KUALA LUMPUR – Not long ago, Malaysia’s then-prime minister urged his country to protect Rohingya Muslims – a stateless minority that has fled violence and discrimination in Myanmar for decades. “We must defend them, not just because they are of the same faith, but [because] they are humans, their lives have value,” Najib Razak said in 2017. Nine years on, a fierce new wave of hostility against the Rohingya is sweeping the nation.
So much so that “going to school has become a dangerous thing,” says Irhan, a Rohingya refugee, who founded a school in northern Malaysia for children from his community aged six to 15. We have changed his name to protect his identity. Because Rohingya children are barred from Malaysian public schools, they often attend unlicensed, community-run “learning centres”, which are now especially vulnerable. Irhan’s school was raided last month, when eight uniformed police officers stormed inside, took photographs of the students and ordered some of them to go home. “The students are just here to learn. Now their families are afraid,” he says.
A school in Selangor in the west suspended classes for a month and reopened at the end of July with new instructions: students must not wear their uniforms to school and must go straight home after class, without lingering or hanging out in groups. “We’re keeping a low profile to protect our students from getting attacked,” says Farooq, a Rohingya teacher. Crackdowns are haphazard and often spurred by public sentiment. The uncertainty and fear have forced some schools to close in recent months. In some parts of the country, Rohingya have also been evicted from villages they’d been living in for years. Some local residents told Malaysian media that allowing them to remain could lead to “social problems”.
After they were evicted from a fishing village near Penang, some120 refugees sought shelter outside the UN’s refugee agency in the capital Kuala Lumpur – and were temporarily detained. More than half of them were children. All of this has left a community that has long felt beleagured looking over its shoulder again. “In the early years, the Malaysians were our friends. They cared for our children. But it’s changed,” Irhan says. “I would leave if I could, but where else can I go? We are not wanted anywhere.”
The UN refugee agency estimates that more than 126,000 Rohingya have resettled in Malaysia, making it the second-largest host country, after Bangladesh, for Rohingya refugees. But some rights groups believe the actual number is far higher. Rohingya Muslims are denied citizenship in their home country of Myanmar, a predominantly Buddhist state. Although Rohingya trace their roots going back centuries in what is now Rakhine state, successive Myanmar governments have claimed that they are illegal migrants. Ethnic tensions with the local Buddhist population have flared repeatedly, displacing tens of thousands of Rohingya. They ended up in camps within Myanmar, or fled across the border.
But the biggest exodus began in August 2017, after a brutal military crackdown. The Myanmar army massacred thousands of them, raped Rohingya women and burned their villages. It was what the UN called “textbook ethnic cleansing” and former US president Joe Biden’s administration determined as a genocide. Myanmar is now facing a landmark genocide case at the International Court of Justice, which saw deposed leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi testify. As Myanmar’s leader at the time, she was sharply criticised for how her government responded to the killings, including by playing down what was happening or suggesting that the severity of the violence was exaggerated.
In 2017, more than a million Rohingya fled to Bangladesh. But overcrowded camps, violence and shrinking aid have prompted many to attempt perilous voyages across the Andaman Sea towards Malaysia. These journeys are on cramped, fragile fishing vessels, and thousands die en route.
As more and more Rohingya arrived on its shores, Malaysia’s welcome has worn thin.
Although it has never formally recognised asylum seekers – which means refugees have no right to housing, employment, and education – many Rohingya still see Muslim-majority Malaysia as a place of safety and economic opportunity.
Or at least that has been the case for a long time, when Malaysian leaders urged their people and Muslim nations to protect the community.
Surviving in Malaysia
During the pandemic, the Rohingya were accused of spreading the virus and competing with locals for jobs. Petitions calling for their deportations flooded social media, and authorities turned away hundreds of Rohingya asylum seekers who had been drifting at sea for weeks.
The vitriol has returned with greater intensity this year, inflamed again by social media.
In May, posts emerged online accusing refugees of not properly disposing of animals sacrificed during the Muslim festival of Eid al-Adha and quickly went viral.
These snowballed into unfounded and hyperbolic claims that the community is demanding automatic citizenship, seeking political power, and trying to “take over” Malaysia.
An online petition urging authorities to “Remove Rohingya from Malaysia” garnered more than 420,000 signatures before it was taken down following criticism from rights groups.
Karim, a Rohingya activist, says locals’ hospitality had “made [him] feel safe” when he first arrived in 2003.
“Life as a refugee is tough. It’s disappointing to be stuck working in construction all these years. However, I found Malaysians to be very friendly and kind, which made me feel safe,” says the 45-year-old, who now lives in Penang.
“Now, however, life has become increasingly difficult. I am often afraid to go outside. I’ve been asked several times while on my commute, ‘Why are you making a mess of our city? Why don’t you go back?’”
