A Century of Rohingya Exile: The Life of Sokina Khatun

By Ro Harez Khan | 11 February 2026 | Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh Rohingya Refugee Camp

Sokina Khatun, 110 years old, sits on the wet ground in a tarpaulin shelter. Her eyes are cloudy with age and her hair white, but her memory remains sharp as she watches people rush for water, mothers call their children, and elderly men lean on sticks. She has witnessed this scene before.

I greeted her gently with “Salaam” and asked, “How is your life, Dadi (grandma)?”

“Now it is the third time I have fled in my life — 1978, 1992, and again in 2017. Each time, I left my home not knowing if I would ever return.”

Sokina was born in Yanma Kyawn Taung, near Taung Bazar in Buthidaung, Arakan State. She recalls her childhood softly. With teary eyes, she speaks of the early peace in her village and the long cycle of displacement that followed.

“We had lands, cattle, and a peaceful village. We lived a simple life. But we lived with dignity,” she says.

That dignity gradually eroded as restrictions tightened and discrimination increased. Her people were denied rights, movement, and safety over time. She was already an adult when soldiers entered her village in 1978, an event she remembers vividly.

“Once we had peaceful rural life with our properties and ownership. There was very little food in the camps, no proper water, and limited medicine. Many people died. Many families lost their loved ones,” she recalls.

The refugee camp is a place of survival, not living. Mothers struggle to feed their children. Men stand helplessly in long lines for food. Children cry from hunger while waiting to return home and rebuild their lives.

When the Rohingya returned to Myanmar after displacement, many assumed their suffering was over. But for Sokina, it became a recurring nightmare. Their house was destroyed, land confiscated, movement restricted, and identity withdrawn.

“We returned twice, but it was no longer home or free from oppression. We lived like culprits and prisoners in our own land,” she says.

She describes what she sees as a systematic attempt to erase her people. In 1982, Myanmar’s Citizenship Law excluded the Rohingya from recognized ethnic groups, withdrawing their rights and confiscating land.

“They made our name illegal, took away our identity, and put restrictions on every layer of our lives,” she says quietly, tears welling in her eyes.

The Second and Third Exile

The Rohingya have been forced to flee repeatedly — in 1962, 1976, 1992, 2012, 2016, 2017, and 2024 — walking miles across borders again and again.

“When I fled in 1978 and 1992 and returned, I never thought I would see Bangladesh again. But fate brought me here a third time,” Sokina recalls.

Although Myanmar’s military bulldozed Rohingya villages, Sokina remembers every inch of her land, rivers, hills, and every path of her village.

“I am old now, but I still dream of my home. My last wish is to return to our country and die there so that my grave will be with my ancestors,” she says, pausing as if speaking to someone far away.

“My only wish here is that our children live without fear. They deserve a life better than the one we had.”

Before I leave, she holds my hand with surprising strength.

“Write our story,” she says. “The world should know we are still here.”

Sokina’s words are not just her own. They reflect the story of every Rohingya denied citizenship, land, and the right to exist — a story of historical oppression across generations, of a community whose hope refuses to die and who still dreams of returning to their homeland.