Lilly's Stories

December, 2018

Kutupalong, Bangladesh

Allah, help us.

I have never seen so many people in my life.

I pull Kyi Win in his swaddle tight to my chest as I step into the crowds. 

Guide us on the straight path, I quote the Opening Surah of the Quran.  

At least four hundred people wait in a mass clump at one entrance to Kutupalong. Now I understand what they meant by “the largest refugee camp in the world”. 

Four days ago, back in our home in Myanmar, soldiers from the Arakan army pounded on our door, demanding my baba to join their army. The look of terror in Ummi’s face still hurts my soul. 

Ever since what the internet has called the government’s “crackdown” on the Rohingya people in 2017, chaos has lurked on every street corner. Myanmar’s Rakhine State decided to no longer grant citizenship to the Rohingya, an action that has left us ultimately defenseless. We no longer have any legal rights, and access to social services is extremely limited. My father was aware of all of this, and did everything in his power to keep our family safe through it all, although we were unable to leave as soon as the crackdown had begun. But we planned to change this as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, they seemed to reach us first.

Baba left as swiftly as he could, hoping his compliance would appease the soldiers. 

It was not enough. 

They took my mother too, for reasons I never want to know. I pray for her at every waking moment, hoping I will see her again. 

It was that night I was part of a miracle; they didn’t take us with her. 

I left with my baby brother that night, headed for the refugee camp that was on the quiet lips of every fellow Rohingya. I took as much as I needed, but as little as I could, and prayed with every drop of blood in my veins that we would make it. 

And we did. 

I stand on the edge of Kutupalong, at what is about to be the next “chapter” of my life. I wonder how long this chapter will be. 

I can barely breathe. The stench of bodies that have been walking for days, maybe even weeks, sits in a cloud of pungent odor all around us. 

I don’t know if I can make it through the entrance. 

I look down at my baby brother, sleeping through the madness. No. I have to make it through for him. For Kyi Win, I can do this. 

You already made it through the UNHCR, I tell myself. You can do this. 

Hours pass. 

I catch myself constantly glancing over my shoulder, trying to see if anyone is stealing supplies from my battered backpack. I have to stop what looks like a girl of barely eight years old from reaching into the water bottle pouch and taking a sip. It makes my heart ache that I can’t give her a drop, but nothing is guaranteed for my tomorrow. I don’t know if I will have enough to keep myself, let alone my brother, alive for even the next week. 

That is why I need to get in and out of Kutupalong as quickly as I can. This is only a pit stop. Then we will keep going. I can do better than this. I refuse to give Kyi Win a life in fear. 

Before I can register what is happening, I’m being identified as a Rohingya refugee and rushed through the entrance. I am registered in the Kutupalong camp, and Kyi Win and I are suddenly facing an entirely new world. 

Bamboo structures covered in tarp, plastic, and any other material imaginable are the only buildings in sight besides the wired fencing marking the perimeter and the few brick service buildings.

I choke a sigh of relief. We did it. We’re alive.

“Alhamdulillah,” I croak quietly. Praise be to Allah.

“Keep moving!” a loud voice behind me shouts, and I’m nearly trampled to the ground.

We’re not there yet, I remind myself. There is still so much farther to go.

Kyi Win and I are assigned to Camp 9, so I pull out my phone for a map. My other hand fidgets with the plastic ID’s advertising our names, Zeya May and Kyi Win, given to me upon entry. My heart skips a beat when I nearly drop them. Ummi would have killed me if she knew how careless I was being. I needed to grow up.

You’re sixteen now, you need to act like it, I imagine Baba would tell me. You can do this. 

What if I’m not ready?

I don’t need to be ready, I just need to keep going.

So I find our camp after only twenty minutes and two stops to ask for directions.

When I reach the inside of my shelter in Camp 9, I almost cry.

The space is packed. I have no other way to describe it other than a stampede of people under a plastic roof with the sun throwing its own heavy baggage into every humidity-cramped space. 

You can do this. For Kyi Win.

I want so badly to be strong, but strong at what cost? 

Keep going, I scream at myself. I place my sleeping mat down at my spot and hold Kyi Win out in front of me as I sit down on the mat. 

“We’re safe,” I tell him. “No more fighting.”

I text Ummi to let her know we are alright. I don’t know if she is, or where she is, but a silent part of me hopes that she is waiting for us at home, anxiously expecting a text from me, updating her on all that has happened. But I know that isn’t true, as much as I wish it was. 

Somehow, I will find a way out of here. Somehow, I will keep my brother and I safe. 

***

Two months later, after asking anyone who will listen, I still have not found a way out of here. I ran out of my supply of Kyi Win’s formula three weeks ago, and barely scraped by trying to find enough to keep him fed. 

But all in all, I’m proud of myself for all we’ve survived thus far. And I have tried very hard to be grateful.

It is hard to be grateful when your world falls apart.

Every day I try to think of what Ummi would do, what Baba would say. And every day I do my best to keep our money safe and Kyi Win healthy. All I want is to give him a better life.  What will happen if I fail?

Another month passes. People begin to buzz with fear for the approaching monsoon season. The structures in Kutupalong are not all strong enough to keep out the floods and pelting rainstorms. If we are going to leave, we need to leave soon. At least within the next week. 

My doubt of this possibility grows every hour.

I begin to change Kyi Win’s diaper, trying to occupy myself from the monster of anxiety. When did I suddenly become a mother? When did I suddenly need to grow up before my time?

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Allah, help us.

A man approaches me as I finish. His features resemble my Baba’s, with a steady tide of gray drifting into his chocolate-colored beard.

I recognize him immediately. 

“Zeya May?” He rushes forward. I almost choke on the air.

“Aam!” I exclaim.

My uncle hugs me tight.

“How are you here? How did you find us?” I stutter. 

“I got here last week, and I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Your neighbors knew you had left for here, and then when the danger came for me, I knew I could find you somehow when I came here.”

“Do you know anything yet of Ummi or Baba?” I ask anxiously. 

Aam shakes his head. “I have not heard anything, I’m sorry. I wish I knew.”

My face falls. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but somehow, there was hope in the silence. In the unknown. 

I remind myself that I still don’t know for sure, so there is hope yet.

“How are you doing?” I ask Aam. 

“Far better than I expected to be. Are you and your brother alright?”

“Yes.” Much better now. “I’ve been trying to find a way out of here before monsoon season, but I haven’t had any luck.”

“That’s another reason I’ve come to find you.” 

What? I finish wrapping Kyi win’s diaper and pick him up, intrigued. 

Aam leans forward and lowers his voice. “I found a way out.”

“What? How?” I have to stop myself from screaming.

“I can’t give too many details, but I met someone a few days ago who has a boat, and he has been planning to leave for Alor Setar, in Malaysia, and can take the three of us along, for a price I am willing to pay.”

My heart beats against my ribs like the pounding of the impending rainstorm.

“Really?”

My uncle nods. “But, unfortunately, we won’t be able to stay there very long. Malaysia will not recognize our refugee status, and if something comes up, we could be deported here or back to Myanmar.”

“So where will we go then?” My heart still drums incessantly, but now with fear. What is the point of leaving if we end up right back where we started?

“I will try to get us plane tickets to Australia. They accept refugees, and since we both know enough English to get by, I think it will be best.”

Australia? I can’t imagine how much that will cost. But if Aam says it is possible, then I trust him. 

“When do we leave?” I want to get out of here as soon as possible. 

“Tomorrow, at dawn. I will meet you here at 5:30 in the morning, and then we will meet our guide at the gate to leave.”

I make a mental note of everything he has said. 

“Will you be alright for tonight?” he asks. “I need to make sure my things are packed up and everything in my camp is settled.” 

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I will see you in the morning. Ma’a salama.”

“Ma’a salama, Aam.”

He leaves, and I look down at Kyi Win, a laugh of relief escaping my throat. 

“Did that really happen? Am I dreaming?” I coo at my brother, who giggles in his gurgling baby voice and throws his balled fists in all directions. I realize just how much he has changed in the past three months. His first birthday is only two months away, and I can hardly believe it. My heart aches thinking that he might have to grow up without his parents. Will he ask about them? Try to imagine their faces? Their voices? 

A tear slides down my cheek. 

Allah, help us.

Somehow, I will find a life worthy enough to hold my baby brother. Somehow, I will give him all the love my parents have, so he will never forget them. 

Somehow, we will make it through.

I know we will. 

***

September, 2022—Three years later

Sydney, Australia

My legs shake as I stand outside the door to my first class at the University of Sydney. I trace my fingertips along the doorframe to the lecture hall to test if it’s real. 

Is this really happening?

I can’t believe I am in the place that I am now. Not just at the university, but everywhere in my life.

After we arrived in Alor Setar, Aam found the first flight to Sydney he could, and before I knew it, we were all granted refugee status and temporary visas, and Aam and I began working our first jobs in the new country. Soon after, we were able to afford an apartment, and life seemed to find a fluid normality that we learned to adapt to. 

After I turned eighteen, I found that I could call Sydney “home”, and applied for Australian citizenship for myself and Kyi Win. Aam followed suit shortly thereafter. 

We received news last year that neither my ummi nor my baba survived their ordeals. I spent months mourning through quiet tears and solitude, hoping that the silence might bring back their memory. I learned, though, that if I was to truly live out their legacy, endlessly sitting in my room dwelling in a blanket of loneliness would not accomplish that. So, with the help of my uncle and a couple of unlikely friends, I slowly crawled out from under the quilt and found my hope again. 

Yesterday was Kyi Win’s first day of preschool. I think I may have cried more than after the news of my parents. I’m still reeling over the fact that I am finally giving him the life I know they wanted so badly for him. Somehow, I’ve found a life worthy enough for him who deserves so much more than what he has already endured in his short life thus far. I have sworn to myself that I will never allow anything like that to happen to him again. 

The arch of the lecture hall’s door stands before me, inviting me into the start of a whole new chapter. Giving me permission to let go of the last one, and move forward. Telling me that there is still more to come, still more struggles I have yet to face. But reassuring me that I can face them. 

The past five years are my proof of hope. My proof that I am so much stronger than even the crushing weight of worldly horrors. My proof that even when I can’t see a single foot in front of me, I know I have the spirit to keep moving forward. 

***

“Around here, however, we don’t look backwards for very long. We keep moving forward.”

-Walt Disney

©2026 Clara Lilly