, Rohing stopped and started cleaning her tears while sitting in the Kutupalong refugee camp in Bangladesh.

“Everything went against my wishes. Happiness into sadness, smile into tears, light into darkness, but still something pleases me. That I have done something positive; that i saved the soul of my child from the torture and harshness of the world”, said the broken-hearted mother.

Keeping her head on her palm, and with tear in her eyes, she was gazing at the road near her tent.

“Will you explain what exactly happened to you and your family?”, asked Pretty Mo, the journalist.

“That is unbearable and you can’t bear it too”, replied the mother.

“But if possible share the story, I may be a source of your voice.”

“I threw my two year-old son into the sea”, Rohing, the mother, answered directly.

Pretty Mo was speechless. Just as she was gazing at the mother who was in the same position as she was before. The answer shocked Pretty Mo, who thought how is it even possible for a mother to do this? It was something one could not imagine.

Pretty Mo who was sitting on her knees. She sat properly next to the mother and kept her hand on her shoulder. “Why, my dear mother?” Pretty Mo was too sympathetic. “What compelled a mother to throw her son in water and kill him?”

“No, No, I have not killed my son”, she turned her face towards Pretty Mo with a changing facial expression. “I have saved him from dying every day. He will rise again I know….”

She could not continue as she could not control her emotions and started weeping. Both Pretty Mo and Rohing fell silent, fixing their eyes on earth as if everything around them had also fallen silent.

“It was hard for me to do this. But the violent society, unbearable conditions put me in a very tight spot. They killed my husband, tortured my daughter and took her away with them. They burnt our home. I begged them mercy, and got hit on my head in response”, she paused hile sharing.

“And your son?” asked Pretty Mo with a very low voice.

“God saved him that day. When I opened my eyes he was standing in front of me and weeping”, she paused and started looking here and there. She took her half-burnt scarf which was kept aside and wrapped it around her head. Pretty Mo was waiting for more details, but Rohing maintained silence.

The scene was too gloomy. Journalist Pretty Mo couldn’t stop her tears. She wiped her tears and looked toward the mother. “Then, what happened?” She asked.

“We were on a boat to travel to this place. I had him on my chest. Before the boat could start, they entered and started beating everybody. I didn’t have any option but to…..!!”

She could not continue any more. She looked at the sky where clouds had covered half of it. With a heavy heart, Pretty Mo left with her team.

The next morning Rohing’s story was on- air. She had become a symbol. But the world had yet to wake up.

The writer is a student of Zoology in Girls Degree College, Turbat.

  • Kamath

    Pakistan should make contribution to Islamic brotherhood by inviting and settling , say atleast 10% of all Rohingas refugees. That is only 50,000 souls. They will be great full. This will encourage others to give asylum .