Amid a stateless people – one of the world’s most persecuted, many still unaware of their own rights – he rose.

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He stood up to speak for his people.

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Mohib Ullah, a former schoolteacher from Maungdaw, became the most prominent leader among the Rohingya refugees living in the southeastern camps of Bangladesh. I don’t intend to recount everything he did for his community; much of that has already been covered by the media. Instead, I want to remember the moments I had the privilege of meeting him face-to-face as a journalist over the past few years.

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Becoming a voice of clarity in the chaos of a million refugees – struggling within an already overburdened nation – was no easy task. But the Rohingya needed a leader. The diaspora had long been active, but there was always a need for someone rooted on the ground.

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No one else stepped up. Mohib did.

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He became the strongest advocate for the Rohingya’s human rights and for their dignified return to their homeland. His voice resonated far beyond the camps, earning recognition both locally and internationally.

Home, I wrote – didn’t I?

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But was Kutupalong – the largest single refugee settlement in the world – truly home for Mohib?

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When this father of eight emerged as the key spokesperson for the refugees, top officials, journalists, and rights activists began frequenting his modest shack. He had to build a makeshift office from bamboo and corrugated sheets just to host the constant stream of visitors. I remember visiting him myself, only after navigating the pointed questions of intelligence agents stationed outside.

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I wonder – where were they when Mohib was brutally assassinated, shot multiple times?

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Years ago, I visited him on a stormy afternoon. He welcomed us warmly, wearing a traditional Burmese shirt that, he told us, had been banned by the Myanmar army for the Rohingya. I admired it, unaware at the time of its deeper significance. He smiled with betel-stained teeth and said, “I wear this shirt now – every time I get the chance, I do!” That smile, that quiet defiance, was deeply moving – coming from a man who spoke for a million others.

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On the second anniversary of the 2017 mass exodus, I watched in awe as he peacefully gathered hundreds of thousands of people in a vast valley to mourn their collective pain. Many misunderstood that rally. But it only solidified his role as the de facto leader of a displaced nation.

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Months later, after returning from several international visits, he began speaking of threats. He warned of conspiracies forming against him. I once asked why he didn’t seek asylum abroad for himself and his family. He smiled again and said, “I’d rather stay here and die for the cause.”

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My last meeting with Mohib was a few months ago, after Suu Kyi’s speech at the International Court of Justice – an address that shattered the hopes of countless homesick refugees. Off camera, he confided how deeply that “betrayal” had hurt. “I had high hopes for her,” he told me.

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After that, Mohib went quiet – at least with me. He rarely answered calls or texts. Rumors spread that he was under constant surveillance. But that was by the authorities – not by the gunmen who would eventually take his life.

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Like any other refugee in Cox’s Bazar, Mohib was trapped. He was unwanted by all – except when he served a purpose. Everyone, including his killers, knew exactly where to find him. He made that choice – to live and suffer alongside his people.

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Still, I wonder: how did this happen, despite all the eyes watching him, day and night?

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History will remember Mohib Ullah – the courageous leader of the Rohingya in exile. Whatever his killers hoped to gain, they cannot erase what he stood for. He held his ground until his last breath.

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And I, a mere storyteller and witness to this chapter of history, can only mourn the loss of a friend – yes, I believe I can call him that, for all the memories we shared – and continue to seek justice, if justice still has a place in this world.

 

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