“Bhaiya, they threw my family into the ocean. There were children, the elderly, even the sick, they spared no one. My world is lost.”
These haunting words pierced through the silence of the morning hours on a random Saturday, in a phone call that shattered the quiet and expected tranquility. On the other end of the line was a woman in deep distress, her voice quivering with fear and disbelief, teetering on the edge of a panic attack. The physical condition of the moment palpably tormented her.
“I think the information you have received might be inaccurate,” I assured her gently, trying to offer some reassurance, however, I was able to sense the agony. “Surely, the Indian police wouldn’t commit such a horrifying act—they will have to answer for it.” I said, but even as I spoke, traumatic memories of countless episodes of police brutality against Muslims played like a reel in my mind. The weight of history made the hope in my words feel uncertain, in fact hollow and somewhat empty.
It was nearly four years ago when I first met Rashida*, a Rohingya refugee family in the makeshift settlement at Kanchan Kunj, a fragile cluster of tents and tarpaulin like a fragile shell of structure, which offered little protection but bore the weight of survival. That settlement, like several others before and after, was eventually reduced to ashes through an inferno that yet away swept away the solace of many.
Some attributed the fire to an electrical short circuit. Others pointed fingers at Hindutva groups, suspecting arson. After all, it wasn’t the first such incident. That year, multiple Rohingya camps across Delhi and neighboring areas were mysteriously set ablaze—each fire striking with eerie similarity, raising troubling questions about targeted attacks and systemic neglect.
The refugees, already displaced from their homeland in Myanmar after dreadful violence, found themselves unsafe ironically in supposed refuge. They had been labeled as “the other” by growing sections of society—dehumanized, demonized, and dismissed. To many, they were not refugees but “cockroaches,” undeserving of empathy and humanity.
The woman I met had already lost her husband and several family members to the violence in Myanmar. She fled to India with what remained of her family, hoping for protection. Today, unfortunately, she struggles to take care of her three daughters and a son who is physically unable to work. Her story, like that of many Rohingya refugees in India, is one of unending displacements—first by bullets, then by flames, and now by indifferences.
I hung up the call with a grief, little did I know the it will only increase; and I will return to the avalanche of another crisis—a lynching case, a youth was brutally killed. Amid the rush of support, hospital visits, and media coordination, Rashida’s trembling voice on the phone faded into the background of my thoughts. At the time, her panic felt overwhelming, even speculative.
Two days later, my worst fears materialized.A report by Maktoob confirmed what I had hoped was a misunderstanding: Indian authorities had allegedly forced 40 Rohingya families—including children, the elderly, and the ailing—into the sea near the Myanmar border. The very idea was chilling. The sheer inhumanity of such an act left me mummed, questioning how any state or system could justify such cruelty.
The act was done. The families—already stateless, already stripped off their rights and recognition—were now cast adrift, literally and figuratively, by a country that had once served as a fragile sanctuary.
Later that same week, I met with the affected families, hoping to understand what had truly transpired. What they shared were chilling, first-hand accounts of the ordeal—details that laid bare the sheer inhumanity of the actions taken against them. This report documents those events and the unimaginable cruelty they endured.
Detained in Delhi, Abandoned at Sea: The Ordeal of 40 Rohingya Refugees
Forty Rohingya refugees—including women, children, and the elderly—were reportedly detained from various parts of Delhi, including Uttam Nagar and Kalindi Kunj. After being taken to the Badarpur Border police station for medical formalities, they were transferred to the Inderlok Detention Centre. From there, the group was moved to an airport and eventually placed on a ship headed towards the Myanmar border.
According to sources, the refugees were given life jackets and left adrift approximately 2 kilometers from the shore. Local fishermen later spotted them struggling in the water and rescued them using fishing nets.
Upon reaching the border, a few individuals managed to contact their families and recount the harrowing ordeal they had just endured. Shortly thereafter, they were apprehended by Myanmar authorities. Since then, their whereabouts remain unknown, leaving families in a state of anguish and uncertainty about the fate of their loved ones.
The Curious case of Asma Aletar
Twenty-year-old Asma Aletar was set to be married this May. Her family, including her uncle Ismail, had managed to arrange everything for the joyous occasion—from her bridal dress to carefully chosen gifts. But today, only those items remain in their modest makeshift home, lying for the bride to adorn them, unfortunately, the bride herself is gone. Asma and her mother were among the 40 Rohingya refugees allegedly forced into the Andaman Sea by Indian authorities, leaving behind shattered dreams and grieving loved ones.
Her uncle, Mohammad Ismail, broke down in tears while speaking to FoEJ. Media struggling to compose himself, he repeated through sobs, “I am already dead…I am already dead…”
The case of Noorul Amin
Noorul had been living in a Rohingya refugee settlement in Uttam Nagar, Delhi. On May 6, his pregnant wife suffered a miscarriage at a government hospital, in these painful moments for the couples, the brutality hit even harder. Their five family members were deported to Myanmar. Days later, Noorul received a distressing call from his brother, who recounted the traumatic ordeal and informed him that they were now in the custody of Myanmar authorities.
Rohingyans in the Indian legal prism
India is home to an estimated 17,000–40,000 Rohingya refugees, most of whom fled Myanmar to escape ethnic violence and persecution. While many have registered with the UNHCR and reside in informal settlements across Delhi, Jammu, Hyderabad, and parts of Haryana, they lack formal legal status, making them highly vulnerable to exploitation, detention, and deportation. The Indian government does not officially recognize the Rohingyas as refugees and has labeled them as “illegal immigrants.” With increasing hostility, surveillance, and reports of forced repatriation, the Rohingya community in India lives in a state of constant fear, statelessness, and uncertainty about their future.
The plight of Rohingya refugees in India remains precarious, further compounded by a recent observation from the Supreme Court, which refrained from granting them protection against deportation, citing national security concerns. This stance echoes earlier rulings where the judiciary has prioritized state interest over refugee rights. In a related judgment, the Allahabad High Court (2021) denied the right to education to Rohingya children, stating that benefits under the RTE Act apply only to Indian citizens. These developments underscore the legal vacuum surrounding refugee protection in India, leaving thousands stateless, vulnerable, and excluded from basic rights.
In Salimullah v. Union of India (2021), the Supreme Court of India declined to stay the deportation of Rohingya refugees detained in Jammu, stating that India is not a signatory to the 1951 Refugee Convention and thus not obligated to follow its provisions. The Court emphasized concerns of national security and observed that illegal migrants cannot claim fundamental rights on par with citizens. This judgment marked a significant setback for refugee protections, reinforcing the precarious legal status of Rohingyas in India.
What Rohingya Refugees Feel About India
In my many conversations with Rohingya refugees over the years, one sentiment consistently stands out—gratitude. Despite their suffering and the immense challenges they continue to face, they often speak highly of India. Many recall how, at a time when the world turned its back on them, India opened its doors. When other nations denied them entry or kept them confined to camps, India—though not officially recognizing them as refugees—offered them a place to breathe, rebuild, and begin anew.
For countless families, India became more than a refuge; it became a land of possibility. Here, they were able to raise children, access basic education, earn a living, and establish some semblance of a normal life. In the narrow lanes of Delhi, Jammu, and Hyderabad, many Rohingya communities have found resilience and rootedness—growing gardens in front of their shelters, sending children to school, and contributing quietly to the local economy.
While their legal status remains uncertain and recent incidents have deepened their fear, the Rohingya continue to hold a deep respect for the Indian people and its civil society. Their stories are a testament to the hope that even in exile, humanity and kindness can prevail. India, to them, was and remains a lifeline
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A Call for Compassion and Humanity
The plight of Rohingya refugees in India reflects not just a humanitarian crisis, but a moral reckoning. Stateless and stripped of dignity, they have endured cycles of violence—from genocidal persecution in Myanmar to systemic neglect and hostility in India. The recent reports of forced deportations, even involving pregnant women and children, raise urgent questions about our collective conscience and the values we choose to uphold.
Refugees are not criminals; they are survivors—people who have fled unimaginable horrors in search of safety and hope. To treat them with cruelty, indifference, or political convenience is to betray the foundational principles of justice and human rights. India, with its long tradition of sheltering the persecuted, must rise above politics and reaffirm its commitment to humanity.
It is not enough to speak of national security while turning a blind eye to international obligations and basic human decency. We must build policies rooted in compassion, not exclusion—ones that protect the vulnerable instead of punishing them for their misfortune.
What the Rohingya need is not fear and fences, but empathy and protection. Their survival should not depend on chance or charity, but on our willingness to see them as human. It’s time we remember that.
