Rohingya refugees face intensifying hostility in Malaysia as political winds shift

Irhan founded a school in northern Malaysia for Rohingya children because they have no other place to learn. The Malaysian government bars them from public schools, so refugee families cobble together unlicensed learning centers in industrial buildings and rented rooms, teaching children aged six to fifteen in the margins of a country that once promised them shelter. Last month, eight uniformed police officers walked into Irhan's classroom, photographed the students, and ordered some to leave. The children's families are now afraid to send them back.

This is what has changed in Malaysia in the span of a decade. In 2017, the country's then-prime minister Najib Razak stood before the nation and called for protection of Rohingya Muslims—not merely as co-religionists, but as human beings whose lives held value. Nine years later, a fierce wave of hostility is sweeping through the country, and going to school has become dangerous.

A school in Selangor suspended classes for a month. When it reopened at the end of July, the instructions were stark: students must not wear uniforms to school and must go straight home after class without lingering or gathering in groups. The school was keeping a low profile to shield its students from attack. Other institutions have closed entirely. In some parts of Malaysia, Rohingya families who had lived in villages for years were suddenly evicted. Local residents told Malaysian media that allowing them to stay could create "social problems." After one such eviction from a fishing village near Penang, roughly 120 refugees sought shelter outside the UN's refugee agency office in Kuala Lumpur and were temporarily detained. More than half were children.

The UN estimates that more than 126,000 Rohingya have resettled in Malaysia, making it the second-largest host country after Bangladesh. But rights groups believe the actual number is considerably higher. These are people who fled Myanmar, where they are denied citizenship in their own homeland despite tracing their roots back centuries. In August 2017, after a brutal military crackdown that the UN called "textbook ethnic cleansing," more than a million Rohingya fled to Bangladesh. Many subsequently attempted perilous voyages across the Andaman Sea toward Malaysia, packed into fragile fishing vessels, thousands dying en route. Malaysia had never formally recognized asylum seekers—meaning refugees have no legal right to housing, employment, or education—yet many still saw the Muslim-majority nation as a place of safety and economic opportunity.

That welcome has worn thin. During the pandemic, Rohingya were accused of spreading the virus and competing with locals for jobs. Petitions calling for deportations flooded social media. This year, the vitriol has returned with greater intensity. In May, posts emerged online accusing refugees of improperly disposing of animals sacrificed during Eid al-Adha. These claims snowballed into unfounded assertions that the community was demanding automatic citizenship, seeking political power, and attempting to "take over" Malaysia. An online petition urging authorities to "Remove Rohingya from Malaysia" garnered more than 420,000 signatures before being taken down following criticism from rights groups.

Karim, a Rohingya activist who arrived in 2003, remembers when locals' hospitality made him feel safe. He worked in construction for years, and though the life was difficult, Malaysians were friendly and kind. Now he is often afraid to leave his home. People ask him on his commute why he is making a mess of the city and why he does not go back. Irhan, who came to Malaysia in 2001 as a teenager, feels the same shift. Both say most Rohingya want to return to Myanmar eventually, but that country is now locked in a bloody civil war. Their home state of Rakhine has suffered catastrophic destruction amid intense fighting between the military regime and the Arakan Army. Returning could mean forced conscription to fight for the junta or becoming targets of armed opposition groups. A UN report released this week detailed how the plight of minorities in Myanmar has "plummeted to a new low." The UN High Commissioner for Human Rights said the Rohingya are "suffering misery and cruelty on multiple levels and across the country that is heartbreaking."

In July, Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim announced during a campaign speech that Myanmar had agreed to take back 5,000 Rohingya refugees from Malaysia, citing "good relations" between the two countries. He warned the Rohingya not to disrupt Malaysian lives. "This is our country," he said. "Let no one else interfere." The rhetoric has become mainstream. Nurulhidayah Zahid, daughter of the Deputy Prime Minister, compared the community to "monkeys in the forest" in a post on Threads, writing that religious and humanitarian sentiments should not prevent action. A former deputy police chief likened the influx of Rohingya to a "cancer" requiring urgent action. Some analysts believe the hostility will only intensify as Malaysia approaches its general election, which must be held before February 2028. Refugees and migrants are being turned into convenient political scapegoats to divert attention from deeper domestic challenges, according to researchers at human rights organizations. For years, the Malaysian government has presented itself internationally as a humane and compassionate Muslim nation. Its treatment of the Rohingya exposes the hollowness of that claim. Back in the industrial building that served as his classroom, Irhan is concerned less about shifting politics than about what comes next for his students. "I don't know where to get help, or who can get us registered as a school," he says. "I hope the Malaysians can understand that the children just want an opportunity to learn."