The Shadows of Statelessness: Life in Kutupalong Refugee Camp
What does it mean to be stateless in a world of borders? To be born in Kutupalong Refugee Camp is to know statelessness in your very first seconds on Earth. You are born untethered from the protection of the womb and untethered from the security and identity inherent to citizenship. Even your birth itself is precarious: the refugee camp’s medical infrastructure is stretched thin, and the maternal mortality rate is frighteningly high. Your earliest memories and your formative years are enveloped and shaped by constant uncertainty. To be born in Kutupalong is to be born invisible; in a world of strict, controlled borders and carefully placed national identities, one of international conflict and global policy, you are the world’s afterthought. The concept of your inalienable human rights may never reach your soft ears and fresh eyes. And as you grow older, the true meaning of your invisibility in such a world will become all too clear.
Among the lush mountains and pristine beaches of Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh, lies the Kutupalong Refugee Camp. Kutupalong is not only the largest, but also the most populated refugee camp in the world to this day, hosting approximately one million people. It is also the most densely populated region in Bangladesh, the tenth most densely populated country in the world, with a population density 1.5 times higher than that of the capital, Dhaka. In Kutupalong, space is a luxury. The close quarters and flimsy structures are an immediate reminder of the precarity of those within; the instability of statelessness is compounded by the instability of the camp itself. Life must be conducted among tight spaces, as human connection must shine through the cracks.
Kutupalong is home to the Rohingya Muslims, a minority ethnic group native to the fog-laden mountains of the Rakhine State in Myanmar (formerly Burma). Beneath the misty peaks lie the seeds of a vicious ethnic animosity: the Rohingya have faced systemic discrimination and overwhelming violence at the hands of Buddhist nationalist groups, a campaign that has been labeled as a form of ethnic cleansing and genocide by numerous countries and human rights organizations.
As it often does, this ethnic cleansing and genocide worked its way through legal and institutional mechanisms in Myanmar before manifesting as physical violence. In 1978, the military government took power, ushering in the first of many waves of Rohingya migration to neighboring Bangladesh. The Myanmar citizenship law, passed in 1982, recognized the official ethnic groups of the country, but intentionally excluded the Rohingya. Instead, they were singled out as foreigners, despite having resided in the Rakhine State for centuries, labeled out of step with the nation’s Buddhist nationalist majority, and thus denied citizenship rights. The ethnic tensions have 20th century colonial origins: the Rohingya were originally aligned with the British occupation, and were later systemically targeted by Burmese groups aligned with Imperial Japan and later communist forces, fostering a deep resentment that has simmered ever since. This forced statelessness coincided with the forcible taking of land, employment exclusion, and other forms of systemic discrimination.
The extensive dangers of childbirth in Kutupalong are a microcosm for the manifold pressures on daily life among the Rohingya. A pregnant woman is incredibly vulnerable to the elements; the Bangladeshi government ban on permanent structures means that the spaces she occupies are shielded merely by bamboo and tarpaulin, nowhere near enough protection from the frequent torrential monsoon downpours, nevermind basic privacy. Her shelter is small, much too small; in fact, it is significantly smaller than UNHCR guidelines for refugee shelters. Should she need sanitation services, she will find that four times more people than the UNHCR recommendation end up sharing sanitation units in the camp. When she needs medical services, it will be incredibly difficult to get her to a hospital. Multiple delays occur in seeking medical care: initial delays stem from a warranted distrust of large institutions and the Bangladeshi government; there are further delays in physically reaching a medical center, as there is no robust health center in Kutupalong itself; and additional delays prevent receiving appropriate care for a number of reasons ranging from overburdened services to discrimination. As the years wear on, international attention wanes, and foreign aid from Western countries and NGOs dries up, leaving mothers without essential supplies for pre- and post-partum care. The armed gangs that have taken root in the camps in the absence of government oversight mean that she is at constant risk of violence. The mental and social stresses are incredibly detrimental to the health of her and her child. Mothers are constantly facing an onslaught of instability, and life in Kutupalong grows ever more complicated over the years.
For that baby to grow up in Kutupalong, all they know is to be caught between a country that does not want them and a country that disowns them. Their education will be spotty and piecemeal at best. Their friendships and childhood memories must grow in the tight spaces of the camps, the cracks in the bamboo tents and the tarpaulin walls. They must survive widespread disease and little medicine to remedy it. As they grow older, a lack of economic opportunity becomes painfully clear. The armed groups which have taken hold in the camp and funnel illicit substances may try to recruit them, but may also threaten them if they cross the armed groups. They have heard stories of their older peers sailing to Malaysia or Indonesia for economic opportunities; this becomes an increasingly seductive, if incredibly dangerous option. They always remember the risk of being repatriated back to Myanmar, and facing violence or death in the process. Most of all, they want to take their fate into their own hands, and escape the shadow of statelessness that has haunted them since birth.
In their escape, the Rohingya have found great difficulty; Bangladesh has been, at best, wary, and at worst, actively hostile to its role in housing these refugees. Repatriation attempts in the 1990s led to subsequent danger and death for those who were forced back into Myanmar. Notably, such repatriation is illegal under the 1967 UN Protocol on Refugees, specifically in its policy of non-refoulment; repatriation is an aspirational goal, but can only occur if those refugees are returning to a safe environment where they will not be persecuted. As the Rohingya were bitterly and unceremoniously forced from the security that the modern nation-state brings, they were thrown into a situation that deprived them of legal and institutional support, channels through which they could make their voices heard, and means of expressing their grievances. While still protected as refugees under international law, their statelessness renders them an international liability–no state wants to be responsible for the stateless people. Pervasive anti-immigrant sentiment makes integration wishful thinking, and casts those escaping outright annihilation as outsiders, or more insidiously, threats to national security and societal cohesion that cannot be allowed to remain and settle. This pattern of thought replicates like a virus in social discourse worldwide, stomping out any semblance of nuance and corroding policy approaches.
For those caught in the web of statelessness, unable to return and barred from integration, Kutupalong becomes their whole world. The camp is its own socioeconomic system enabled by its shaky permanence and the inactions of the powers presiding over it. The lack of international action, the hesitance of the Bangladeshi government, and worsening conditions in Myanmar mean that Kutupalong ends up a permanent home to many. In this way, the temporary stretches into forever. What does it mean to become permanent, to fade into the background, to become forgotten in the collective memory of the world? Must this be the fate of the Rohingya?
The conditions in Kutupalong are not unique–they are an archetype found across many refugee camps throughout the world. 22% of the world’s refugee population resides in some sort of camp. Dadaab Complex, in Eastern Kenya, hosts refugees from the various conflicts in Sudan, South Sudan, Somalia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ethiopia, and Eritrea, among others. The camp has similarly faced issues with hunger, sickness, and access to resources. Images of the sprawling Za’atari refugee camp in Jordan galvanized the world in the mid-2010s, the fallout of the Syrian Civil War and the campaign against ISIS across the Middle East and North Africa. These camps similarly became long-lasting as the conflict in the Middle East stretched on. Refugee camps in years past faced similar issues of overcrowding, starvation, and uneasy permanence, most notably in Thailand, which housed refugees fleeing the Vietnam War and other violence in Southeast Asia in the 1970s and 1980s at Ban Vinai. Refugee camps have been a persistent issue for the international system, and show no signs of going away.
Refugee camps are usually administered by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHRC) and the host country; these parties are legally liable for the camp’s inhabitants when their countries of origin have forsaken them. Yet, the protection of international law can be fleeting on the uneven, shaky ground of camps like Kutupalong. National policy towards refugees is often reluctant because of local anti-immigrant sentiment; for instance, the Rohingya are viewed as illegal or economic migrants among many in Bangladesh, a frustration fed by the strains on the Bangladeshi government because of the refugee crisis. The fierce nationalism at the core of many nation-states fosters exclusion, opposes integration, and impedes long-term policy goals. Because of this, national policy towards refugees can sometimes be punitive, and they are prevented from further integrating through starting businesses or gaining stable employment. States are often reluctant to enforce international laws that are under their jurisdiction under the 1967 Refugee Protocol. A national government’s aversion to their international responsibilities further reinforces the alienation that many refugees experience from local institutions and their legal and human rights. A lack of civic education, trauma stemming from conflict, and differing cultural values and identities can make international law and human rights akin to alien technology for those who need it most. International law becomes an abstract set of rules written in a language the refugees cannot understand; it is not written to work for them.
However, with the right understanding of their legal rights and how to access them, international law can be an empowering and liberating force in refugee camps. As found in Ghanaian refugee camps for Liberian refugees in the early 2000s, educating refugees about their rights and how to use them allowed them to advocate for their needs, address protests, and even start elections within the camps. This showcases the true potential of international law: it allows people to “claim injustice, inspire unity, and manage fear.” Giving refugees these pathways out of disenfranchisement and towards empowerment reframes the narrative of refugees–they are no longer tragic yet passive objects of suffering, or pariahs to be feared. We can instead understand refugees to be people with agentic power, with rights and intrinsic value, who are determined to keep their culture and identity alive, motivated by cultural memory and a deep, abiding willpower. As climate change, global instability, and the growing ease of migration create more international refugees, the way we think of and address refugees must be increasingly scrutinized. While international law needs to be strengthened and improved to address new and old refugee crises, existing international law can still be an effective tool for refugees today. Moreover, a new understanding of refugees gives them greater power in the global imagination and helps to reconstruct superannuated policy and reductive narratives around refugees.
Large-scale change in refugee policy is imperative in today’s world. The 1967 Refugee Protocol is painfully outdated: it is overly constricting and does not account for new phenomena like climate refugees. The bureaucratic labyrinth that refugees find themselves in when dealing with organizations like the UNHCR prevents effective action and further alienates refugees from the institutions that could help them. Many Western countries attempt to circumvent the responsibility of the asylum system by preventing asylum claims in the first place. In its place, a refugee convention that holds host countries more accountable and streamlines the process for refugees through reduced paperwork and more clear education and definitions is important in treating refugees with dignity and appropriately addressing crises. Greater resources must be allocated towards host countries like Bangladesh, who struggle with capacity, in order to improve the conditions within camps. This would allow camps to provide improved and timely healthcare, education, and mental health services. Moreover, oversight and accountability are necessary to ensure that host countries are abiding by UN regulations on refugee camp density and health requirements. Most of all, we must strengthen the civic education and legal pathways, so human rights become truly inalienable and universal, voices for the voiceless, and not just privileges for those who were born lucky. Through this, the world can help many escape the shadow of statelessness and ultimately step into the light.