14/11/2025
He Walks No More, But His Courage Still Stands”: Abdullah’s Story of Survival and Silence
Border News Agency
Cox’s Bazar, November 14.
Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh — Among the crowded shelters of Balukhali refugee camp, where the hum of despair meets the whisper of resilience, lives Abdullah — a man whose life was shattered by a landmine but whose will to live remains unbroken.
Once a rice seller in the quiet village of Itliya Ozoo in Maungdaw, Myanmar, Abdullah was known for his laughter, his hard work, and his dreams for his children. But all of that changed on a single afternoon — June 5, 2025 — when the Myanmar military junta unleashed another wave of terror on his village.
“The soldiers were coming,” Abdullah recalls, his voice trembling. “There was smoke, fire, people running everywhere. I tried to escape with my family… then I heard the explosion.”
When the dust settled, Abdullah’s right leg was gone. The landmine had not only torn through his body but through the fabric of his entire life. In the days that followed, the man who once carried sacks of rice through the markets of Maungdaw could no longer stand on his own.
“I lost more than a leg that day,” he says quietly. “I lost my work, my pride, and the respect of my own family.”
His wife, once his greatest support, grew distant. The warmth in their home faded. Even his children, too young to understand, began to look at him with pity instead of pride. The man who once provided for everyone became a man who depended on everyone.
When the violence intensified, Abdullah made the agonizing decision to flee his homeland. Carried part of the way by fellow villagers, he crossed into Bangladesh — one of more than a million Rohingya who now live in exile in Cox’s Bazar, the world’s largest refugee camp.
Today, his home is a small bamboo-and-plastic shelter perched on a muddy hillside in Balukhali. Every month, he must pay 3,000 Bangladeshi Taka in rent — money he does not have. The struggle for survival has become a daily routine: waiting for aid, hoping for medicine, praying that tomorrow will be a little kinder.
“I used to feed my family with my own hands,” Abdullah says, gripping his crutches. “Now, I can’t even walk to the food distribution point. Sometimes I go hungry so my children can eat.”
Yet, even in this place of sorrow, Abdullah’s courage burns quietly. He speaks not with anger, but with a weary kind of hope — hope that the world will not forget people like him.
“Maybe one day, I will walk again,” he says, looking toward the horizon. “Maybe one day, my children will go to school and never have to run from soldiers.”
In the endless rows of tents that stretch across Balukhali, Abdullah’s story is just one among thousands — a story of loss, resilience, and the haunting silence of a people who have endured too much.
As night falls over the camp, the sound of the wind rustling through the tarpaulin shelters seems to echo his unspoken prayer — for dignity, for peace, and for a home that no longer exists.
