FROM PAGE 1

“This used to be a green place where everyone knew everyone,” he said. “Now, Rohingya refugees make up the majority here.”

Mofiz said his family once owned mango and jackfruit orchards, along with a betel-leaf plantation. “All of it is gone to the camp,” he said.

He claimed the land -- khas land cultivated by his family for generations -- was taken over in 2017 at the height of the influx. “The army came and asked us to hand over the land,” he said. “They asked for documents. Where would we get papers? My father and grandfather cultivated this land. But our words meant nothing. We were threatened, and, eventually, the land was taken.”

Whether legal or not, such cultivation had sustained families like Mofiz’s for decades. Its loss, he said, destroyed livelihoods overnight.

Living alongside the camps has also brought fear. “We never worried about sending our children to school or madrasa before. Now we are scared. There are unknown people everywhere,” he said, pointing to the rise of armed gangs inside the camps, kidnappings for ransom, and cross-border criminal networks.

Not only the Bengali population but also Rohingyas in the camps report feeling increasingly vulnerable, citing a spike in armed activity and score-settling by drug traffickers.

Land loss has also ended cattle rearing for Mofiz and others in Lambashia. Waste from the camps, he said, has polluted surrounding farmland and canals.

Beyond physical insecurity, Mofiz spoke of social suffocation. “Earlier, we didn’t have to answer questions about where we were going,” he said. “Now police ask for ID cards all the time. It has become difficult to arrange marriages and other social functions. Guests hesitate to come because they are questioned. Even bringing a vehicle for a wedding is a problem.”

Asked about his expectations from politicians contesting the election, he said: “I want my old life back. We want to live freely again. They must go back to their country.”

Amir Hossain, a local trader, sounded more pragmatic. “Repatriation does not depend on us,” he said. “But harassment of locals in the name of security must stop.”

He said whenever locals protest land or movement restrictions, they are asked to produce ownership documents. “We have lived here for generations. Now they threaten to drive us out of our own homes. That must stop.”

Politicians, he said, offer reassurance but little else. “They say everything will be okay. But nothing changes.”

Despite their anger, both men said they would vote.

There is also deep resentment over economic displacement.

The surge of foreign funds for refugees brought limited short-term employment for locals, largely in camp construction. These benefits were uneven and faded as development activity slowed and refugees increasingly filled low-paid jobs once held by locals. Although local NGOs were directed to allocate 25 percent of funds for local welfare, residents say the impact has been minimal. As a result, modest economic gains are increasingly outweighed by concerns over livelihood encroachment and growing insecurity.

Locals say wages have fallen as Rohingyas offer cheaper labour. Businesses are being lost. In Kutupalong Bazar, many shopkeepers are Rohingyas. Landlords prefer them as tenants, locals say, because they can charge higher rents.

Din Mohammed, from Lambashia, said he once ran a small grocery shop in Kutupalong Bazar. “Customers dwindled. They [Rohingyas] are the majority and prefer to buy from their own.”

Eventually, he had to sell the shop.

Refugees are not permitted to operate businesses or work outside the camp perimeter, but locals say enforcement is weak or nonexistent.

As I walked through farmland near Lambashia, three villagers approached me, assuming I might be from an NGO or government office. They pointed to a canal running through their fields, clogged with waste flowing from the camps.

“During the rainy season, our land is flooded with this waste,” said Ekram, one of the locals. “Fish are gone. Farming is becoming impossible.” Complaints to local officials and politicians, he said, had led nowhere.

“So many people from another country are destroying our lives,” he said. “We cannot accept this. The government has to send them back.”

Even local political leaders acknowledge the scale of the problem. Chairman of Rajapalong Union Parishad Shahedul Islam Chowdhury, nephew of BNP MP candidate Shahjahan Chowdhury, admitted that what villagers spoke about is true. He acknowledged abductions and ransom demands by armed gangs, and even murder.

About six weeks ago, he said, a villager was abducted and later found dead, hanging from a tree. “We informed police and the administration. Nothing happened. In the end, we only found the body.”

“After 2024, the police have become, what should I say, disabled,” he added.

He fears the long-term consequences. “Sometimes I fear that we will become outsiders in our own land.”

The chairman hopes that an elected parliament will at least allow the issue to be raised repeatedly. But among ordinary residents of Ukhia, belief in repatriation is fading. What remains is a demand for reduced insecurity -- curbing armed activity in the camps, stopping abductions, and easing restrictions on locals’ movement.

For Ukhia’s host community, as the February 12 election approaches, fear of being permanently outnumbered continues to grow, so does the anger at the absence of answers. No one here knows if, or when, the refugees will ever return to Myanmar. That uncertainty has become the central political reality here, one that no candidate in the February 12 elections seems able to resolve.