Nine years ago, CAI took responsibility for approximately 120 Rohingya orphans who had fled the killing fields of Myanmar with their surviving mothers and found themselves trapped in the sprawling hellhole refugee camps of Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. I have written extensively about my experiences with the Rohingyas and their inhumane treatment by the Myanmar army. From cold-blooded killings, burning of farms and homes, pillage, and rape to forced expulsion from the ancestral land of the Rohingya. These atrocities were documented and narrated by the victims, not hearsay.

I am back in Cox’s Bazar for a compliance visit to ensure the orphans are well cared for. The system that pumps 20,000 liters of potable water to about 30,000 people every day is in good shape. This is no small accomplishment on the part of CAI donors. The care of 120 children and the maintenance of water projects that supply approximately 7.5 million liters of water annually are blessings made possible by CAI donors.

But I despair. 

I have come a long way, from Dar es Salaam to Mumbai to Dhaka, and now I am flying an hour’s hop to Cox’s Bazar accompanied by fellow CAI Trustee Sohail. Dhaka airport is always packed and akin to a fish market, but it is even more so now with returning hajees from the Hijaaz. Bangladeshis’ concept of personal space is generally nonexistent, so I am pushed around by eager crowds here, who are welcoming the hajees with their Zam-Zam water canisters as I make my way out to a waiting Uber driver. 

The kids at the day orphanage and school shyly smile when I try to interact with them. By a flawed Bangladeshi law, we cannot teach them Bengali, only Burmese. The logic is that Bangladesh cannot be a home for the kids – ever. The refugees cannot assimilate with the local population in any way. History, however, proves that these kids will go nowhere. The first wave of Rohingya expulsion occurred in 1984, and these are still languishing in the refugee camps. They have married, had children, and are now grandparents. Our orphans receive secular education in Burmese, with English as a subject. I’ve tried, even forced, an emphasis on English, but have had scant results.

I feel deeply saddened watching the kids as they eat a healthy lunch. They may be blissfully unaware of their status now, but their future is miserable, with very little to look forward to. The girls will marry at puberty, become mothers shortly after, and begin a cycle of poverty in the slums. The boys will wait a bit longer and waste away in the squalor of the camp, and many will be drug addicts, hooked on cheap synthetic poison coming from across the river in Myanmar.

Until…

Kausar Jamal, our representative in Bangladesh, has good news. A few orphans did make it out of the camp with special permission to attend a proper school in Chittagong. This is a rare exemption granted by the authorities to the Asian University for Women, which sponsors their stay and studies. Perhaps these may eventually push through, escape the refugee camps, and move on up? I hope and pray, insha’Allah.

From Bangladesh, Sohail and I head to Pakistan to commission two CAI-sponsored schools in Skardu. Sohail then heads to Kabul, Afghanistan, for a compliance visit, while I return to Tanzania. These travels are a university in themselves, offering firsthand experiences that have profoundly enriched my life. Yes, I must cope with complex situations of human suffering that rend my emotions asunder most times. But I also encounter the full range of human behavior, just as I do at Islamabad airport.

I am at the gate, reading a novel and waiting to board, when I first smell body odor and then sense a presence. A massive man, turbaned and face covered by an impossible beard, looks down at me, greets me with Salaam Alykum, and plops down next to me, quivering the line of seats in alarm. The seat groans in protest under the strain of his weight, but holds. I look to see if I can change seats, but the hall is full, and there are no empty ones. I grind my teeth and curse my luck. The man is so huge that every move he makes is a discomfort to all those sitting in that row of chairs. He removes his sandals and wiggles his set of yellowing toenails, setting off another reek of stink.

I try to concentrate on my novel, but that is impossible with the odor and the man’s fidgeting. I am about to give up and go stand at the gate when the giant pokes a pinkie into his ear. It is a huge pinkie, but so is his ear canal, and the man is undeterred. His face disappears under the thick, bushy beard, and he grunts, searching, searching… one final thrust, and his face reappears. The search has borne fruit, a lump of glistening wax so revolting that I involuntarily retch. He flicks his pinkie, and the wax leaps over the heads of people seated in front of us and disappears. He turns toward me, a look of surprise on his face as I retch again. His lips part in a smile, revealing rotting, naswar-stained teeth. I flee, not caring that my painful sciatic leg is screaming for succor.

I am terrified that the giant will come and sit next to me on the flight to Dubai, but Allah is merciful, the seat remains empty.