Untold story of Rohingya children
Mariam like Mahi was promised schooling and a better life. Instead she was sold to the brothel I have found my self in. When I wrote this she was six years old.
The first night she was drugged and an older man raped her for a fee. Every time she cried or fell asleep he would beat her. She suffered broken ribs and was seen to by a Dr Who visited the brothel on his days off. As soon as she was healed she was drugged and raped, an addict at six. Man after man paid large sums for her, the idea was that the younger the girl the less chance of her being sexually active and therefore of being HIV positive. Soon after I wrote this Mariam was beaten to death by a man who paid to go too far. For a few dollars extra he could kill her. No one shed a tear after all it wasn’t personal it was business.
Weeks later a young boy named Mohammed was brought into the house. He was forced to perform sexual acts with me and the others in a decorated room while some one made a video. Mohammed was never drugged but when I refused to hurt a Rohingya boy I was beaten and some of my ribs were broken. He soon replaced by another boy whose screams echoed through the house. The man behind the camera wanted to film the pain. The new boy was raped repeatedly by men who wanted sex with a boy.
One day his HIV test came back positive. The Madam realised it would be cheaper to replace him than to pay for his medical treatment so he disappeared. I asked around but no one knew what had happened to him or where he was taken.
To the Madam we were all assets for as long as we could perform. They hooked us on drugs, chained us and raped us. This is proof that we were nothing more than a business transaction in an industry with an ever growing demand. From Thailand to the shores of South Africa human trafficking made us a wanted commodity and those that sold us would do anything to make a profit.
As the years went by I was raped and drugged so many times I went numb. I forgot my name and the pain. I was like a zombie in those teenage movies. One day the police raided the brothel and we were all taken to the police station and our statements were written down. I went through terrible withdrawals. Some of the women died during the withdrawal stage. The day the police came I hung onto my journal and begged them to let me keep it.
Death is easier than coming clean and before I knew it was being deported back to Burma where the cycle of torture would begin again. If you are reading this HELP ME.
I don’t need aid, I need you to spread my story incase I don’t make it. Tell my story so that the Rohingya dream lives on. Tell my story so our children and women are no longer sold into sex work. Make our stories travel from the shores of Burma to the ends of the world. Be our voice to end this oppression. If you get to read this use media and the Internet to find out who my people are. I stand in solidarity with my sisters in Gaza and my children in Syria. Now you stand up for us, for the Rohingya. Help stop the Rohingya genocide in Burma.
by mumtaz saley