Power, connectivity, and the law: Conducting refugee-focused research in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh.

Note: This research memo is from my doctoral dissertation fieldwork in Cox’s Bazar. Publications forthcoming. All names below have been anonymized to protect identities.

A personal research memo

Across the 36 Rohingya refugee camps of Cox’s Bazar, internet capable mobile devices are heavily restricted by the Bangladesh Government. Because the refugee camps were established in a remote wildlife reserve, there is also very little or no cellular coverage in many parts of the camps, meaning anyone with a phone needs to get close to the Kutupalong or Ukhiya townships to gain a signal. Yet somehow thousands of information hungry and tech savvy Rohingya have smartphones and network with peers from other camps, with human rights activists, and with researchers beyond the borders of Bangladesh.

Unless they have special permission from Bangladeshi authorities, nearly one million Rohingya residents are also prohibited from leaving their designated camps. They struggle to even visit relatives across the barbed-wire fences of nearby camps or go to local townships. Mobile phones are therefore a vital but somewhat illicit gateway to the outside world, which may only be the camp next door.

For a number of months I had been communicating with teachers and youth leaders via Twitter (presently known as X), learning more about their day-to-day realities through their ‘citizen journalism’ in 240 character tweets. The term ‘citizen journalist’ is ironic, however, considering that the Rohingya have no citizenship, anywhere, but perhaps on Twitter and in other digital spheres.

Among the many Rohingya males that I communicated with online (likely due to the barriers associated with conservative gender norms I did not come across any Rohingya females) one young ‘citizen journalist’ stood out as particularly enterprising and entrepreneurial.

Ro Maung said he had been a translator for BBC News and NHK Japan and that he had supported numerous NGOs with research activities, including interviews and focus group discussions. We transferred our conversations from Twitter to WhatsApp and held a couple of video calls, too. Although, overlooking our different time zones between Cox’s Bazar and New York, Ro Maung sometimes called in the middle of the night.

I informed Ro Maung that I was returning to Bangladesh and would like to discuss translation opportunities with him for later in the year. But before I could visit him I would need to be issued a new camp permit from the Bangladesh authorities. He asked if I could bring him a new iPhone as he had lost his during Cyclone Mocha and was now using his father’s “inferior Android.” I said I would see if anyone I knew had an iPhone to donate.

Upon arriving in Cox’s Bazar I learned that the authorities had tightened camp permit regulations, largely due to political tensions surrounding the Government's recent efforts to fast track Rohingya repatriation to Myanmar, which the UNHCR opposed. I would have to submit a lot more paperwork than in the past and it could take weeks to process.

I informed Ro Maung of this development via WhatsApp. He said he would come to me in Cox’s Bazar township, a one hour drive from the camps. I did not think this was a wise idea. But he insisted that he often came to Cox’s Bazar to meet his media clients. It would be fine, he said. Compromising, I agreed but asked him to suggest a discreet tea shop where we could talk.

The day we were supposed to meet I was working from the office of a UN agency. At 2pm I received a message from Ro Maung to let me know that he was on his way. By 4pm I had not heard anything and I feared that he had been caught at a military checkpoint. At 4.15pm I received a message. He wrote: “We are at your apartment building. Come.” This was not the plan. And what did he mean by “we”?

Upon arriving at my apartment building I found three policemen armed with pump-action rifles standing at the reception in the lobby. There was no sign of Ro Maung. Then I got another message: “we are 300 meters up the road. Come.” Among a throng of electric rickshaws, tea sellers, and fruit stalls I spotted four distinctive Rohingya youth, none of them looked older than 18.

As I approached, Ro Maung stepped forward, and nonchalantly introduced his friends. As happy as I was to see him, I asked—as respectfully as I could—why his friends had come. “Because they wanted to meet you, they also follow you on Twitter,” he said. When I asked how they all got here, Ro Maung replied “you do not need to know.”

We quickly found a restaurant. But from the moment we sat down it was obvious we were not welcome. Three wait staff stood in close proximity and it was clear that I, the Westerner in professional attire, was for once not the center of attention. Four Rohingya friends looked through the menu and pointed out meals. At this point I had to remind Ro Maung that we were just getting tea as I had a 5.30pm meeting to return to. At that moment I felt terrible for not being more flexible or generous.

As soon as we ordered, Ro Maung got down to business. “Did you bring a new iPhone for me?” he asked. I had to tell him that no one had any spare phones to donate, but I had tried for him. Disappointed and perhaps confused, he moved to the possibility of employment, which piqued his friends’ attention.

I tried to communicate that I was looking for someone with research experience because the topics we would discuss with Rohingya teachers are highly sensitive. As such, the person I eventually employed would need to undertake research ethics training and understand the vital importance of anonymity and confidentiality.

Ro Maung said that he had all that and that his friends could work for me, too. I questioned Ro Maung’s reliability and carefully stated to him that, due to the day’s events, I had a few doubts. For what was already a risky meeting, he had not told me his friends were coming to Cox’s Bazar or how they got there. Moreover, while the armed police at my apartment concerned me—and may have had nothing to do with Ro Maung—he and his friends did not flinch at all.

With our tea finished, the hovering wait staff did not offer to refill our cups. I said to Ro Maung and his friends that I was not in a position to hire four people and that I would also be meeting other candidates in the camps once my permits came through. I had to carefully evaluate who was best suited for the role. Disappointed by my actions yet again, Ro Maung said “so you do not have jobs for us?” A desperate silence ensued among them.

Feeling the impatient waiters’ eyes bearing down on us, my attention shifted to the safety of Ro Maung and his friends. I asked if they were going to return to their camps after our meeting. Ro Maung responded “No, I told my friends that we could stay at your apartment tonight.”

My empathy was now running low and I tried to respond rationally. I reminded them that our current meeting was putting us all at significant risk; that there was no way any of us would be safe if they stayed at my apartment. “It will be fine.” Ro Maung assured me.

Reluctant and embarrassed, I stated that all that I was trying to achieve in my work alongside Rohingya teachers would be jeopardized if I broke Bangladesh’s laws. One of the friends—who until now had not spoken—then said “but you have a passport. You have your government to protect you.”

I paid the bill and we left. None of the usual pleasantries were offered by the staff and I offered no tip. But I had to be assertive with Ro Maung, I worried that the police had been called so I handed Ro Maung the equivalent of 15 US dollars and asked that he hire a rickshaw and return to the camps straight away. Ro Maung accepted the money, but he also looked offended by the gesture.

Ro Maung asked when I would let his friends know about the jobs. I reminded him that I only had one role and other candidates to meet. Ro Maung said that he understood and thanked me for my time. I bid farewell to his friends, suggesting that once my permits come through I might visit them in the camps.

By 6pm I arrived back for my meeting at the UN agency office. It was about preloading instructional videos onto internet-disabled tablets to support Rohingya teacher training efforts.

Towards the end of the meeting a Twitter notification on my phone buzzed. I opened it to see a tweet from Ro Maung. Four photos showed him and his friends on Cox’s Bazar beach at sunset, wearing new sunglasses and posing with cans of Coke in their hands. They looked carefree and fit right in among the throngs of Bangladeshi tourists in the background, as if they too were on holiday and, if even for a moment, belonged.