By M. Rafique
I came to this country as a Rohingya refugee.
I fled Myanmar with my family as a child and spent 17 years in refugee camps in Bangladesh. Life there meant constant uncertainty — scarce food, restricted movement, and almost no access to healthcare or education. Survival, not stability, defined daily life.
In 2009, with the support of UNHCR and the Irish government, my family and I were resettled in Carlow, Ireland. I became a citizen, rebuilt my life, and began sharing my story publicly. In 2015, I wrote “I Was a Refugee Too” about survival, resilience, and hope. In 2016, “A Boundless Journey” reflected on the meaning of freedom — the freedom to walk without fear, access education, and raise children safely. Later, in an interview with UNHCR, I spoke about how resettlement transformed our lives and the importance of safety for children.
In my own words, speaking to The Irish Times, I said, “I’m really excited to see my girls growing up in Ireland,” reflecting both gratitude and hope for the future. That hope is why the recent death of Nurul Amin Shah Alam, a 56-year-old Rohingya refugee in Buffalo, New York, hits so close to home.
This story is not just a tragedy. It is a damning indictment of how systems treat the most vulnerable.
Shah Alam, who was nearly blind and spoke no English, was released from custody by U.S. Border Patrol — and dropped off at a Tim Hortons five miles from his home.
No ride.
No notification to his family.
No interpreter.
No assistance whatsoever.
Days later, he was found dead on a Buffalo street.
Shah Alam had fled persecution in Myanmar and arrived in Buffalo just 15 months earlier, seeking safety after surviving one of the world’s most documented campaigns of ethnic cleansing. Like hundreds of thousands of Rohingya, he had escaped a military crackdown that burned villages, killed civilians, and forced families to flee across borders.
Instead, after being arrested last year for carrying a curtain rod — which he used as a walking stick because of his failing eyesight — he was reportedly Tasered and beaten when he could not understand English commands. What should have been recognized as a disability and language barrier was treated as defiance. He spent nearly a year in custody, complicated by an immigration detainer that transferred him to federal authorities.
His family feared bailing him out would trigger transfer to ICE detention out of state. Eventually, he accepted a plea deal that resolved the detainer and avoided further detention.
But when Border Patrol officers picked him up after bail, instead of transferring him safely or notifying his family, agents allegedly dropped him at a doughnut shop across town and left him to find his way home.
He was nearly blind.
He could not speak English.
He had no phone.
No one told his family he had been released.
For days, they searched desperately. Police even briefly closed his missing persons case after mistakenly believing he was still in ICE custody. Now, homicide detectives are investigating the “circumstances and timeframe” leading to his death. The official cause has not yet been publicly released.
Advocates for the Rohingya community are devastated.
“We never thought anyone would experience anything like this since coming to the United States,” said Imran Fazel, who knows the family. “It doesn’t make me feel safe in a country like this.”
Let us be clear: Shah Alam survived genocide. He survived displacement. He survived fleeing his homeland. But in the country that promised refuge, he was allegedly abandoned in the cold. And he never made it home.
He leaves behind a wife and two sons — and a haunting question: How does a blind refugee get left on a street corner and end up dead?
I know what it is like to arrive in a new country without language, resources, or guidance. I also know what happens when communities and institutions act with humanity. In Carlow, teachers helped me navigate forms, neighbors translated, and local support networks enabled survival. Compassion made a difference.
Over the years, I have tried to turn memory into action. I have photographed Rohingya refugee camps and documented stories of displacement. Since 2018, my photographic exhibition on the Rohingya experience has traveled across Ireland. On May 19, 2018, the first exhibition and the launch of Rohingya Action Ireland were hosted by the Lord Mayor of Dublin, Micheál Mac Donncha, at the Mansion House. Through this work, I have sought to give visibility to lives too often ignored — reminding the world that refugees are human beings, not headlines.
Shah Alam’s story reveals troubling patterns:
Disabled and non-English-speaking refugees are not consistently provided support.
Families and legal representatives are often not notified during custody transitions.
Bureaucratic procedures can outweigh basic human care.
Systems designed to protect vulnerable people can instead expose them to danger.
This is not about politics; it is about responsibility.
Justice for Shah Alam must mean more than investigation. It requires reform: protocols for releasing vulnerable individuals, mandatory family and lawyer notification, language and disability accommodations, and custody procedures that prioritize safety over paperwork.
Refugees are not statistics. They are survivors of persecution, violence, and trauma. When governments fail them at the moment they most need protection, the consequences can be fatal.
Shah Alam’s death shows the cost of absence — the absence of compassion, oversight, and care.
If we truly value human rights, dignity, and refuge, we cannot allow his story to fade into silence. We must demand transparency, accountability, and systemic change to ensure no refugee — no disabled person, no non-English speaker — is abandoned when most vulnerable.
Let Shah Alam’s death be a turning point.
Humanity must come before procedure.
Every refugee deserves protection — not neglect.
Dignity — not abandonment.
#JusticeForShahAlam
