In the dark of night, with a small torch in her hand and her young daughter beside her, Banu* walks carefully along the broken, hilly path. Her destination is the only toilet shared by the 20 to 25 people in her block.
In a refugee camp, a toilet is more than just a structure
A single toilet for six families is far from ideal. But despite the fear, discomfort and lack of privacy, she has no other choice.
For Banu, and for countless Rohingya women in Cox’s Bazar camp, Bangladesh, this is not an exception. It is routine.
Here in the world’s largest refugee camp, nearly 1.15 million Rohingya currently live, more than half of them women. There are 51,587 toilets across the camps, which means, on average, one toilet for every 22 refugees.
Most of these toilets are shared by both men and women. Many are basic and provide little privacy, turning a necessity into a daily struggle, especially for women and children.
Banu, a Rohingya refugee, has lived in the Cox’s Bazar camps since 2017 with her husband, two sons, and three daughters. When she speaks about sanitation, her voice carries the fatigue of years spent adapting to indignity, fear, and discomfort.
“The nearest toilet to my shelter is far away, on a small hill,” Banu explains. “Six families share the same toilet. In the morning, we have to stand in line, sometimes for half an hour or more.
“When men are in the queue, we women wait. It’s embarrassing. Even when it’s urgent, we hold ourselves until the men leave. Back in Myanmar, we had separate toilets in each family. We didn’t have to walk past men to use them. We could maintain our dignity. But here, that’s not possible.”
As evening falls, the situation becomes even worse. The darkness adds another layer of fear.
“There’s no light near the toilet anymore,” Banu continues. “Some NGOs installed solar lights one time, but after they were stolen, no-one replaced them. The path is broken and slippery, especially when it rains. A few months ago, my husband slipped and injured his leg.
“After sunset, it’s even harder to walk that way – we’re scared to go out. My daughters are afraid too. I take them with a flashlight, but the fear never really goes away.”
Still, Banu holds on to hope.
“If every block had separate toilets for women, and if the paths were repaired and lights were fixed, our suffering would be much less,” she says softly.
Banu’s voice is not hers alone. It represents the shared reality of thousands of Rohingya women. They know that a toilet is more than just a structure: it represents safety, dignity, and everyday courage.
Within those nightly walks, torch in hand, lies a simple truth. Safe sanitation can transform women’s lives – not only by preventing disease, but by breaking the barriers of fear, shame, and inequality.
* Name changed to protect the individual’s identity.
NB: This story features a project participant from NRC’s Water, Sanitation and Hygiene (WASH) programme, with support from the Norwegian Agency for Development Cooperation (Norad) and the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (Sida).
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