Posted by Assed Baig:
March 30, 2013
Muhammed sits sketching a stick man and then he picks up a green pencil
crayon, colouring in the man he has drawn. No one has bothered to ask these
children about what they witnessed during last year's massacre of the Rohingya
in Burma. No one seems to care what children have to say.
Ten or so children sit in a bamboo hut, in what is now a make-shift
Rohingya village at the end of a dusty road. The village is nothing but a
collection of huts and tents put up in sand. This is not where these children
are originally from, they were forced here after they were chased to the water
amid sword, spear and gun attacks while their homes in the Kyauk Phyu village
were burnt down last year.
The sun beats down; the children surround us, wanting to see the
foreigners. The American doctor, (I won’t reveal her name for her protection)
works with the Rohingya and pays special attention to these children. She seems
like the only one that wants to hear what they have to say.
They are all drawing away, boys and girls. Then they hold up their
drawings and share their stories with the rest of the class. Some children
look-in from outside, through the cracks in the bamboo and the plastic sheeting
that covers the outside, peering in to see something and hear something that
no-doubt they have heard before. But now, it is being shared in a manner that
it has not been shared previously.
Abdul is mute. This is his first time drawing and he is eleven. His
drawings are detailed. They show death, houses burning, soldiers, monks and
local Rakhine carrying weapons. All the drawings are similar; they all show
things that children should not be subjected to.
The children’s accounts are vivid and graphic. They all say they saw
people hacked into pieces. In one drawing Hussain draws a stick man, with his
heads, arms and legs separated, he says he saw someone chopped to pieces. There
are bodies in red water.
“I saw dead people in the water, I saw Rakhine stab them whilst they
were trying to swim.”
That’s why the colour of the water is red.
All of the children are still scared, they have been dispelled with
deadly force out of their village, and their homes burnt to the ground, all of
them told me that they suffer from nightmares. Even in their sleep they cannot
escape the horror of what took place. Of how the military, monks and civilians
slaughtered Rohingya and drove them out, now forced to live in IDP camps, cut
off from the rest of the world. They are not allowed to leave the area. The
Rakhine on the other hand have no such restrictions.
He doesn’t smile. Sharp face and defined features, his eyes are
striking, they are painful to look into, wise beyond their years and have seen
things that no human being should have to see. He explains how they ran from
the sword wielding Monks.
“A boat was set on fire. People jumped into the river and tried
swimming. The Rakhine came on boats and stabbed people with their spears as
they tried swimming away.”
There was one disturbing story that a number of the children drew and
explained to me. A mentally ill child, was killed, he was beheaded.
“Did you see it with your own eyes?” I ask. “Yes,” they all reply.
The picture that emerges after speaking to the children is that
themilitary, the police, the monks and Rakhines were involved in the massacre
last year. The doctor tells me that these children are suffering from Post
Traumatic Stress disorder. One child has since saw a Rakhine man and passed
out.
In one village, the water buffalos were late coming back. Whilst the
children were playing, someone shouted, “they’re coming!” the children began to
run and scream, they thought the mobs were returning to finish them off.
“These kids need a child psychiatrist,” the doctor tells me. “I’m doing
what I can.”
The children have coloured in the monks orange, green for the military
and police, and just black for the Rakhine mobs.
“The Rakhine and the mobs came first, then when some of our family
defended themselves and fought back the army came in and shot them,” says
Ramina.
She’s 13-years-old and acts like a woman twice her age. She is clearly
the one that the children look up to, mature, controlled and has a sense of
authority about her.
Abdul draws a bike amongst the death and destruction, he points to
himself to indicate it belonged to him, and then rolls his hands forward
symbolising the cycling of the feet. “Where is your bike now?” He waves his
hand away, and pushes his arms back and forth like he is running; he had to
leave it behind, a sullen sadness in his eyes.
The doctor lets the children take one pencil crayon each, their faces
light up, smiles beaming, it is the first gift they have received in a while.Their
childhood has been interrupted, simply because they are Rohingya. As soon as
they were conceived they were destined to be persecuted by this state that
professes to be moving towards democracy whilst actively engaging in the
brutality and cleansing of the Rohingya.
The Rohingya are not recognised as citizens of Burma and have no rights.
I suppose this fact is a mere inconvenience to World leaders and Corporation
CEO’s as they compete for Burma’s natural resources.
Human rights abuses are not spoken about when you have the potential to
sign multi-million dollar deals.
The world has remained silent at the cycle of violence. Rohingya is not
just a word, they are real people, with feelings; they are children who want to
draw pictures; they are people who just want to be able to live; they are the
Abduls and Ramina’s just like the Billys and Janes who just want to be able to
ride their bikes.