(Fieldwork memo) Privilege, connectivity, and the law: Navigating refugee-focused research relationships 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. Photo: Author

Across the 36 refugee camps of Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh, where over one million forcibly displaced Rohingya from Myanmar reside, internet capable mobile devices are heavily restricted by the government. Because the camps were established in a remote wildlife reserve there is also very little or no cellular coverage, 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 youth own smartphones and network with peers from other camps, with human rights activists, and with researchers beyond Bangladesh’s borders.

Unless they have special permission from Bangladeshi authorities, Rohingya residents are also prohibited from leaving their designated camps. They struggle to even visit relatives or former neighbours just across the barbed-wire fences of nearby camps or go to local townships to trade. Smartphones are therefore a vital but somewhat illicit gateway to the outside world.

For many months I had been communicating with Rohingya teachers and youth leaders via Twitter (presently known as X), learning more about their day-to-day realities through so-called ‘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 WhatsApp.

Among the numerous Rohingya men that I communicated with online—due to conservative gender norms I only came across Rohingya men; women were notably absent—one young ‘citizen journalist’ stood out as particularly enterprising and entrepreneurial.

Ro Maung was a translator for BBC News, NHK Japan, and Al Jazeera and had supported numerous NGOs with research activities, including interviews and focus group discussions. We soon transferred our conversations from Twitter to WhatsApp and held a couple of video calls, too. Although, disregarding our different time zones between Cox’s Bazar and New York, Ro Maung often called in the middle of my 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 in person I would need new camp permits from Bangladesh’s authorities. He asked if I could bring him a new iPhone from New York as he had lost his during Cyclone Mocha and was using his father’s “inferior Android.” I said I would see if anyone had an iPhone to donate but offered no promises.

When I arrived back in Cox’s Bazar, I learned that the Bangladeshi authorities had tightened camp permit regulations due to political tensions surrounding the Government's efforts to fast track Rohingya repatriation to Myanmar, which the UNHCR opposed. To access the camps I would have to submit a lot more paperwork than in the past, which could take many weeks to process.

I informed Ro Maung of this development via WhatsApp. To which he said he could come to me in Cox’s Bazar city, a one hour drive from his camp. I did not think this was a wise idea. But he insisted that he often came there to meet his media and NGO clients. “It will 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 still not heard anything and feared that he had been caught at a military checkpoint. At 4.20pm 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”?

At my apartment building I came across 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 now.” Among a throng of jostling electric rickshaws, tea sellers, and fruit stalls I spotted four distinctively gaunt Rohingya youth, none of whom looked older than 18.

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

We quickly found a restaurant. But from the moment we sat down we were obviously unwelcome. Three Bangladeshi wait staff hovered in close proximity and it was clear that I, the European in professional attire, was not the center of attention. Four Rohingya friends looked through the menu pointing out the meals they wanted to order. I had to remind Ro Maung that we were just getting tea as I had a 5.30pm meeting to return to. I felt terrible for not being more flexible or generous, but my anxiety got the better of me.

As soon as we had ordered tea, 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 that 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 training and recent experience because the topics we would discuss with Rohingya teachers were highly sensitive. As such, the person I employed would have to undertake further research ethics training and understand the vital importance of anonymity and confidentiality.

Ro Maung said that he had done 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 now had a few concerns. For what was already a risky meeting, he had not told me his friends were coming or how they got there. Moreover, while the armed police outside my apartment worried me—and may have had nothing to do with Ro Maung—he had not flinched at all.

With our tea finished, the impatient wait staff did not offer refills. I said to Ro Maung and his friends that my budget was not enough to hire four people and that I would be meeting other candidates in the camps once my permits were approved. I emphasized how 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.

Feeling the waiters’ eyes bearing down, my focus shifted to Ro Maung’s safety. I asked if they were all going to return to their camps. Ro Maung responded “No, it is late and I told my friends that we can stay at your apartment tonight. We will return tomorrow.”

My empathy was running low and I responded as rationally and kindly as I could. I reminded them that our current meeting was putting us all at significant risk; that we would not be safe if they stayed at my apartment. “It will be fine.” Ro Maung calmly assured me.

Reluctant and embarrassed, I stated that everything that I was trying to achieve in my research with 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, sir. You have a government to protect you.”

I paid the bill and we left. None of the usual pleasantries were offered by the wait staff and I offered no tip. But now I had to be assertive with Ro Maung, as I worried that the police had been called. To expedite their exit, I handed Ro Maung the equivalent of 15 US dollars and asked that he hire a rickshaw and return to the camps tonight. Ro Maung accepted the money, but he was offended by my gesture.

Ro Maung asked when I would let his friends know about the jobs. I reminded him again that I only had one role and other candidates to meet. Ro Maung understood and thanked me for my time and the tea. I bid farewell to his friends, suggesting that once my camp permits came through I might be able to visit them.

Just after 6pm I arrived late for my meeting at the UN agency office. It was about loading instructional video content onto internet-disabled Samsung tablets to support Rohingya teachers’ professional development.

Afterwards, as I flagged down a rickshaw on a dusty, dusky street, a Twitter notification buzzed in my pocket. It was a tweet from Ro Maung. Four photos showed him and his friends on Cox’s Bazar beach as the sun set behind them, wearing new sunglasses and posing with glass bottles of Coke in their hands. They looked carefree, fitting in among the throngs of Bangladeshi tourists and teens in the background, as if they too were on holiday and, if even for a brief moment, they belonged.