Patrick Brown is an award winning Australian photojournalist and photographer, who has dedicated his career to documenting social and enviornmental issues that plague the planet. He began his career as a set builder in theater and dance, developing his photographic skills in a creative context. He is known for his work on the illegal trade of endangered animals, receiving numerous accolades, including the prestigious FotoEvidence Book Award with World Press Photo. His book “Trading to Extinction” has been particularly well-received by critics and highlights the challenges facing many vulnerable species. In 2019, he published No Place On Earth, a dramatic project that documents the lives of survivors of the 2017 persecution of the Rohingya population in Myanmar.
By 2017, it escalated into what the UN called “a textbook example of ethnic cleansing.” About 700,000 Rohingya fled from Burma to Bangladesh, creating the world’s largest refugee camp with around 1.9 million people, as densely populated as Manhattan. The Rohingya have been labeled the most persecuted minority on Earth, though with what is happening in the world right now, that might be up for debate. Nonetheless, in 2017, this was certainly true.
The Rohingya are voiceless people, ignored and often forgotten by the world, despite their suffering being comparable to that of many oher victims of injustice. What stands out most, from our Western perspective, is the total disregard for their right to life- a right for which no one has ever felt the urgency to protest or mobilize. Patrick Brown, through his work as a photojournalist, has documented a painful chapter of their history. To address this lack of attention in public opinion, I felt it important to give him space to share who the Rohingya are and what they have endured. It is a narrative born from his experience, a perspective that is inevitably personal, but no less reliable for that reason.


Patrick, can you share a bit more about the Rohingya people and touch on the history of their conflict? Also, how did you end up documenting this genocide?
I’ve been to Myanmar 18 times, primarily focusing on the eastern border where other ethnic minorities such as the Kachin, Wa, and Shan live. I spent 20 years documenting this area and avoided the Rohingya issue due to its complexity. So, I am perhaps not the best expert on their history, but I can share my experiences and observations.
The Rohingya have always lived in this region. The Burmese government refers to them as Bengalis, while the Rohingya identify themselves as Rohingya. The tensions date back to the Saffron Revolution- a term I dislike- when monks and nuns protested a huge increase in cooking oil prices. The military, sensing widespread anger, deflected the public’s anger towards the Rohingya, a minority that nobody liked. This led to escalating hate speech, intensifying the persecution. Facebook played a huge role during this period. Essentially, it was used as an experiment during Burma’s nascent democracy when internet access was still very limited. As more people got online, hate speech from the government and influential Buddhist figures spread unchecked. Facebook didn’t stop it and now faces scrutiny and calls from the US Congress for access to related data, which remains restricted.


In late August 2017, I heard reports of mass movements across the border from colleagues and NGOs. Editors weren’t interested, but I got information from people on the ground and UNICEF, who were monitoring the situation. When it became clear something major was happening, I flew to Bangladesh, pretending I was there for a cricket match between Australia and Bangladesh, as journalists were being stopped.
I made my way to Cox’s Bazar and saw the crisis unfold. Ten people became a hundred, then thousands, then tens of thousands. It was like standing on your busiest street and imagining everyone walking towards you is fleeing for their lives, fleeing from death. People carried what little they could—some just had the clothes on their backs, others carried siblings or a few belongings. People were arriving on Shamlapur Beach, after a rough five-hour journey through big storms in the Bay of Bengal. The Bay of Bengal is where the first-ever superstorm was recorded. If you’re brave enough to take on this bay during monsoon season, you must be running from something truly evil. The new arrivals were coming through the river, neck-deep in water. The Burmese were using them as target practice, firing at them in open water. Many people lost their lives, and we still don’t know the exact numbers. The visual narrative is raw and dramatic, a story that seems to matter to no one. To reach the border with Bangladesh, Rohingya refugees had to wade through thick, wet mud, carrying little more than their will to survive. Others arrived on makeshift rafts, built from empty oil cans tied together with bamboo. Each raft sometimes carried up to 80-100 people. In some cases, the crossings lasted more than seven hours.

One family spent a month in hiding, building a raft on the Burmese side in the hope of escaping. Eventually, they managed to cross the border, bringing with them the blind father, carried by his son. Like them, many others, exhausted and dehydrated, shared stories of disease and deprivation, revealing the bitterness of a reality in which even reaching the shore did not guarantee survival.
One September evening, a boat carrying more than 80 refugees capsized near Inani Beach, overwhelmed by heavy rain. The bodies of 15 women and children lay on the shore, waiting to be retrieved, while only 17 survivors were rescued. The tragedy was captured in an image that won the World Press Photo award, becoming a symbol of voiceless suffering.
This was not just a fight for survival; upon arriving in the refugee camps, the struggle to secure food and basic necessities began. Malnourished and frail children were forced to endure long lines for a bowl of rice, often standing in the mud and surrounded by unspeakable chaos. Pain and resilience intertwined with the personal stories Patrick Brown collected during his months documenting the exodus.

Among these, the story of Momera stands out. A 25-year-old woman, she spoke of her despair as a mother who, after days of walking, lost her newborn along the way. In the camps, children continued to die from preventable diseases like whooping cough, and young mothers, some barely in their twenties, mourned the loss of their children.
Patrick also documented the atrocities inflicted on children. He recounted the story of Mohammed Shohail, a seven-year-old boy who miraculously survived after being shot in the chest. The bullet, lodged in his ribcage, was removed later by doctors in the refugee camp.
Then there’s the story of Mohammad Foysal, a 15-year-old boy who, with extraordinary determination, redefined the meaning of heroism. While fleeing his village, a bullet shattered his arm. With incredible courage, his uncle removed the damaged tendons with a farmer’s knife and treated the wound with antiseptic leaves. Foysal survived, hiding in the jungle for a month before reaching safety in Bangladesh.


Another compelling figure is Nazmul Islam, a former Buddhist who converted to Islam after marrying a Rohingya woman. He became a respected advocate for unity in Tula Toli. A former radio operator in the Burmese army, he gained extensive knowledge of military communications. Arrested on August 26, he listened to military operations from his cell near the radio room. After three months, he escaped through a latrine during a celebration when the guards were drunk, dodging bullets to reach Bangladesh. In the refugee camp, his detailed testimony about military orders proved invaluable and is now preserved at the International Criminal Court in The Hague. Nazmul passed away peacefully, surrounded by his family, leaving behind a legacy of courage and justice. Each story collected by Patrick is a fragment of a larger tragedy, one filled with pain, resilience, and a desperate need for justice.



The story that affected me most was that of Rajuma, a 20-year-old woman. During the Tula Toli massacre, she tried to protect her baby by hiding him under her robe. The Burmese soldiers brutally tore him from her, smashing his skull and throwing him into the fire. After being raped, she was left for dead, with her throat slit and a deep wound to her jaw. The bamboo house where she and other women were was set on fire. When Rajuma regained consciousness, she found herself surrounded by smoke and flames. Despite her injuries, she managed to crawl through a hole she had made in the wall. She was the sole survivor.
During this project, grew very close to Rajuma, closer than to anyone else I photographed, Patrick recalls. I visted her every time I went to the camps. The Rohingya are a conservative Muslim community, and it is rare for women to interact with men outside their family. Yet Rajuma, a progressive and determined woman, greeted me with a handshake, even in front of her husband. The project took six or seven months to complete, largely because I was haunted by questions about what I was doing.
Was it ethical to share these portraits with the world? Could it harm the survivors or reduce their stories to mere images? When I photograph someone, I ensure there is collaboration. I always ask for permission, often in multiple ways, to give them the chance to reconsider. Consent is essential: it empowers the person in front of the camera. Some ultimately refuse, and I respect that choice. Often, their stories, shared through conversation, are more powerful than the photograph itself.
Rajuma’s perspective, however, shifted my doubts about the project. When I expressed my concerns to her, she said something I will never forget: “Why should I hide? I’ve done nothing wrong.” At that moment, I realized it wasn’t her voice that was hesitant—it was mine. She went on to say: “Everyone in this camp knows what happened to me. I know there are places out there bigger than this camp, with cool air. But, once again, I’ve done nothing wrong.“
Rajuma, along with Mohammed and Isam, represents the reason I do this work. Their strength, dignity, and courage in the face of unimaginable suffering remind me of the power of storytelling—not just to document, but to amplify voices the world needs to hear.

How do you cope with the emotional challenges of photographing such delicate and traumatic subjects? How do you handle these difficulties, both as a witness and as a photographer? And, considering that you returned to the camps multiple times, you must have felt anger and pain for what you saw. How did you manage to overcome it?
I’m asked this question very often. My job, if you want to call it that, is a blessing. I come from a middle-class family and have a skill set that enables me to do what I do. For me to travel to these places and lose my focus or break down emotionally would be disrespectful to the individuals who have shared the worst day of their lives with me. These people place their trust in me. Yes, it does affect me. If it didn’t, I would need to see a therapist. The people you meet welcome you into their homes and trust you to tell their story to the world. That is my responsibility. I am merely a visitor in their world. And later, when I leave I am able to disconnect myself from that world, thanks to the support of my incredible wife, friends, and family who understand if I were to lose my emotional bearings. Nothing that has happened to me compares to what these people have endured. It would be absurd for me to cry on their behalf. Of course, this doesn’t mean I lack empathy for them.
One of the biggest problems that I see in our society is our lack of empathy for others. We struggle to put ourselves in other people’s shoes. If we could just do that for 5-10 minutes, we would understand more about them and have greater tolerance and understanding of where they are coming from.
Yes, I kept going back because I felt it was my duty. I would leave the camp and return to drinkable running water from a tap—a dream for the 1.2 million people in the camp. So how do I deal with it? With the support of my family and friends.


From an ethical perspective, how do you approach your work?
With regards to the ethical challenges, this is where the journalistic moral compass comes into play. In my view, you must constantly ask yourself moral questions to ensure your compass points true north. If you stop questioning yourself, your compass will drift off course, influenced by certain events, for example take on an activist perspective. I constantly ask myself, “What am I doing here? What am I trying to achieve and what is my end goal?”
As for capturing images and knowing where to be at any given moment, I worked with a translator fixer, who is somewhat like a TV producer, and he played an integral role in this project. I wouldn’t have captured half of the images without his assistance. His contacts informed us about boats arriving at specific stretches of water. I would position myself at these different places at dawn and just wait. I would repeat this process, waking up at 2 in the morning, going to bed around 10, driving up and down the coast, and randomly encountering groups of people arriving.
When photographing refugees and vulnerable people, how do you address the challenges related to consent and protecting the rights of those portrayed?

In this particular scene, six boats arrived about 100 meters apart, and I was running up and down the beach trying to photograph them. I waded into the water up to my waist to photograph them. Initially, I was up close, but then I pulled back, realizing the image needed more space and context than just people getting off the boat. This particular shot was chosen. What fascinates me about this image is Noor, an 11-year-old girl, carrying belongings, with the somewhat calm water around her , which makes her stand out visually. The balance of her in the frame worked perfectly in this image.
When I’m working in an environment of this sort, I don’t ask for permission right away. I am focused on photographing the powerful scenes that I see infront of me, and then I signal my translator to find the person and gather their details. We later compare notes and build the story together. Unfortunately, we were never able to find Noor again.
During this particular scene, there were about four or five other photographers from an international news channel, but their crew didn’t wade out past their knees. They just started sticking microphones in faces, speaking English, and asking the refugees, who were wading to shore whether they were happy, not stopping to think that these people didn’t obviously speak any English.
A little trivia: a major international magazine considered this image for a cover. Their legal department contacted me, asking if I had model release forms for everyone on that boat. These people don’t speak English, there’s no written Rohingya language, and they see a white guy asking them to sign a document. They might think I’m giving them refugee status. The magazine argued they were protecting the people in the photograph, but really, they were protecting their business from litigation. The image was never used because I didn’t have written permission. This highlights the loss of understanding between two vastly different worlds—one in New York or DC, and the other running from ethnic cleansing.
What was the response to your book when it came out? Do you believe it has raised awareness about the Rohingya crisis?
I gave it my best shot. I’m not part of the political or diplomatic world, but this book, this document—whatever you want to call it—is being used in the US Senate and the ICC (International Criminal Court). The testimonies I gathered are now in The Hague. It’s up to diplomats to push this forward. I’ve done my best, and now I’m passing the baton. It may sound arrogant, but I’m handing over what I collected to others who can push it further up the chain of command.
Do I feel frustrated? Yes, very frustrated. Saddened? Yes, but I don’t lose hope. Ironically, I did a project called ‘Hope,’ which was about the vulnerability of human existence on the planet. If there wasn’t an element of optimism, what would we be here for? People like Rajuma have entrusted me and many others to tell their story.
What made you decide to turn your work in Bangladesh into a book, given that it wasn’t your initial intention?
That’s correct, I never intended to make a book when I went to Bangladesh. My initial goal was to document the crisis for UNICEF. As I kept returning, I gathered a significant body of work. Eventually, I was asked to submit it for the World Press Book Award, which it ended up winning.
I didn’t curate this particular set of images myself. The workload was overwhelming, so I couldn’t manage the editing process. By editing, I mean arranging the sequence of images to effectively tell the story, not manipulating the photos. I assigned this task to my publisher and two other editors in London, while I provided oversight. This book was produced in six weeks, whereas my previous book took ten years.
Stepping back from the project and not having an emotional attachment to the editing process helped with the narrative and visual storytelling. The editors could see the work from an external perspective, which was crucial. I believe that when creating a photographic work, it is essential to step back and let someone else help communicate and articulate your vision. Creating a photographic work is much like making a movie—it involves a team. You need to trust them to do a good job and believe they will do the right thing with your work.
In purely practical terms, I first selected the images to send to the publisher by working in sequences of three to four sets. I sent over the first set for an initial broad edit. For the award, I submitted 30 images. Then, I refined this down to a second edit. However, my designer, Stuart Smith, a wonderful designer and editor, insisted on seeing every frame I shot. He reviewed all the images and identified ones that were particularly special to me, which I hadn’t included because I was more focused on a magazine-style edit rather than a book edit. Stuart found absolute gems that I had overlooked, which we call “spacer images”. These images provide space for the book to breathe, allowing readers to pause before moving smoothly to the next chapter. Having someone else review the images helped reveal little nuggets I had missed. Stuart’s influence is all over this book, and I am hugely indebted to him for this.