It was 1978. I was a child of eight years of age. The military operation against the Rohingyas "Dragon King" was going on. Rohingyas were fleeing from different parts of Arakan to Bangladesh to escape the military crackdown.

The name of my village is Ombadi Para (Rwa) and the name of our Ooksoo ( Union ) is Senthaung under Kyawktaw Mrooney (Township) in Arakan State of Burma. Everyday, the news of military tortures, arson or rape were spreading from area to area. People also started running from different villages of our Ooksoo. My father also decided to flee to Bangladesh. My father was the Rwasugri (Headman) of our village and was respected by all in our Ooksoo. As soon as the news of my father's decision to leave the country spread, people came from all the villages of the Ooksoo to request him not to leave them helpless at the hands of the military brutes. Finally, my father could not turn down the requests of the hundreds of helpless human beings and dropped the idea of leaving the country. But he decided to send me with my aunt and other relatives to Bangladesh to save at least my life.

Immediately, my aunt and all our other relatives who have decided to leave the country were getting preparation with whatever means they could have, but maintained utmost secrecy, lest the army would know, which would bring disasters for all or raze the whole village to the ground.

At last the long awaited moment came to bid farewell to our beloved homes and homesteads  – where we were born, our village – where we were brought up, our nearby river - where we used to sport with our little boats, our cattle – that we used to graze in our meadow "Diyakul", the trees of mangoes and other fruits that we planted with utmost care and affection. Time came for me to get separated from my friends and my near and dear ones and most pathetically from my parents.

That day in the evening, my father took me before the sunset to our village graveyard "Foirtua" to offer final prayer beside the grave of my grandfather and other deceased relatives and have a last visit. My father was weeping terribly, I was weeping too. Later, bidding them final farewell we returned home.

At about 10 pm., all the families of our migrating caravan began to pour in our house wherefrom we would start our journey for the uncertain destination altogether.

Hundreds of men, women and children gathered around. The light was put off. Only the feeble light of a bonfire was visible around. The eyes of everyone were full of tears. Someone was crying in pressed voice and someone weeping in silence. It was a heart-rending scene that people can hardly witness.

The last moment of bidding farewell came. The "Majhee" (boatman) came to inform us of the arrival of the boats with which we would make the voyage. My mother was almost senseless in grief. My father and my grandmothers were crying terribly. At last, my father took up my hands and poured them into the hands of my aunt and tried to utter something, but could not.

Finally, we were led to the "Ghaat" (bank) of the river where the boats were waiting to carry us. A caravan of hundreds of men, women and children were walking to the river crying ……..weeping …….. sobbing. At last we reached the bank and got onto the boats. The crowd who came to see us off was still standing still on the bank and when our boats departed from the bank we raised our hands to the Almighty saying, "Dear Almighty! We are leaving many of our helpless near and dear ones at Your hand. You please save them from the military tyrants with Your heavenly protection." Perhaps, those who were left behind also raised their hands to the sky and said, "Dear Omnipotent God! Protect them from all odds and obstacles and help them reach their destination safe and secure."

After arriving at Apawa, we started journey along the dreadful Apawa mountain pass which was, in fact, a start of another ordeal. It was so heart-rendering and so harrowing that people can never imagine in a free world. While trekking that long arduous Apawa mountain pass I have seen many old and disabled men and women falling down dying while climbing the rugged hazardous mountain and most painful was the scene of the groaning pregnant women while giving birth to their baby in that dense forest. And more painful was the groans of some Rohingya women wailing terribly (as I could understood later on) after being persecuted by the forces en bloc in the army camp. My heart terribly shudders still to visualize those harrowing events.