Between Home and Nowhere

Written by: Ilakiya PB

Edited by: Sonaxi Satpathy

Illustrated by: Saanvi Nagar

A particular heaviness settles over you when you listen to stories of people who have fled everything they once called home. It isn’t just about the trauma of what they endured; it’s about the quiet desperation of what comes after. In Hebbal, the heart of Bengaluru, amidst the bustling tech parks and cafes, lies a community of Rohingya refugees whose voices are often drowned out by the cacophony of the city. I didn’t go there expecting to change lives—I went with the hope of understanding. What I found was something far deeper.

The first time I stepped into the settlement—home to about 200 families—the air felt thick with a kind of silence that wasn’t born out of peace, but exhaustion. It wasn’t the kind of silence you hear in quiet neighborhoods or serene parks. It’s the silence of survival, of resilience that has been stretched thin but remains unbroken.

The faces that greeted me were a mix of curiosity and caution. Language was a barrier, but in their eyes, I saw stories waiting to be told. As I sat with them, listening to fragments of their journeys, the weight of their words began to settle in.

These weren’t just refugees—they were mothers and fathers, children and grandparents, dreamers and believers. They once had homes, careers, and aspirations but now they are reduced to statistics in a world that often fails to see them as human.

One woman, Fatima, shared her story in broken Hindi. Her voice trembled as she described fleeing home with her three children after her husband was killed. Her hands, calloused from years of labor, shook as she recounted their journey—a journey of endless nights filled with endless fear. When I asked her what she wanted most, her answer wasn’t revenge or pity. It was dignity.

Dignity.

It’s such a simple word, yet it carries the weight of everything they’ve lost. For Fatima, dignity meant a place where her children could go to school without fear of rejection. For many others, it wasn’t just about food or shelter; it was about the right to exist without being looked at as “the other.” It was about finding a sense of belonging in a world that has repeatedly pushed them to the margins.

A young man named Karim, barely 20, told me about his aspirations to become a teacher. Back in Myanmar, he had been a top student, excelling in math. Now, he spends his days repairing bicycles, earning just enough to scrape by. “I don’t mind hard work,” he said, “but I want to do more. I want to teach. I want to give children something I didn’t have—a safe place to learn.” His eyes lit up with determination, but beneath it, there was a flicker of uncertainty—a question of whether the world would ever let him live his dream.

For children like Amina, education was a distant dream. She shyly showed me her makeshift workbook, filled with scribbles and drawings. Her father, Adil, explained how he tried to teach her the basics every evening after his day of grueling labor. “She wants to be a doctor,” he said, his voice filled with pride. But his eyes betrayed the fear that the dream might remain just that—a dream.

Amidst these stories, I began to see the cracks in the system—policies that were meant to protect often left them vulnerable; local attitudes fluctuated between indifference and hostility. For the adults, finding work was a battle against prejudice and legality. For the children, even basic education felt out of reach.

Yet, amidst all this, there was hope. It was fragile, yes, but it was there. It lived in the way the community came together to celebrate small victories, in the way children played with scraps of cloth as makeshift toys, in the way they clung to their faith and their culture as a lifeline.

The experience taught me more than I could have ever imagined. It taught me about resilience—not the kind that comes with a motivational quote, but the kind that comes from surviving day after day in a world that has turned its back on you. It taught me about privilege—not just the obvious ones, like the ability to go home to a warm bed, but the privilege of being seen and heard.

Most importantly, it taught me about the power of listening. For a community that has been silenced for so long, the act of simply hearing their stories felt like an act of rebellion—a way to reclaim their humanity in a world that has tried to strip it away.

“Voices of the Unheard” is not just a matter of discourse for me; it is a reality I witnessed—a reminder that behind every label—refugee, migrant, displaced—there is a person. A person who dreams, loves, suffers, and survives. Their voices might be faint, but they are not gone. And it is our duty—not just as witnesses, but as fellow human beings—to amplify them, to ensure they are not just heard, but understood, respected, and valued.

In the end, this experience wasn’t just about them—it was about us. About the kind of world we want to live in. If we truly want a world that is just, we must start by listening to those who have been silenced for far too long.