Rohingya refugees in Jammu are falling through India’s TB system

Overcrowded settlements, poor living conditions and the absence of recognised identity documents are delaying tuberculosis diagnosis and interrupting treatment for Rohingya refugees living in Jammu. Jammu, Jammu and Kashmir: Every morning, Hamid Hussein (name changed), in his thirties, steps out of the makeshift tent he shares with his family in Kiryani Talab, a Rohingya refugee settlement in Jammu district’s Narwal area, to look for daily wage work, even as his body struggles to keep up. Diagnosed with tuberculosis in September 2025, Hussein completed a six-month course of treatment at a private hospital, but told 101Reporters that weakness and irregular work now make survival itself uncertain. Kiryani Talab, home to more than 100 Rohingya refugee households living in temporary shelters along the roadside, offers little protection from heat, rain or disease. Overcrowding, poor sanitation, limited ventilation and precarious access to healthcare have left many residents vulnerable to illnesses such as tuberculosis (TB). Piles of garbage lying outside an informal settlement in Bathindi, Jammu, underscoring the poor sanitation conditions faced by residents (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska , 101Reporters) The Rohingya, a persecuted Muslim minority from Myanmar, have fled decades of violence and displacement, with many seeking refuge in countries such as Bangladesh and India. An estimated 40,000 Rohingya refugees currently live in India, mainly in Jammu, Delhi and Hyderabad, often in informal settlements with limited access to public healthcare systems. Hussein arrived in India in 2017 with his wife and son, and later contracted TB at the refugee settlement. Unable to access free treatment at a government hospital due to his refugee status, he sought care at a private hospital in Gandhi Nagar, where he spent nearly Rs 40,000 on treatment. The course involved four medicines — six pills a day for the first four months, followed by four pills a day for the next two — draining the family’s limited savings and leaving him unable to afford follow-up visits. “I have four children,” Hussein said. “No father can bear to see his children starve in front of him. Even my elder son, Najeem (11), had to drop out of school because we couldn’t pay his fees. I feel very weak, and I only get to work two or three days a week. I don’t know how we will manage now.” Hussein said that his wife Hajira’s earnings during the walnut and almond nut-cracking season, which were around Rs 250 a day, helped the family cobble through while he underwent treatment. But much of that income went towards medicines, hospital visits and household expenses, leaving little behind for food or savings. “Now that the season has ended, we are struggling even for basic needs,” he said. “How can we even think about hospital follow-up treatment?” While India’s National TB Elimination Programme (NTEP) guarantees free diagnosis and treatment, many Rohingya refugees in Jammu say the absence of Aadhaar cards and other recognised identity documents prevents them from accessing government healthcare services. This remains the case even for the 22,500 Rohingya in India who are registered with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR).  Documentation barriers Noor Bano (name changed), in her forties, who arrived in India in 2017 with her husband Raheemullah and their two sons, said that her TB treatment was delayed because she could not furnish the documents demanded by hospital authorities. “We are registered with UNHCR, but we don’t have Aadhaar cards or the other documents government hospitals ask for,” she said. “So either we live with the illness or spend whatever we earn at private clinics.” Bano said her illness began with a persistent cough, which she initially treated with medicines from a local chemist. “At first, I thought it was a minor infection. But when it got worse, I went to a government hospital and was diagnosed with TB,” she said. “When they asked for Aadhaar and identity documents for treatment, I had to return home.” Noor Bano with her husband inside their jhuggi in the Bathindi settlement of Jammu, where the family continues to navigate life amid limited living conditions and healthcare access; (below) Aerial view of a Rohingya refugee settlement near Kiryani Talab in Narwal, Jammu, where families live in densely populated informal shelters with limited basic services (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska , 101Reporters) “I wanted to start treatment. First, my identity did not allow me to get it, and then my destiny,” she added. “Just when my husband managed to save some money, he was diagnosed with a hernia and needed surgery. His treatment had to come first, so I went back to relying on medicines from nearby pharmacies for temporary relief.” Anwara (32), a community health worker who works with Rohingya families in Jammu, said the community is highly vulnerable to tuberculosis due to overcrowded living conditions and a lack of proper ventilation.   Overcrowded settlements Another Rohingya refugee, Rahmat Ali (name changed), in his forties, told 101Reporters that in most shelters, eight to ten persons live together in a crammed space.  “There is garbage right outside the jhuggi…we have no proper toilets or drainage systems, so when one person falls sick, the entire family lives in constant fear of getting infected,” Ali said.  Bano added that severe water shortages and poor sanitation make even basic hygiene difficult in the settlements. “We spend hours waiting in long queues to buy water from tankers that come only once or twice a week. For the rest of the week, the same water must be managed for drinking, cooking, bathing and cleaning. Sometimes there is such a shortage that we cannot bathe for two or three days,” she said. Plastic cans lined up by Rohingya Refugees to buy water from tankers in an informal settlement in Bathindi, Jammu, highlighting their daily struggle for access to clean water (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska , 101Reporters) Not only do these overcrowded and unsanitary living conditions increase the risk of tuberculosis transmission, but they also make recovery more difficult for patients already weakened by the disease, especially amid poor nutrition and inadequate rest. Anwara added: “Despite living in a high-risk environment, language barriers, unstable incomes and lack of documentation delay and interrupt treatment and diagnosis.”  According to the World Health Organization, nearly half of all untreated TB cases can prove fatal. Medical experts warn that interrupted or incomplete treatment also increases the risk of multidrug-resistant (MDR) and extensively drug-resistant (XDR) tuberculosis, which are forms of the disease that are far more difficult and expensive to treat. Challenges in accessing healthcare According to Jaffar Alam (32), a community leader from a Rohingya settlement near Bathindi, even in cases where refugee cards are accepted for basic consultations or emergency care on humanitarian grounds, the indirect costs of treatment remain difficult to bear. “Transport to clinics, lost wages from taking time off work, and repeated hospital visits create enormous economic strain. For a daily-wage earner, missing even a single day’s income can mean less food on the table,” he said. Mohammad Hussain, a community leader from Sujwan settlement, said, “The only way to earn money here is through daily wage jobs like construction labour, scrap collection, rag-picking and recycling.” “On average, a household survives on Rs 8,000 to Rs 10,000 a month, but nearly half of it goes towards rent. Then there are electricity bills, water expenses, food, medicines and school fees for children,” Hussain said.  Anwara added that the fear of detention or deportation also discourages many refugees from seeking diagnosis or continuing treatment. “The risk of detention and legal consequences creates deep mistrust towards public institutions, including healthcare systems,” she said. “As a result, people may hesitate to access them, sometimes even interrupting treatment in order to remain invisible to the system.”  Beyond this, refugees living with TB also described the emotional toll of the disease. Ayesha Begum (name changed), in her fifties, said she struggled to remain emotionally strong throughout her treatment. “After my husband passed away, I was left alone with no one I could truly share my feelings with,” she said. “I often feel isolated because I cannot openly tell people that I have TB. Once people know, they begin to look at you differently.” Ayesha Begum while sitting inside her shelter in an informal settlement in Jammu, beside her medical prescriptions that reflect her ongoing struggle to access consistent healthcare (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska , 101Reporters) Family members said misconceptions surrounding TB often lead people to avoid patients diagnosed with the disease, forcing many to conceal their illness even in overcrowded settlements where privacy is limited. “Mental health challenges among TB patients are often overlooked, especially in vulnerable refugee communities where survival becomes the first priority,” said Dr Asim Andrabi, a Jammu-based public health specialist working on TB and mental health. “When mental health is ignored, it directly affects treatment adherence and recovery.” Nayla Hashmi (37), an independent human rights activist based in Jammu who works with displaced and vulnerable communities, said displacement and prolonged legal uncertainty place an additional psychological burden on refugees trying to access healthcare. “When services are not designed to reach people living at the margins, they remain out of reach in practice,” she said. “Denying healthcare to refugees is a violation of both constitutional and international human rights obligations…The right to health is protected under Article 21 of the Constitution of India as well as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Refugees are entitled to the same standard of care.” Meanwhile, Babar Baloch, spokesperson for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, said, “We continue to work closely with authorities and health partners to help ensure that no one is left behind in accessing life-saving healthcare, regardless of nationality, legal status or documentation.” Cover Image - One of the Jhuggis in Bhatindi, Jammu, reflecting the harsh living conditions faced by Rohingya refugees (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska , 101Reporters)

Rohingya refugees in Jammu struggle for a place to bury their loved ones

With no access to burial grounds, families travel miles to forested areas, leaving their dead scattered across Jammu.Jammu, Jammu and Kashmir: Asif Hussain, a member of the Rohingya refugee community living in the Sujwan settlement on the outskirts of Jammu, still remembers the long walk through the forest with his brother’s body.In 2018, when Salam Hussain died of kidney disease, there was no place in Jammu where he could be buried. Asif (45), a daily-wage labourer had to take him nearly 50 kilometres away, to a forest area in Kathua.“I had to arrange Rs 5,000 for travel and burial expenses,” Asif recalled. “We hired a load carrier, and after reaching the base of the forest, we trekked for an hour to reach the spot. That experience still haunts me. We don’t even have the courage to visit his grave now, fearing wild animals may have disturbed the body.”Amir Hussain, a community leader of Rohingya refugees, praying Fatihah at the graveyard in Channi Rama (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)For Muslim families, the Janazah prayer before burial is a communal obligation, meant to be attended by as many people as possible. But for families like Asif’s, distance and fear make that impossible. “Because the burial sites are so far away, many people can’t join. What should have been a communal prayer becomes a lonely act,” he said. “In such times, you need your people around you, but we are left to mourn alone.”Across Jammu, over 13,000 Rohingya refugees face this same struggle, denied even the dignity of a grave. Living in temporary settlements in Channi Rama, Kiryani Talab, Narwal, Bhatandi and Sujwan, they have no access to designated burial grounds. Families often travel 40-50 kilometres to forested areas in Qasim Nagar, Sidhra or Kathua to bury their dead.The Rohingya, a predominantly Muslim ethnic minority from Myanmar’s Rakhine state, fled large-scale persecution and violence beginning in the 1990s, with the largest exodus after 2017. Around 40,000 are estimated to live across India, mostly in Jammu, Delhi, Hyderabad and Haryana. Though registered with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), they are not formally recognised as refugees under Indian law, leaving them in a state of legal limbo, without citizenship rights or assured access to housing, education, or burial grounds.The absence of safe and dignified burial spaces raises a painful question: when displaced people are denied the right to rest their dead, what protection do they have left in life?Burials at a cemetery in Chowadi Sujwani, Jammu, where members of the Rohingya community are buried alongside local residents (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)Scattered gravesRohingya families also carry the emotional burden of invisibility in death, said Rahimulla, 35. “We don’t place names or details like other Muslims, which usually gives a sense of identity. That’s why it feels like we vanish with death,” he said.Even in hardship, families honour their dead in the few ways they can. “We place simple stones over the graves so we know they exist. Only close family knows who is buried where,” he added.Amir Ali (75) who came to India with his family in 2008, said they have long struggled to find a place to live and a place to rest. “Whenever someone dies, we rely on local residents to help us bury them. Some allow us to use their graveyards, like the one in Bhatindi, but even that is uncertain. Recently, locals asked us to find a separate graveyard, saying they had limited space. It’s becoming harder to ensure a proper resting place for our loved ones,” he said.Without a dedicated burial ground, graves are scattered across forests and small local graveyards, leaving families divided even in death.Rahman Ali (55) had to bury his parents in separate graveyards. “It divides families even in death and makes it difficult to grieve or preserve a sense of belonging,” he said. “There’s no place to mourn together or honour our dead. It feels like they’re disappearing, and all we’re left with is sorrow.”“I want to visit my parents’ graves,” said Rahimulla quietly. “But they’re too far. A graveyard close to our settlement would mean we could at least hold on to their memory, instead of feeling scattered even in death.”He said graves serve as anchors of community and cultural identity. “When families can’t bury their dead together, it fragments not just grief but the cohesion of the entire community.”Rahimulla, who teaches children in his settlement near Kiryani Talab, said the loss extends beyond individual families. Rahmatullah, 25, added why a separate graveyard matters: “It would preserve our identity. Even if one day we return to our country, we could visit our ancestors and remember the struggles our families endured.”Makeshift tents of Rohingya refugees, these tents are made up of wooden planks and tin sheets, photos from Kiryani Talab in Jammu (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)Between law and humanity“Rohingya Muslims in India live under legal uncertainty and are often treated as ‘illegal immigrants’ despite being recognised by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR),” said human rights activist Nayla Hashmi. “This lack of clarity affects every aspect of their lives, including access to a dignified burial. Ensuring such basic rights is essential to easing their hardship.”“International human rights standards emphasise that dignity and life extend beyond death,” she added. “While India has not ratified all refugee-specific treaties, it still has an obligation to protect displaced communities on humanitarian grounds.”Even though Rohingyas are not officially recognised as refugees and can technically be deported under the Foreigners Act, they are still protected by Article 21 of the Constitution, which guarantees the right to life and personal liberty. “This right applies to every person on Indian soil,” Hashmi said. “That includes the right to basic human dignity, such as a proper and respectful burial.”The Foreigners Act regulates the status of non-citizens but does not provide rights such as housing, employment or burial grounds. However, the Supreme Court has clarified that while foreigners may not have the right to remain in India, they cannot be denied basic human rights during their stay. Thus, access to burial grounds for Rohingyas is protected not by the Foreigners Act but by the constitutional guarantee of Article 21.In practice, most Rohingyas in India are registered with the UNHCR, which helps document their presence and ensures limited recognition of their humanitarian needs. Across the country, about 16,500 Rohingyas are registered with the agency, including around 5,700 in Jammu (2024-25 estimates). Hashmi said the limited access to burial grounds highlights the need for policies that combine legal clarity with humanitarian care. “Refugees should not have to face additional suffering even after death,” she said.“We are grateful to India for giving us a place to live,” said Amir Hussain, a community leader in the Narwal settlement. “But when it comes to burying our dead, forests and occasional help from locals are not enough.”“Providing a separate graveyard is not just about burial,” he added. “It is about mental peace, cultural preservation and giving our children a connection to their heritage. Without it, the grief of the living remains unresolved and the memory of the dead fades away.”He appealed to the administration “on humanitarian grounds” for a dedicated graveyard with state support. “It would allow our community to honour our loved ones safely and with dignity, and preserve our identity and traditions even in these difficult times.”Repeated attempts to contact officials from the district administration and forest department went unanswered.Cover photo - Amir Hussain, a community leader of Rohingya refugees, praying Fatihah at the graveyard in Channi Rama, where his relative is buried (Photo - Urvat il wuska, 101Reporters)

In Kashmir, traditional kaladi cheese is melting into the hearts of locals and tourists

The demand for the heritage cheese made by Gujjar and Bakarwal communities is growing as the trend of handmade and organic product grows.Shopian, Jammu & Kashmir: In the hilly area of Sukudo in Shopian, Rafeeqa Bano crouched beside her chulha (clay stove), gently stirring buffalo’s milk mixed with a dash of buttermilk. As the first curls of smoke rose, the mixture began to thicken. She separated the whey and shaped the sticky mass into a soft round disc, which was Kaladi, the traditional cheese which one could hardly find in the markets of Pulwama and Shopian until last year.A glimpse into the preparation of Kaladi (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)“For women like me, this is more than food being prepared. It is a piece of our heritage coming back to life,” she said.Shopkeeper Mohammad Younus, who sells Kaladi near the Jamia Masjid in Shopian said, “We are seeing a rise in demand for Kaladi…people call it organic and handmade as is the trend these days and want to purchase it.” Mohammad Younus, shopkeeper selling Kaladi cheese at his shop in Shopian (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)Dietitian Sammer Ahmed Dar, a member of the Indian Dietetic Association, said kaladi is “rich in protein, fat, and calcium and ideal for people living in cold, mountainous regions with physically demanding lives.”“It’s a nutritional powerhouse and a cultural symbol,” he added.Also known as the “mozzarella of Kashmir”, kaladi is made by the Gujjar and Bakarwal pastoral communities, who migrate with their cattle to the upper reaches of the Pir Panjal range between May and October. During these months, they live in temporary wooden shelters called dokes, centred around a mud stove where meals and Kaladi are prepared.Rafeeqa holds freshly made Kaladi in her hands (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)The heritage of cheeseTraditionally, the Gujjars fermented milk, coagulated and compacted it into large, bread-sized discs, and placed them in baskets made of wild grass and bamboo. These were hung in the sun for months until all the moisture evaporated and the cheese hardened.According to village elders, the dried kaladi was ground into powder and used to treat diarrhoea in children.Abdul Majeed, 75, from Shopian, says the cheese also has medicinal value. “For breastfeeding mothers, it helps ease intestinal problems in children. Traditionally kaladi was cooked with leafy greens, these days it is popularised as a street snack eaten with kulcha. The cheese also served a practical purpose. In the high mountains, where selling fresh milk daily was impossible, kaladi helped preserve milk for longer and sell it gradually over time.“For the Gujjar and Bakarwal families, Kaladi locally called Moshkrej  is part of our identity,” said Rafeeqa’s husband, Barkat Ahmed. “People are now realising its worth and health benefits, and that gives us confidence.”Freshly made Kaladi rests on steel plates, cooling in the mud kitchen (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)The economic revival is modest but meaningful. Families like that of Tamana Bano and her husband, Firdous Ahmad, now earn between Rs 6,000 and Rs 8,000 a month from Kaladi production. “My husband works as a labourer, but his income alone wasn’t enough,” she said. “Kaladi supports our family and helps us preserve our culture. That gives me real satisfaction.”Most makers use milk from their own cattle, though some buy surplus from neighbours. Production depends on the season and a single doke can produce 20-30 pieces a day when milk is abundant.Each piece sells for around Rs 25 to Rs 30, but nearly Rs 20 goes into production. Despite low margins, families continue the work for its cultural and sentimental value.Freshly made Kaladi displayed at a shop in the Shopian market (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)Irshad Ahmad from Shopian explained the process: “We collect kaladi from 10-15 dokes, around 700-900 pieces, and sell them to traders in Shopian or Pulwama. Elderly women still go door-to-door, but younger people use phones and middlemen.”Gul Bano (50), a kaladi maker said: “My son posts photos and videos online and restaurants started calling us for bulk orders…This season, sales have gone up by nearly 40 percent.”In the shadow of her humble doke, Gul Bano tends to her buffaloes, the heart of her livelihood and daily rhythm in the meadows of Shopian (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)Shopkeeper Younus added that he sells about 100-120 kaladi discs every day up from 70-80 last year. Even tourists come and purchase this cheese, he added. Change in perceptionNot long ago, kaladi’s production had nearly disappeared. “Until the late 1990s, it was still made by the Gujjar community,”  Salam Javed (70) from Shopian said. “But because of social bias and class perceptions, people started abandoning it.”Rukhsar Ahmad, 45 added: “In schools, our children were mocked for being associated with kaladi. We were seen as ‘low caste.’ People avoided us because of the smell of milk,” he says. “About 30-35 families gave up cattle rearing altogether because of this discrimination.”“Many considered it a poor man’s dish,” added trader Gulzar Kasana, (65). “But after the Covid-19 pandemic, people began realising the value of organic and handmade foods. That has helped bring kaladi back.”There is a trend of rediscovering traditional foods, he said. “People are tired of processed food. Kaladi is natural and free from additives which is why it is getting popular,” he added. Saima Nabi, a teacher from Pulwama said that she started purchasing kaladi as it is handmade by local communities. “I prefer foods that are pure and unprocessed…Buying local produce also makes me feel connected to something real.”Cover Photo - Rafeeqa in her mud kitchen in Sukudo, Shopian, separates whey from buffalo milk to make Kaladi, keeping alive a traditional Kashmiri delicacy (Photo - Urvat Il Wuska, 101Reporters)