When I left my country with my family for Boroprong, I was already a mother of four children-three sons and one daughter. I was only about 15 or 16 years old at that time.

Our village was very large with almost a hundred households. All the residents were Chakma. The village had a temple and a primary school. I never went to school-my parents didn’t send me. In those days, our main responsibility as girls was to look after the younger children of the household and to learn weaving. Without learning to weave, a girl couldn’t be married. Once girls grew a little older, parents wouldn’t even take them to the marketplace. But the boys could go to school. Still, I think everyone in the village was happy.

At that time, I didn’t really understand what the Kaptai Dam was. Only after a few Bengalis came to our village and began marking the land did we hear that a dam would be built on the Karnafuli River to store water. The water would rise up to the marked level, and many villages, lands, and fields would be submerged-that was the Kaptai Dam.

None of us truly believed it. We thought-how could water ever rise that high? But when the water actually came and drowned everything, we had no choice but to believe. Along with the marking of the land, tree-cutting also began. Huge, tall trees were felled before our eyes. Everywhere around us, there were only fallen trees-nothing else.

It still pains me to think about it-the trees we planted with our own hands, raised, ate fruits from-all lying scattered on the ground. I cried a lot back then. The water had not yet arrived, so I wasn’t afraid of it.

But for the trees, I shed countless tears. There was no compensation for them. Yes, we received some money for our farmland, but tell me-can money ever replace everything?

Our village stood on a small hillock, what we called a langol, a little rise in the middle of the plains. And right before our eyes, our home went under the water.

I still remember clearly-the water came once and then receded. The next time, it began to rise slowly, steadily. The swelling meant the water was increasing. When it rose too high, we boarded boats and went into the reserve forest. We took whatever old belongings we could carry. But is it ever possible to bring an entire household? We managed to save only a few things. The rest went under the water along with the house.
In the beginning, I didn’t believe the water would rise so high. But seeing others in the village grow suspicious, my husband and I decided to sell our household items and livestock. Bengalis from Rauzan, Satkania, and Chittagong came to buy those things. The Chakmas sold, and the Bengalis bought. The fate of all Chakmas was the same.

In sorrow and suffering, it often felt like only death could bring peace. In the forest, it was no easy task to cut down giant trees, clear the undergrowth, and prepare land for houses and crops. All around us were the roars of tigers and strange, unsettling sounds of the jungle. In our old village, we had never seen or heard such things. It felt as if God had thrown us into some kind of hell.

Leaving the Homeland:
Then suddenly, people began saying-We must leave the country. But where to? To Demagri, in India. We saw many already leaving. We heard that if we went to India, we would get land, we would get rations, and the government had kept its doors open for all Chakmas. Hearing this again and again, we too thought, let us go. We had already spent three years in the reserve forest, but nothing had improved for us. So, we felt it was better to leave for India.

One day, along with hundreds of others, we set out on the path to Demagri, leaving our homeland behind.
I don’t remember who the leader of our group was. In truth, people were simply following each other to Demagri. At last, one day we reached there. Along with thousands of others, we registered our names in the camp’s list.
Some days later, the Indian government moved us from Demagri to Nepha. Much time has passed since then, and I have forgotten many things. But I still remember how, from Demagri to Aijal (Aizawl), we had to walk for many days. Of my three sons, two could walk, but the youngest could not. I carried him tied to my back, with a bundle on my head, walking day after day. Not walking out of choice, but out of necessity.

There was no other way for us then. There was no possibility of returning. On the road, the government had set up camps where we stayed. Finally, one day, we reached Aizawl. From there, we were taken by vehicle to Dola camp.
That camp was beside a small stream. We had to stay there for a long time. We received rations there, which gave us a little relief-for the first time in many days, we could rest. Later, once again, we were put on vehicles for Nepha. From Dola camp we went to Badalpur in Assam, then by train to Lidu camp, and finally from there, we were brought to Miu.
It was in Miu that our settlement was established-a Chakma settlement. The local residents of Miu were the Chimpui people. We stayed on with them.

When we first came to Demagri, none of us had ever heard of Nepha. It was only after coming here that we learned of it. Nepha is what is now Arunachal. In those early days, Babu Sneha Kumar Chakma, Babu Adong Moni, and Babu Prannath came from Tripura to visit us. We told them everything.

Now, with age, I have forgotten so much. Perhaps it is the fault of growing old. Yet, the memories of those old places still haunt me deeply. All my brothers and sisters still live in our homeland-only I am away.

Returning to the Homeland after 45 Years:
I left my country in 1964. I shouldn’t even call it a return when I went back in 2008-it was more like visiting. By then, I had nearly forgotten the faces of my brothers and sisters, and they had forgotten mine. They only recognized me by name. When they heard that I had come to the country, those who traveled with me introduced me to my own siblings.
Words cannot describe the emotions of that moment. How we all wept! My brothers and sisters have such beautiful names-Jamini Mohon, Kamini Mohon, and Robi Bala. That year, I stayed in my homeland for one whole year. The love for one’s own country, for one’s birthplace, is unlike any other feeling.

Whenever I go to my homeland, it feels like I am flying. But when the time comes to return, tears pour endlessly from both eyes and nose.

What if the Kaptai Dam Had Never Been Built?

If the Kaptai Dam had not been built, I would never have had to leave my country. I would never have had to live so far away from my brothers and sisters. In my heart, I feel that the Kaptai Dam is the reason we lost our homeland. Without the dam, there would have been no floodwaters; and without the floodwaters, our lands and villages would not have drowned.

And if our homes, villages, and lands had not gone under water, we would never have left our country. (Sighs deeply).
Even today, in dreams, or when I sit alone, I can still see our old home-that house on the ridge of the hill, our village-lying submerged beneath the waters of the Kaptai Dam.