‘Wouldn’t it have been nice if I too had died?’
AS 500,000 ROHINGYA MUSLIMS FLEE MYANMAR, A FARMER RECOUNTS HIS FAMILY’S ILL-FATED JOURNEY
Across the ferocious waves and the churning black water, Alam Jafar could see his frantic sevenyear-old son gasping for breath, his arms flailing just above the ocean’s surface.
It was raining, and a fierce monsoon storm had transformed the sky and the sea into a kaleidoscope of grey shadows that was impossible to escape. The little boy was crying out louder than he ever had in his life. He did not know how to swim. “Papa! Papa! Help Me!” “Papaaaaa.” Just moments before, they had huddled together in a small fishing boat filled with refugees from Myanmar that was bound for Bangladesh. They were part of the largest human exodus in Asia since the Vietnam War — a colossal tide of more than 500,000 Rohingya Muslims whose homes had been torched by Buddhist mobs and soldiers.
What happened next, just 300 metres from shore, would take the lives of at least 50 people, most of them children, in the deadliest tragedy of its kind since the crisis exploded in late August. Through interviews with more than a dozen survivors, The Associated Press has reconstructed their illfated journey late last month
Short and stocky with a fiery temper, Jafar grew up in a small village in northwestern Myanmar called Moidaung.
It was a quiet place of immense beauty: Emerald rice fields. Lush mountains. For the Rohingya Muslims, though, it was also a prison — they could not travel without consent from authorities. The country’s Buddhist government denied them basic rights.
Despite their plight, Jafar had managed to do well for himself. The 25-year-old farmer lived in a four-room house surrounded by coconut and mango trees.
In 2009, he married Tayiba Khatun. A year later, they had a son, Mohamed Zobair, an energetic boy who loved soccer and school. In July, Khatun gave birth to twins, a boy named Yasin and a girl, Noor Khaida.
About a month later, Rohingya insurgents attacked dozens of police posts and an army base. In response, mobs backed by security forces began setting entire Rohingya villages ablaze. It was time to leave. The road leading out of the village was overflowing with families. Jafar’s family joined them, and word soon passed down the line. There was a beach where refugees were boarding boats for Bangladesh. To get there, they would have to cross the forested spine of the Mayu mountains.
They hiked for two days, scooping cold water from streams and sleeping on the ground. On the morning of Sept. 27, they finally spotted the coast. A few hours after nightfall, a dozen fishing boats suddenly appeared. Jafar and his family managed to get on one boat packed with 75 people bound for Bangladesh — 10 kilometres away.
When the engine started and they pulled away, the sea was calm. Over the next few hours, though, the weather grew steadily worse.
“The ocean is going to kill us all,” said Khatun.
Sunrise brought one small ray of hope. It pointed the way east, which meant the coast of Bangladesh — had to be in the same direction.
Eventually, they spied land. Their two-hour trip, which had turned into 18, might finally be about to end.
As the boat motored toward the shore, torrential sheets of rain began to fall.
And then, somewhere around 3:30 p.m., the engine died. Without power, the boat, only a few hundred metres from shore, was at the mercy of the monsoon waves.
A giant wave thrust the boat upside down. It threw Jafar into the surging ocean with the twins, who were wrapped around his chest in a longyi.
His wife and son were about three metres away, when a second wave crashed down and he lost sight of them.
The waves and the weight of the twins kept pushing him down. He didn’t know if they were dead.
He was exhausted. When he realized he would drown if he held on to them any longer, he untied the longyi, and let go of his babies.
By the time he crawled onto the beach and collapsed, it was twilight.
That night, Jafar searched desperately for Khatun and Mohamed and the twins. When he found their bodies, laid out on the sand by rescuers, he broke down and wept.
“Why did I bring my children here and let them die in the water?” he asks, two weeks after the disaster. “Wouldn’t it have been nice if I, too, had died? Wouldn’t it?”