Rohingya Girl: “My Bangladesh” Photo Series (3)

“I asked the rose: ‘From whom did you steal the beauty?’ She had a slight smile, full of modesty, and did not answer.” (Jalal al-Din Rumi)

Ukhiya, Cox'z Bazar. Bangladesh.  27 February 2020

On the Rohingya refugee camp in Cox's Bazar, I have read a lot and seen a lot of photos. I have listened to stories of the Rohingya families I met in Malaysia. But, certain things must be seen with your own eyes.  

Thanks to my Italian friend Alberto, who works for NGO Malteser International-Germany, I had the opportunity to visit the Cox's Bazar Gonoshasthaya Kendra Camp hospital, in Camp 1 of  Lambasia. Entering the Camp already caught me unprepared because the moment of access is hardly noticed, except for a small army garrison. The rural area of Ukhiya does not look very different from the Camp. 

Before seeing the first huts you have to drive for a long time. Eventually, you start to see the infinite expanse of roofs. I walk, I walk, and I see no end. Then we made a series of photographic shots of the daily routine in the Camp hospital run by the impeccable and enthusiastic Doctor Sadia, a young Bangladeshi woman who has the strength of a mountain and a smile always printed on her face. In the hospital, in addition to visits, medicines and treatments, there is a great deal of emphasis on sex education and hygiene, to try to slow down the unstoppable increase of population.

It was inside this hospital that I saw the map of the Camp and I was amazed: Camp 1 that seemed huge to me, in which there are about 40,000 Rohingyas, is only one tiny part of the 20 Camps that make up the entire Refugee Camp, with about one million Rohingyas and as many local population. A country within another country. And the volunteers there told me that now the situation has much improved compared to two or three years ago, when there were no toilets and running water.

The Camp is the only chance of survival for the Rohingya, and in Cox's Bazar there is a continuous procession of jeeps of all kinds of NGOs from all over the world. But, like everything, there are the positive and negative sides, and certainly for Cox's Bazar—which is one of the poorest areas of Bangladesh—the presence of foreigners and Rohingyas for many years has drastically changed their lives, making life more difficult.

The hand that pulls the blanket to cover the head reveals the feet.

However, by following the health workers to check various families in the camp that day, I saw this girl, at the door of her home, with other women, attracted out by the cackle of happy children. She was there, with the classic Burmese make-up, thanaka, the yellow cosmetic cream obtained from the bark of some trees; slightly hidden by the dark curtain that covers the entrance of the house, alongside other smiling women.

Other Rohingya woman laughing at door

As soon as I saw her, I raised the camera to shoot but she, like a crab flees the hand, has holed up inside the house. I photographed the other women who smiled, then I stayed there joking with the Rohingya children and Bangladeshi doctors of the hospital. I actually took time waiting for her to come out again, but nothing: as soon as she pulled her head out and saw me, she hid again.

Generally, when I see that someone doesn't want to be photographed, I don't insist, and I go away. I don't like to force.

But she... I don't know. Young, but I can't tell the age, even if I think she was not more than twenty years old. She had and has something that planted me motionless in front of the door, with my senses alerted to the max, ready to shoot at the speed of light.

Nothing. The doctors who were with me told me to go, but I shook my head; no, I want to photograph her.

So they started calling her to come out, even the Rohingya women, laughing, “Come out, come out!” I guess they said it in their language. And I was there, staring at the dark curtain, hoping she would come out.

And, as if in a dream, her hand dodged the curtain and she came out just on the edge of the door, with the euphoric women and my friends explaining why they insisted: because I wanted to photograph her.

So, I didn't wait. I took just two photos of her, practically holding my breath, feeling guilty for having almost forced her, but with the modesty of not demanding her gaze, because I knew how much she felt ashamed, and maybe she didn't even understand the reason, with her face also slightly dirty and her lips closed like a rosebud. Imminently beautiful.

Having taken those two photos, she looked at me. I thanked her almost apologetically, really with a red face of shame from seeing that so much beauty. Luckily, it was full of children in front of us and I started to joke and photograph them. She was always a little hidden but smiling, now relieved of the weight of being a model for a moment.

And from that moment, I see and review that photograph.

I love taking and looking at portraits; each is a story in itself. Like entering an immense library and seeing the books ordered on the shelves, stacks and infinite stacks as in Luis Borges' dreams.

I still remember the first times I used to polish my eyes in front of Steve McCurry's portraits, imagining what lives those mysterious faces have had. 

Everyone, at least once in their life, must have met the gaze of a portrait by McCurry. But, there is a lesser known photographer, and in my opinion underestimated, whose portraits are for me, sometimes, even more intense than those of the American photographer: Olivier Föllmi. He is another profound lover of Asia, who has told Tibet in a splendid way, and who works with his wife in couple, creating photographic books with quotes and themed proverbs chosen by his wife.

Steve McCurry: “A village girl” Jaipur, Rajasthan, 1983

I am enchanted by his portraits of women, and I know why, because they are simple women. McCurry's portraits are always powerful, strong as a punch in the face, while the women portrayed by Föllmi look more like caresses, extremely daily in their beauty, without any stratagem to take possession of the eyes of those who look at those images. One gets the impression—which  is a certainty for me—that, truly, every woman, in every corner of the globe and in every condition of life, even the most difficult, of all ages, can shine like a rose.

Like my Rohingya girl, in all her shyness, far from a homeland she may never see again, with more scars in her heart than in the hands marked by daily work for survival, with an overwhelmingly denied identity and maybe without a future, if not that of the field for now and forever. But so simply wonderful.

That really would be like asking to her: “From whom did you steal the beauty?”
And she, smiling modestly, is silent and hides.
Like a rose that closes her petals.

Olivier Föllmi: “Indira, young peasant girl of Gujarat”

Suggested books:

Steve McCurry: “India” (PHAIDON)

Steve McCurry: “Portraits - Ritratti” (PHAIDON)Olivier Föllmi: “Indira, young peasant girl of Gujarat”

Olivier & Danielle Föllmi : “Eterne donne” (L'Ippocampo, 2010)

Olivier Föllmi: “Himalaya” (L'Ippocampo, 2005)