Memoir: A Rohingya poet-activist’s life is shaped by his resistance to the genocide of his people

Even when I watch the sunrise,
I’m not living like you are
Without the fertility of hope I live,
Just like a sandcastle.

— Mayyu Ali, ‘That’s me, a Rohingya’

In our culture, when a child is born, the midwife places the umbilical cord and placenta inside a large terracotta pot, the hañrí. A member of the family, often the father or grandfather, then collects it to bury it. Once the pot is buried, like a plant, the organs take root. The child now belongs to the land – his native land, the eternal land. They are now one.

On this land, the child will take his first steps; he will grow and love. He will protect it. When he becomes a man, he in turn will bury a pot at the bottom of his garden when his children and grandchildren are born. And so, the story will continue. The man must die on this land and be buried close to the hañrí. This pot will be the mark of his birth, the proof of his existence. His essence. His purpose.

On April 3, 1991, my grandfather buried my pot in our yard. Much later, a few months before his death, he told me the story of my birth. “There were no maternity wards in our district, so I went knocking on the door of the best traditional midwife in our village. Her name was Mostafani Maa. She was used to being woken up in the middle of the night for deliveries. After a long labour, she cried out that you were a boy. Before I could take you in my arms, she handed the hañrí over to me. I went out, knelt down, took the earth in my hands. It was an accomplishment.”

I listened to him, trying to hide my tears. His voice trembled. And when he asked, I promised him that I would, throughout my life, defend the honour of belonging to this country that was his, mine and of our ancestors. I had to leave our land to understand the meaning of these words; to write my memoir and honour this promise. To ward off our fate as the wretched of the earth and revive the colours tarnished by war.

When I remember the little boy I once was, I see a stranger who haunts my nostalgic reveries. It is as though happiness existed in fragments. I remember eagerly awaiting the arrival of summer, when fields were bare and the farmers had finished harvesting their crops. The joy of running barefoot on the barely tilled earth. My heart racing, temples pounding, the first droplets of sweat on my forehead … and the infinite horizon in front of me, without any borders.

I would race to go faster than my friend Johar, while our third playmate Aung Naing tried to catch me or distract me with his cries: “I’m coming, I’m going to get you!” Nothing could take the wind out of our sails. Our races would always end with a dive into the Purma river. Whoever came in first was declared champion of the day. I would jump as high as I could to be able to touch the slimy shallows. Holding my breath, in the depths of the water, all I could hear was my heartbeat. I would close my eyes to make the pleasure last, delighted by the thought that when I came back to the surface, my friends would be beaming at me.

I loved the purity of the landscapes of my childhood. The sky would merge with the verdant Mayu mountains in the distance, to the east of my village Boli Bazar. At daybreak, a thick mist would rise from the summits. An hour or two later, the first rays of sunlight would appear. Once the view cleared, the plains appeared – the green and ochre of the fields, dotted with the shadows of grazing cows. From dawn till dusk, without respite, the farmers sowed and harvested potatoes, aubergines, peppers and onions. Umbrellas protected them from the heat, zuirs from hailstones. Nothing changed, come rain or shine.

My neighbourhood ran along the Purma river which, further south, joined the Naf river that marked the border with Bangladesh. During the sweltering summer evenings, my parents, siblings and I would sit on the riverbank to enjoy the cool breeze on our skin. We watched the sun disappear across the riverside, taking the tumult of the day with it.

The Purma was sacred. It fed the entire village with fish, true gifts from God. To not offend it, our huts were built alongside the watercourse. But during the rainy season, the current created waves which crashed violently on the shore, destroying dozens of shacks and the lives of families who were forced to relocate. Like in this poem which my grandfather used to recite:

‘The rain out there,
The roaring sound of the waves,
The demon in the Purma stream,
Destroys everything along the shore.’

It is in this river that I have my best memories. Johar, Aung Naing and I loved slipping inside the old boats that slumbered on the banks to play at being great navigators.

We could “sail” for hours on end. Johar, the leader of our gang, was the captain and Aung Naing and I were sailors. It was quite a sight: three boys paddling around, sandals held between our fingertips and shirts wet from the water that splashed every time we moved.

When I wasn’t at the river I liked making toys, like cars out of plastic bottles, rubber and bamboo. Usually, around sunset, Aung Naing would call me for a game of chinlon in the fields. Four or five of us would stand in a semi-circle, passing around a ball of woven bamboo. We had to make sure the ball didn’t touch the ground using our chests, legs and heads but never our hands. Aung Naing, short and stocky, was very good at the game.

Our afternoons looked like this: children enjoying games and jokes. There were these moments of fleeting happiness, but we were constantly under surveillance. I became aware of this feeling for the first time when I was four years old. I was playing with my friends in the alleyway in front of my house. Suddenly, a convoy of soldiers appeared on the road. They were coming towards us. As soon as I saw them, I ran to hide in my neighbour’s garden. I was shaking. My heart was beating really fast.

From my hiding place among the interlaced bamboo, I saw the grim face of a man. He was wearing black boots that went up to his knees and his steps, heavy, resembled those of a racehorse. Small bags hung from the belt of his dark green pants and he held a long pistol. Behind him, dozens of men had their hands tied together with a lengthy rope. Some were stripped to their waist, others had weights on their shoulders. I couldn’t clearly distinguish what they were – these thin figures, their ribs jutting out. The soldiers were watching them, forcing them forward. I had never seen anything like this before in my village.

Just ten minutes later, the group was gone. My heart was beating even faster. The road was empty now; the sounds of my friends playing had disappeared. Night had fallen. When I reached home, still reeling in shock, I could barely bring myself to speak. My father interrupted our conversation with a reassurance that the men would not return to our village. “Please give him a bath,” he said to my mother. The cold water from the pump in the garden, which served as a shower, felt good. After dinner, my mother lay down next to me on the floor mat and lulled me to sleep.

Whenever I think of my childhood, I still feel that distant fear – fear that can crop up anywhere, at any moment. Like a sandcastle – beautiful but pitiful, without hope or a foundation – buried by the sea and the kick of a boot.

Excerpted with permission from Eradication: A Poet at the Heart of the Rohingya Genocide, Mayyu Ali with Emilie Lopes, translated from the French by Siba Barkataki, Pan Macmillan.