TEKNAF, Bangladesh (The Voice) — Nur Alam still trembles when he recalls the moment his boat was struck. The 31-year-old Rohingya had fled his village near Maungdaw with his wife and three children, hoping to cross the Naf River into Bangladesh. As their small wooden vessel pushed into the current, a drone appeared overhead. Seconds later, an explosion tore through the air.
“I tried to cover my children with my arms,” he said softly. “But everything disappeared in smoke and fire.” His wife and youngest son were killed instantly. The river carried dozens of bodies downstream. “Everywhere I looked, the water was full of the dead.”
Nur Alam’s story is one among thousands. According to a United Nations human rights report released Tuesday, hundreds of Rohingya civilians were killed on August 5, 2024, when drones and artillery shells rained down on crowds of 10,000–12,000 people gathered on the riverbank. They had hoped to cross into Bangladesh to escape the escalating conflict in Myanmar’s Rakhine State.
Terror at the riverbank
Witnesses described chaos as families scrambled for safety. “There were 10,000 to 12,000 people on the riverbank… then the drones came,” one survivor recalled. “We saw bodies everywhere, children and women crying.” Another man said his boat, carrying 50 passengers, was targeted. “Thirty-eight people died, including four children.”
The UN report confirms that violence in Rakhine has surged since November 2023. In that time, more than 1,600 incidents—including 409 airstrikes and 274 artillery attacks—have been documented, leaving at least 374 civilians dead. Rights monitors believe the true toll is significantly higher.
The Arakan Army under scrutiny
The attacks have drawn new attention to the Arakan Army (AA), a powerful ethnic Rakhine armed group that once portrayed itself as resisting Myanmar’s military junta. Survivors insist the drones originated from areas controlled by the AA, where the military was not present. The group denies involvement, instead blaming “extremist Muslim militants.”
Analysts note that the AA’s capture of large parts of Rakhine in late 2024 has shifted the dynamics of the conflict. “They’ve gone from insurgents to power holders,” said one regional observer. “And with that power comes complicity in abuses.”
Mounting humanitarian fallout
UN rights chief Volker Türk condemned the August 5 attacks, describing them as part of “a relentless cycle of violations” against both Rohingya and ethnic Rakhine civilians. “Indiscriminate attacks, forced displacement, arson, and disappearances continue,” he said, renewing his call for the UN Security Council to refer Myanmar to the International Criminal Court.
The humanitarian fallout is already visible across the border. Since November, more than 150,000 Rohingya have entered Bangladesh, joining nearly a million who fled earlier waves of violence. The camps of Cox’s Bazar and Teknaf—already the world’s largest refugee settlement—are straining under the pressure. Food rations have been cut as international aid dwindles, particularly after U.S. funding reductions to the World Food Programme.
In makeshift tents along the muddy lanes, aid workers say children are skipping meals, families are bartering belongings for rice, and tensions are rising between refugees and local residents.
Global echoes of 2017
Human rights groups, including Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, argue that the August massacre echoes the atrocities of 2017, when more than 700,000 Rohingya were driven into Bangladesh amid allegations of genocide. “We are witnessing a repeat of history,” said one rights campaigner, “but this time the world risks looking away.”
Western governments are weighing new sanctions on Myanmar’s military and its affiliates. Yet action at the UN Security Council remains elusive, with China and Russia continuing to shield the junta from stronger measures.
Regional analysts warn that renewed waves of displacement could destabilize Bangladesh and fuel a wider migration crisis in South and Southeast Asia.
“The river became our grave”
For survivors like Nur Alam, geopolitical maneuvering brings little comfort. He now lives in a cramped shelter near Teknaf, clutching his two surviving children. Aid workers say he speaks rarely, except when asked about that day on the Naf.
“We thought the river would save us,” he said. “Instead, it became our grave.”
