Exhausted, I drifted into sleep this afternoon, only to find myself pulled back into a time long gone—a time when I was a high school student in Maungdaw, Myanmar. In my dream, life was as it used to be: waking up early for school, attending tuition classes, doing homework with friends, playing games, watching movies. I could almost feel the laughter again.
My family was large, with relatives on both my mother’s and father’s sides. We were close, and I loved traveling to remote villages, visiting relatives in different towns, savoring the lush greenery of the paddy fields and the vibrant colors that filled Arakan. Every season brought its own special fruits, dishes, and traditions—each one a reminder of the life that once thrived there.
One of my favorite meals was bamboo sticky rice, a simple joy I can still taste in my memories. People near the mountains cherished the cold of winter, and every city had its own unique flavors and customs. Arakan was rich, alive, a tapestry of different cultures tied to the beauty of the land.
In my dream, I was planning to visit my uncle in Buthidaung during the summer break, like I did every year. He had a few horses, and we’d spend the days riding horses under the wide, endless sky. But I was arguing with my mother—she wanted to visit her parents’ old cottage in another town, the place where she grew up. I didn’t want to go; I had my own plans.
Then, suddenly, I woke up.
I woke up and remembered… everything I knew—everything that was once familiar and beloved in Maungdaw—had been turned to ashes. The villages, the bustling towns, the people I grew up with, all gone. All those places I used to visit, filled with joy and warmth, had become empty fields and ghost towns.
I tried, desperately, to trick myself into believing it was still there, that maybe I could go back. But deep down, I knew the truth. I had to accept it: Arakan, the land that held my happiest memories, no longer exists for the Rohingya.
It’s lost to us forever.
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