Rohingya Families Speak Out on Child Safety in the Camps

By Maung Emdadul Hasan

Every evening in the Rohingya refugee camps, many parents go through the same routine. As the sun sets over the hills of Cox's Bazar and children return from learning centers, markets, water points, and nearby shelters, mothers and fathers begin counting. They check if everyone is at home. They look outside their bamboo shelters and along the narrow paths, waiting for familiar faces to appear. For most families, it is just a normal part of the day. But for some, it has become the most worrying and stressful moment of every evening.

A series of community surveys among Rohingya residents gives a clear picture of how families feel about safety in the refugee camps. These findings are more than just numbers. They reflect the voices of parents, caregivers, brothers, sisters, and other community members who have lived with uncertainty for years. Behind every percentage is a real person. Behind every answer is a family trying to keep its children safe in one of the world's largest refugee camps.

The first story data tells is about time. This is not a newly displaced community struggling to adjust to unfamiliar surroundings. Nearly all respondents reported living in the camps for more than eight years. Many arrived after fleeing violence in Myanmar in 2017. Since then, they have built lives inside the camps, raised children, buried relatives, established routines, and watched a generation grow up without ever knowing another home. For many young people, the refugee camp is not temporary. It is the only reality they have ever experienced.

The survey also reveals a community centered around children. Most respondents reported having children in their households, and large families were common. More than a third reported raising five or more children. These numbers matter because they remind us that discussions about child protection are not abstract debates or policy concerns. They are deeply personal questions affecting families every single day. When respondents speak about safety, they are speaking about their own sons and daughters.

When asked whether children feel safe inside the camps, the community gave a very clear answer. Most respondents said that children are unsafe or extremely unsafe. Only a few believed children are very safe. Most importantly, not a single person chose the middle option of "somewhat safe." This shows that many families do not see safety as something that exists even partly. Instead, they feel that children simply are not safe in the camps.

The survey then looks at one of the main fears affecting people's views. Kidnapping is a common topic of discussion across the camps. Although only a small number of people said they had personally experienced an attempted kidnapping, almost everyone had heard stories about such cases or knew someone connected to one. These stories spread quickly in the crowded camps. A missing child in one area soon becomes known in others, and rumors shared in the marketplace can spread across the camps within hours. Whether every story is true is not the main issue. What matters is that many families believe the threat is real, and this belief influences how they live their daily lives.

Parents respond by restricting children's movements, monitoring where they go, and worrying about delays that might once have seemed insignificant. The fear itself becomes part of everyday life. In that sense, the survey captures something larger than crime statistics. It captures the psychological impact of living in an environment where uncertainty has become normalised.

Yet one of the most revealing findings appears when respondents were asked who they believe is responsible for kidnappings. Most answered that they simply do not know. Smaller numbers pointed to traffickers, criminal groups, or outsiders. The dominant response, however, was uncertainty. This finding is important because it suggests that fear within the camps is often disconnected from a clearly identifiable source. People feel threatened, but many cannot confidently explain by whom. Such uncertainty can deepen insecurity because it leaves families without a clear understanding of where danger comes from or how it might be prevented.

The survey also explored public perceptions of Child Protection Teams and humanitarian organizations operating within the camps. The results suggest a significant gap between visibility and understanding. Nearly everyone had heard of Child Protection Teams. Very few, however, felt they truly understood what those teams do. Most respondents recognized the name but could not describe the role. This points to a challenge faced by many humanitarian actors. Presence alone does not automatically create confidence. Communities need to understand how protection systems function, what services they provide, and what can realistically be expected during emergencies.

Responses concerning NGOs and INGOs revealed a similar pattern. Many respondents reported that a family member had received assistance from humanitarian organizations. This suggests that services are reaching at least some households. Yet direct personal engagement remained less common, and experiences were mixed. Some residents described receiving support, while others reported seeking assistance without success. Together, these responses paint a picture of institutions that are present and active, yet not always viewed as consistently accessible or effective.

Perhaps the most complex finding concerns trust. Many respondents acknowledged that protection programs provide some benefit. At the same time, almost none expressed strong trust in the institutions delivering those services. This distinction is important. People can recognize that an organization performs useful work while still believing it responds too slowly, operates through excessive bureaucracy, or fails to meet expectations during moments of crisis. The survey suggests that many residents hold precisely this view. Their criticism is directed less at the idea of protection itself and more at how protection is delivered.

When asked what they most urgently need, respondents consistently favored practical solutions over awareness activities. Many prioritized stronger reporting systems for kidnapping cases. Others emphasized increased security patrols, particularly during nighttime hours. These preferences reveal a community focused on action rather than information. Families are not asking primarily to learn about dangers they already understand. They are asking for visible measures that make those dangers less likely to occur.

And yet, despite widespread frustration, the survey ends on a surprisingly hopeful note. Most respondents stated that they would immediately report a kidnapping threat to humanitarian protection actors. This finding stands in contrast to the low levels of trust expressed elsewhere in the data. It suggests that while confidence may be fragile, it has not completely collapsed. Families continue to believe that reporting is worthwhile. They continue to seek assistance. They continue to engage with systems they often criticise because the stakes are simply too high not to.

Taken together, the surveys tell the story of a community living between fear and hope. Rohingya families describe an environment where child safety remains a serious concern, where stories of kidnapping shape daily decisions, and where trust in institutions has weakened over time. Yet they also describe a population that has not withdrawn from the search for solutions. Even after years of displacement, uncertainty, and disappointment, families continue to speak up, report threats, and call for stronger protection.

The message emerging from these surveys is neither resignation nor despair. It is a clear and persistent appeal from parents who want what parents everywhere want: the ability to let their children walk outside and know they will come home again.

All photos by Maung Emdadul Hasan