That’s Me, A Rohingya.
|A Rohingya girl selling food at the internally displaced persons camp for Rohingya people outside Sittwe in the state of Rakhine, Myanmar. — (Photo: Reuters)|
Ro Mayyu Ali
That’s Me, A Rohingya.
When I was born,
I’m not a baby like you.
Without a birth certificate
I’m like just a dead.
When I’m one-year-old,
I’m not a child like you.
Without a nationality
I’m like just a pet.
When I’m in school,
I’m not a student like you.
Without a Burmese face
I’m like just a future-barren.
When I’m in another village,
I’m not a resident like you.
Having approval for overnight,
I’m like just a loony-bin-detainee.
When I pass over my town,
I’m not an inhabitant like you.
Holding Form-4 authorization,
I’m like just a nomad.
When I’m in university,
I’m not a fresher like you.
Being denied a professional major,
I’m like just an invalid.
When I try to approach with my peoples,
I’m not accepted like you.
Being suffered from apartheid and chauvinism
I’m like just a quarantined.
When I wish to get married,
I’m not a fiance like you.
Having approval for marriage,
I’m like just an alien.
When I intend to repair my earthen hut.
I’m not allowed to do like you.
Facing tangible denials,
I’m like just an invader.
When I arrange a small trade,
I’m not a vendor like you.
Being ongoing restricted and confiscated,
I’m like just a pauper.
When I apply for a civil service,
I’m not a candidate like you.
Receiving a motivated rejection,
I’m like just a segregatee.
When I’m hospitalized in a state-run clinic,
I’m not a favoured-patient like you.
Being marginalized and discriminated,
I’m like just an oustee.
When I bestow to follow belief in,
I’m not a faith like you.
Being restricted for worship and demolished mosques,
I’m like just a non-man-kind.
While I’m of an orchestrated riot,
I’m not a survivor like you.
Without an insurance for safety,
I’m like just a ripe-victim.
When a New Year turns in,
I’m not a civillian like you.
Being under the colorful decades-long operations,
I’m like just an inventory-item.
Even I live in my country where I was born,
I can’t name it my own like you.
Without an identity,
I’m like just an immigrant.
Even I breath the air of this sky,
I’m not a human being like you.
Without a reliable undertaker,
I’m like just a loner.
Even I see the sunrise,
I’m not a living-kind like you.
Without a fertile hope for tomorrow,
My life is like just a sandy-castle.
Despite apex of inhumanities
And dire of immoralities
I’m quite surrounded in
My skin remains trembling
Just to feel once the essence of full freedom
My heart remains hoping
Just to walk once like a man in my world
Indeed, no one nowadays is like me.
The only one as alike as
That’s surely myself
Perhaps, I’m none other.
Just a Rohingya!