Perhaps I have asked myself a hundred times before I started writing this piece. I was unsure whether should I write it or scrap it. Zillion of moments of dilemma and internal conflict between my two entities, now I’m eventually writing it. Only to tear it out from inside of me for good... or at least for a while.

Those who read my previous blog on how I felt during my recent coverage of the Rohingya crisis, you would know how much shattered I was seeing all these sufferings of the innocents.

I thought I was going to have a rest -- both physical and of course mental -- but I pushed myself to the last bit of volition by returning to the hills and seas where hundreds of thousands of the world's most ignored people were suffering.

I promised myself that I would keep my cool by all means. I have a breakneck backache which resulted my doctors to put a vigorous embargo on over-stressing, overeating, and to have a sip of booze... please don't ask me why! 

Ignoring every single bit of those prohibitions, I climbed the muddy hills even in the unwary Bangladeshi downpours, dodging a hundreds of probable back-breaker accidents, walked in the knee-deep sea waters during midnight to see the refugee boats' incoming and cut my feet on live corals, drank with my colleagues at every occasion I could attend and last but not the least, I'm still living on the high-dose painkillers.

All these incidents, for the past one month had been pumping the adrenaline rush in my body. But deep inside I was non-attentively heading to the mental breakdown point, very slowly.

When I returned from my short, two-day break to Cox's Bazar, I barely could recognise the resort district. The main road was all taken over by the Rohingya refugees escaping from Myanmar! I was kind of annoyed at the beginning. Nationalism took over my professionalism for a while and I hated to see the beauty of my country’s main resort district being ruined!

The refugees were literally everywhere... on the roadside, on hills, in schools which were closed for Eid holidays, in playgrounds. The mesmerising part was that they shaved down the green hills within only two days and created a monstrous village, like the dark-age villages in the movies, barely with tarpaulins and bamboo wickers! My VJ colleague Etienne wondered: "I don't think a bunch of Londoners or New Yorkers could have done this so quickly!"

Most Rohingyas are devoted and practising Muslims and are very strict about their faith. Even during this harrowing journey of escaping home, the Rohingya women did not forget to wear their Burqas. Almost every married Rohingya women have six to seven children on an average. A large number of them I met were pregnant. 

My wife Jasmin, an Arakani-speaking doctor who accompanied me since day one before almost any other international media were near the border, talked to many of these women. They told my wife that "it was better for us to stay pregnant; thus we can escape being raped". My wife and I did not know how to refute that logic.

Jasmin initially went with me to keep an eye on my ill health and help me with the translation... but after seeing all the woes of the Rohingyas, she started providing them primary treatments near the no-man's land. We barely afford buying the fleeing refugees medicines, but she bought packs of medicines with whatever cash she had on her anyway, especially, for the children. I cannot express how proud I am about my wife -- she almost reminded me of Florence Nightingale, the lady with lamp -- who defied the risks and helped the poor souls for several days before any NGOs could even reach them.

During my mission I saw how the Rohingya women in Burqa just sit tight with their children for the entire day. I wondered, when do they go to the toilet? My wife stepped in to help with the answers again; a Rohingya woman named Hamida Banu said: "We go to defecate after the sunset when it's dark. When I go inside the bushes to the toilet, I have to leave my eight children behind. It's not safe for them. But what else could I do? During daytime it's impossible for a woman to respond to the nature's call!"

When I returned to my hotel room that night, I could only imagine the worse comparison; I cannot wait a minute if I needed to use the loo while these poor women squat down all day long, looking after the kids and the belongings, asking for reliefs and waiting for the sunset for her personal time. I found this very rough.... harsh.

A lot of Rohingya children came to Bangladesh with a variety of diseases which has been declared eradicated from the Muslim-majority country many days ago. For instance: Polio. Many of the refugee kids were roaming around with abnormal limbs and movement. I felt so sorry for them, but tears didn't roll down from my eyes yet.

Then it happened one evening. Few days later I went to the field with my photographer colleague Fred. He wanted to take photos of refugees coming on boats by the sea. But such arrivals already became very low in numbers. We spent 45 meaningless minutes at a seaside neighbourhood named Shamlapur -- a fishing port nearby a refugee camp -- where many fresh refugees arrived this year. The weather wasn't very good and a storm was brewing. Then we decided to pack up for the day and started heading back to hotel. During the long, silent drive on the road parallel to the rough sea on our left, my driver Siddik urgently begged my attention. I was asleep. I woke up hurriedly and saw a group of people with umbrellas and raincoats gathered on the roadside and pointing towards something at the sea. It was already quite dark and raining heavily.

As we stopped the car, I rolled down my window and asked a man: "What has happened bro?"

He quickly replied with one eye barely open defying the strong, diagonal rain drops slapping on his face: "Boat capsize..."

Firstly I thought Fred was sleeping. When I turned to the back seat to wake him up, I found he had already left. Siddik parked the car and I stepped out with my umbrella though it was absolutely meaningless. I was already got heavily soaked within seconds. I walked near the crowd. And there waited the reason for me to write this story -- bodies of six Rohingya children aged between three years and six years.

The glimmer was barely enough to see their faces; but I tried. I tried to anticipate how much they’ve had suffered! A few of them still had the crying expression in their eyes and lips.

“How much of agony these innocent souls had gone through till they died?” I wondered. I found an eyewitness. He told me the refugee boat came towards the shore during the ongoing low-tide and its hold hit a coral reef which literally divided it into two pieces. Almost 40 Rohingyas -- mostly women and children -- were dropped in the waters. 

On the next day we knew at least 22 were killed by that woeful accident.

I still could see half of the ill-fated boat, about half a mile away on the shore. I was totally soaked and the raining never stopped. I jumped off a few small coral cliffs. Because I wanted to take a closer look inside the hold, I didn't know why though. The sun set and the sky turned dark blue. I had problems to walk on the sand with my shoes. Therefore I left the pairs behind. Barefooted I walked towards the broken piece of planks on the desolated beach amid the windy, playful rain.

When I reached near the boat, it was already dark. I felt as if I could see the sufferings and hear the shouts for help of the boat-passengers! I felt how the children were crying!

For the first time during my month-long coverage, I had an outburst of tears. I called my bureau chief Shafiq, telling him what has happened, but couldn't help myself from crying.

"Sam what has happened? Are you okay? Tell me what happened?" Shafiq repeatedly asked. I could only manage to mumble the reply.

I provided the information. And then I found I was standing near the boat all by myself. The nearest person was at least half a mile away! My sorrows turned into frights! 

Suddenly I felt spooky. The weather, the strong wind, the low-tide trying to remove the tickling sand under my feet and the broken boat... I felt as if those children were nearby, condemning me for not saving them!

With such balderdash thoughts, I forced myself to return to the closest crowd. But even more distress was awaiting for me!

A body of a three-month-old baby was lying there beside two more adult bodies. My emotions knew no bound that day but, by then, I pulled myself together. I notified my office that more bodies were found. I saw with my phone’s lamp, the baby's eyes were still open. I tried to close the eyelids with my hands, but eventually I couldn't. My fingers started to shiver. I requested someone else to do it. The baby had an amulet tied on his left wrist. His parents probably thought it would have kept him safe.

Before knowing what life was, the infant had to leave home where he was born, in a bid to live. And then eventually he left the world by drowning in the sea, on a foreign shore, miles away from home! Alas!

I came back to the hotel. Changed my wet clothes. Cried like a baby in the shower. When I came out of the bathroom, I thought I was normal. But I then lied on the bed again and cried. My wife hugged me tightly, trying to pacify my broken heart. The office sent reinforcement of more colleagues and pulled me back from covering the plights of the most ignored and persecuted people. This time, I didn’t want to stay more days. I needed a break. 

I'm resting now. But my mind is still engaged near the Naf river where tiring refugees sleep on the mud.

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DISCLAIMER: This story is based on the personal experience of Sam Jahan, an Agence France-Presse reporter based in Dhaka, on the 2017 Rohingya refugee crisis. This write-up is not endorsed by AFP or reflect AFP's editorial policy. All photos copyrighted to Sam Jahan.

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