“Nothing is nurturing about this camp,” Hajer said. “It does not educate us. It does not rehabilitate us. It breaks us, and it is breaking our children.”

Hajer and her daughter are among roughly a hundred Maldivian detainees in Syria’s Roj camp, where they have lived for years under conditions that grow more degrading with each passing season. The al-Hol and Roj camps, run by the Kurdish-led Autonomous Administration of North and East Syria (AANES)—the civilian authority linked to the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF)—hold about 42,500 people, mostly wives, female relatives, and children of ISIS suspects.

The urgent humanitarian and moral crisis faced by Maldivian women and children, along with others detained in camps like Roj, remains largely ignored, dismissed, or buried beneath layers of political hesitation and bureaucratic neglect. Recent global developments have only worsened the outlook. The re-election of Donald Trump in the US has accelerated aid cuts and diplomatic disengagement, contributing to a chillingly uncertain environment for repatriation efforts.

The Maldivian government, like many others, has struggled to articulate a coherent policy for the return and reintegration of its citizens, leaving families in a state of indefinite limbo. Detainees remain voiceless, with little to no support from their countries of origin, caught in the legal web of global counterterrorism frameworks and domestic laws that need to balance humanitarian needs and national security risks. 

Hajer married Abdel in 2015, not knowing she would soon become a widow in a war zone. Immediately after their wedding, the couple left for Turkey and crossed into Syria without informing their families of their ‘exact’ plan. A year in, Abdel, Hajer’s husband, was killed in a safe house. Hajer was reluctant to discuss her circumstances in detail, an understandable decision given the gravity of her current situation and the threat to her mental and physical well-being.

Now, she describes camp Roj as an “open-air extortion prison,” where detainees are forced to rely on remittances from relatives abroad to survive. Scorching 50 degree summers, sandstorms, and strong winds create constant health threats, especially for women and children. Water is often unavailable for days at a time, and electricity, when it comes, must be paid for and rarely lasts more than eight hours a day. Medical care is unaffordable and inadequate, even for the most basic needs.

For the children born in war zones, this is all they know, but they are not immune to its psychological effects. Nights bring added danger. With no lighting, children are afraid to use distant toilets, resulting in bedwetting and other behaviours brought on by emotional trauma. Children are, too, being sexually abused and harassed.

Hajer said children are “anxious, afraid, and broken.” They live under the constant shadow of fear, with their lives persistently at risk. In 2022, two Egyptian girls aged 12 and 15 were brutally killed in the annex of Al-Hol camp, their throats slit and their bodies discarded in an open septic tank. In another case, armed men shot dogs in front of children as an intimidation tactic. 

In a separate incident, women were dragged from their tents, beaten with iron rods, and soaked with freezing water. Rape and sexual violence are widely documented in these camps, used not only as a method of domination but as a weapon of war to instil fear, punish, and exert control. Victims include both women and adolescent girls, most of whom remain silent out of fear of stigma or retaliation. Their children returned from the ordeal sobbing and shaken, with no degree of normalcy to their expressions, no language to articulate the fear drawn into their young faces.

Mothers like Hajer, along with other women in the camp, try to impose structure where none exists, often instinctively adopting young children who have been orphaned. They attempt to teach the children to read, ration food and water, and invent games from scraps of plastic and cloth. However, these efforts are frequently undermined by the suspicion of camp authorities, where even the slightest semblance of self-organisation is viewed as evidence of radicalism.

UN Women revealed in May 2025 that nearly half of women’s organisations providing frontline support in crisis zones may shut down within six months due to funding shortfalls. The devastating conditions in the camps are only one part of a broader and more entrenched problem. To understand the barriers to repatriation and reintegration, it is necessary to examine not only policy failures and diplomatic stances but also the supposedly ‘measured’ political calculations that have driven prolonged inaction.

Religious idealism 

The Maldives is better known for its year-round tropical allure and luxury tourism, but beneath the surface, rising religious extremism is destabilising social cohesion locally and its image internationally. Since the outbreak of the civil war in Syria in 2011, a concerning number of Maldivian men, women, and children have left the country to join conflicts in Syria, raising alarm about the growing influence of extremist ideologies. To some extent, it is a microcosm of the political extremities the world is experiencing. This trend not only threatens domestic stability but also carries broader implications for national security, tourism, and the visa-free international mobility enjoyed by Maldivian passport holders to 93 countries and territories. 

While many, like Hajer, embark on what they perceive as a spiritual journey to atone or reconnect with their faith, the motivations behind such departures are rarely straightforward. In the Maldivian context, daily life for many is marked by economic hardship, generational overcrowding, and limited opportunity, conditions that can push individuals toward radical paths in search of purpose. For some, it’s less about religious doctrine and more about dignity: a desperate bid to reclaim identity, agency, and purity in a world that seems to have left them behind. Faith, in this light, becomes more than a spiritual pursuit; it becomes a lifeline in the face of stagnation, social pressure, and the slow erosion of hope.

Not everyone who left, however, can be considered a victim. Some left disillusioned with the government’s narrow or politicised interpretation of Islamic identity. In contrast, others were drawn by the promise of raising children in a more devout Islamic environment, one that, for many Maldivians, differs significantly from their own more moderate and diverse religious practices. Many were also misled by promises of employment, stability, and community, rather than out of allegiance to extremist ideologies like ISIS. Countless Maldivian men were radicalised by recruiters who preyed on legitimate grievances.

Children, by contrast, had no choice at all, making their right of return particularly urgent. To take children away from their homes and communities and into a war zone under the banner of an extreme and violent version of Islam is a profound and tragic distortion of the core values most Maldivians hold dear. As highlighted by the UN’s experts on children and armed conflict and on counterterrorism and human rights, children associated with armed groups are victims first and foremost—entitled to protection, rehabilitation, and reintegration, not punishment or indefinite detention.

This search for ‘nirvana’ can be understood through a theoretical lens that synthesises Victor Turner’s concept of liminality and Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of symbolic capital. Turner’s notion of liminality, being in an in-between state, detached from the structures of ordinary social life, offers a framework for understanding how religious journeys serve as rites of passage. For individuals like Hajer who hail from ethno-religious nations like the Maldives, this spiritual mobility represents a space where old identities are suspended, and new, sacred selves are potentially formed. These movements are not merely about faith. It is about negotiating one’s place in a rapidly shifting social order.

At the same time, Bourdieu’s concept of symbolic capital—the recognition, honour, and legitimacy one accrues through cultural or religious alignment—helps explain how religious idealism in the Maldives becomes a strategy of social navigation. When economic capital is scarce, and social mobility is limited, adherence to visible forms of piety can serve as a form of distinction. Religious idealism thus functions both as a means of personal salvation and as a public signal. In a context where modernity collides with tradition and where the state has a contested relationship with Islamic identity, personal piety can become a performative yet significant attempt to assert agency and reclaim moral clarity.

In the Maldives, religious transformations are not only personal decisions but are situated within broader geopolitical anxieties, state governance, and the moral economies of globalisation. In this light, Hajer’s journey is not an anomaly but part of a patterned response to the contradictions of postcolonial modernity, where religious idealism emerges as both an escape and an embrace, a refusal of the present and a reimagining of what life could mean.

A disturbing example of this rising extremism occurred in 2022, when Islamic fundamentalists stormed a government-organised Yoga Day event in Malé, attended by public officials and foreign diplomats. The attackers shouted religious slogans, destroyed property, and attempted to assault participants, claiming yoga contradicted Islamic beliefs. Investigations revealed the protesters had obtained flags from the office of an opposition political party. Incidents like this reflect a broader pattern of growing intolerance, politically fuelled extremism, and the weakening of moderate voices.

This climate of hostility has also had deadly consequences for those who dare to speak out against it. Ahmed Rilwan Abdulla, a reporter for the independent media outlet Minivan News (later the Maldives Independent), was abducted and forcibly disappeared after receiving repeated death threats from Islamic extremist groups linked to al-Qaeda. His journalism, personal blog, and social media accounts criticised religious fundamentalism and violent extremism. Despite a decade of advocacy and demands for justice for “Moyameeha”, no perpetrators have been held accountable, leaving Rilwan’s family without closure and sending a chilling message to others seeking to challenge extremist views.

Political context 

Following the dismantling of ISIS in 2019, Kurdish authorities assumed control of former ISIS-held territories, imprisoning male fighters and confining women and children to detention camps. Maldivian nationals initially held in Al-Hol were subsequently transferred to Roj camp, where 11 women and 33 children, along with six other individuals and their uncounted children, remain, according to direct reports from detainees. The conditions in Roj emphasise the ongoing diplomatic and humanitarian challenges faced by inhabitants, especially in the context of the Maldives’ ambiguous stance on repatriation, despite Turkey asserting administrative authority over Kurdish-controlled zones and expressing willingness to repatriate foreign nationals. The current Maldivian government has not made contact in months to verify the health or legal status of its citizens or to initiate repatriation procedures. 

This inaction contrasts with earlier efforts under former President Ibrahim Mohamed Solih, whose administration approved an open budget through the People’s Majlis (parliament), trained personnel, and authorised the return of several individuals, including six adults and their children. Of these, five were released from the National Reintegration Centre (NRC), and children were sent to live with extended families within six to eight months. Under the current administration of President Dr Mohamed Muizzu, despite campaign promises and meetings with returnee families, no concrete updates have followed. This has raised suspicions of deliberate obfuscation, possibly to avoid exposing domestic recruiters or politically sensitive ties.

The Maldives also lacks a comprehensive and systematic reintegration policy. Current efforts fall short of addressing the complexity and depth of religious fundamentalism. Existing initiatives focus narrowly on apprehended violent extremists, while broader patterns of extremism, often embedded in spiritual discourse, online spaces, and social networks, remain largely unaddressed. There is no consistent, nationwide framework; instead, the issue is treated selectively and reactively. The rise of Islamic fundamentalism driven by foreign influence, internal vulnerabilities, and successive government’s failure to curb the spread of extremist ideologies has allowed fundamentalist Islam to dominate and fuel growing support for Salafi-Jihadism, further complicating efforts to counter extremism. The effects of the one-sided limit to freedom of expression in the country are elephantinely apparent: extremists are free to spread hate as long as it is laced with religion, shunning those promoting equal rights in an open, inclusive and just society. 

Civil society, which could play a vital role in prevention and rehabilitation, is constrained by limited protections and lacks the operational space to act meaningfully. NGOs and civil society actors are cautious of speaking out, often only doing so under conditions of confidentiality due to fear of reprisal and lack of state protection. Targeted attacks in the past, such as MP Dr Afrasheem Ali’s assassination, the enforced disappearance of journalist Ahmed Rilwan, and the brutal killing of Yameen Rasheed, have created a climate of fear and silenced people who dared to speak out. Moreover, the unlawful de-registration of the Maldivian Democracy Network in 2019 has set a dangerous precedent for local human rights groups.

State institutions such as the National Counter Terrorism Centre (NCTC) provide only rudimentary public messaging that does not align with contemporary radicalisation dynamics. Donor-funded programs, including those under USAID, are frequently framed in a way that often oversimplifies the issue with superficial messaging, such as ‘be good to your neighbour,’ failing to address the deeper ideological and structural drivers of extremism. The approach taken tends not to see the forest for the trees. 

In reality, state-led programming on countering violent extremism is not functional at a meaningful level. Both the government and society appear to be in denial about the scale of the problem, further complicating efforts to reintegrate returnees especially amid widespread public hostility and fear.

The legal framework governing these issues was clearly defined in 2018, where under the Maldives’ Anti-Terror Law (2018), travel to designated war zones without prior government approval is criminalised and punishable by five to seven years of imprisonment. Syria, by presidential decree, is officially recognised as a war zone. Before this legislation, however, it was relatively easy for Maldivians to travel abroad to join ISIS or affiliated groups.

The state’s delayed or selective approach to repatriation emphasises the tension between legal obligations, political considerations, and international diplomatic responsibility. Personal stories, such as that of Hajer, bring the human cost of these political and legal entanglements into sharp view.

Quiet recruitment and blind spots 

Efforts branded as ‘whole-of-society’ initiatives in the Maldives are poorly conceptualised and often superficial, lacking the depth and nuance required to counter extremism meaningfully. Public education campaigns have failed to equip families and communities with the tools to identify early warning signs. In many cases, families mistook increased religiosity for spiritual growth, unaware that it could signal a more profound ideological shift toward extremism.

Compounding this is the government’s failure to build public trust or support for reintegration initiatives. Without a national dialogue or sustained public outreach, returnees are often placed back into hostile or unsafe environments, such as victims of domestic abuse being returned to the same communities, resulting in re-traumatisation and failed reintegration. The state has provided no clear communication regarding where returnees are held, under what conditions, and for how long which has instigated suspicion and public resentment.

These shortcomings are accelerated by the state’s inability to address extremism within its own institutions, particularly prisons and mosques. A 2019 report by Transparency Maldives revealed widespread and well-organised recruitment networks operating within the prison system, often more effective than community-based recruiters. One-on-one interviews with inmates exposed the extent to which recruiters wield control and influence behind bars, using religious narratives and psychological manipulation invoking guilt to indoctrinate others. Mosques have also become spaces of quiet recruitment, especially among disaffected youth, including those awaiting GCSE results. Tactics employed include offering communal meals, job promises, and a sense of belonging through social events. Academically inclined individuals are groomed for technical roles, while others are positioned as ideological foot soldiers.

Despite the seriousness of these dynamics, civil society engagement has been inconsistent and largely ineffective. For example, after a brief focus on prison recruitment into extremism during the 2022 National Human Rights Day, there has been no meaningful follow-up or public reporting. The lack of a coordinated, transparent, and informed approach across both community and institutional spaces continues to leave critical vulnerabilities unaddressed, undermining any sustainable counter-extremism strategy. 

Return and reintegration

While Maldives has an ambiguous stance on the repatriation of the victims, its silence is louder. The absence of consistent public communication, the lack of a formal repatriation policy, and the visible deterioration of previously initiated reintegration mechanisms all indicate a system that is either unwilling or unable to confront the realities of return.

The NRC, once a promising facility has now become emblematic of institutional neglect. Initially designed to provide trauma-informed, phased rehabilitation for returnees, starting with psychological assessments and skill-building programmes, the NRC saw moderate success with the first batch of returnees. Children were able to access safe spaces and basic routines, and families received some level of structured support. However, this fragile system quickly crumbled under the weight of poor planning, untrained staff, inadequate community sensitisation, and shifting political priorities. The location of the centre next to Maafushi jail also stigmatises it and options for an all-round holistic space are few. 

The second group of returnees, which included over 20 individuals, arrived to find a drastically underprepared NRC. Staff shortages, a dearth of leadership, and inadequate infrastructure resulted in inconsistent care and oversight. While the first group benefited from relatively humane conditions and structured support, the second group faced bureaucratic delays, limited communication with the outside world, and deteriorating mental health among detainees. These discrepancies have led to deep resentment and perceptions of injustice among returnee families who had consistently fought for their return. 

Worse still, the blurring of lines between victims and potential perpetrators, particularly during the early police evaluations, led to significant safety concerns. Vulnerable women and children were placed in close proximity to individuals not yet cleared of extremist affiliations. This created an environment ripe for intimidation, blackmail, and re-traumatisation, undermining the very premise of reintegration as a protective and rehabilitative process.

It is not easy for the NRC to employ capable personnel, as the role involves working with vulnerable individuals and carries significant risk and responsibility. Civil society groups, which could have provided supplementary support, were kept at arm’s length due to state mistrust and opacity. 

Reintegration in the Maldives is not a coordinated, strategic process; it is an afterthought shaped by a legal and institutional system that often operates with duplicity and discrimination. Without clear policy guidelines, adequate staffing, or genuine community preparation, the state is setting returnees up for failure. The uneven application of laws and the classist biases embedded within the Maldivian legal system further undermine efforts as reintegration becomes another arena where privilege dictates outcomes. Reintegration cannot be reduced to short-term containment, bureaucratic box-ticking, or campaign promises. It must be a long-term, holistic approach with sustained community sensitisation that confronts inequalities rather than enables them. 

Abandoned by the state? 

Nowhere is the failure of reintegration more visible or more tragic than in the lives of the children affected by this crisis. For those who have been brought back to the Maldives, the conditions they return to are often far from restorative. For those left behind in conflict zones like Roj Camp, still clinging to hopes of repatriation from their country of origin, the situation is even more dire.

The NRC, while initially framed as a place of rehabilitation, unfortunately functions more like a detention facility. This reality has drawn sharp criticism from the Human Rights Commission of the Maldives (HRCM) and mental health professionals, particularly regarding the presence of children within such a setting. These concerns are not merely symbolic. Detaining children, even for reintegration, violates their rights and places them in an environment that accelerates existing trauma rather than alleviating it.

Children require environments that are safe, caring, and psychologically secure. The NRC, with its history of surveillance, limited freedom, and uncertain status for its occupants, does not offer such conditions. Mental health practitioners have warned that exposure to these institutional settings, especially without proper safeguards or child-focused services, risks deepening emotional distress and delaying recovery. The long-term psychological effects on children subjected to such environments are significant, including increased risk of anxiety, attachment disorders, and chronic trauma.

For those still stranded in conflict zones, particularly in camps like Roj, the cost of inaction is even higher. These children, some born in Syria, others taken there as infants, have lived through war, witnessed violence, and endured years of neglect. They are not stateless in a legal sense, but are emotionally unanchored and existentially adrift. Their developmental years unfold in conditions marked by fear, deprivation, and the constant threat of violence.

Hajer, like many others, is not a product of ideology alone but was shaped by the very society that now hesitates to bring her home. Her fate was as much a response to her environment as it was a consequence of her circumstances. In an increasingly religiously conservative state, where both fundamentalists and liberals find themselves alienated, the space for belonging is shrinking. Both ends of the political spectrum feel excluded—one for not conforming, the other for questioning. The inequality and alienation that drove them to leave is the same one that prevents them from returning. The economic hardship and political instability that drove families to the margins remain unaddressed.

The longer the Maldives delay their return, the greater the risk that these children will interpret their abandonment as deliberate. This sense of betrayal, of being forgotten or judged for choices they never made can become a powerful source of grievance. Left unaddressed, it could fuel a new cycle of political violence. The very young people the state claims to be protecting may, in time, come to see that state as the reason for their suffering.

This is not a hypothetical risk. Extremist ideologies often root themselves in personal trauma, as well as a perceived loss of identity or dignity. For children growing up in camps with little to no education, healthcare, or hope for reintegration, the appeal of groups that offer purpose, belonging, or revenge can be dangerously persuasive.

The moral argument is clear: no child should bear the consequences of their parents’ decision. The legal argument is equally compelling: as a signatory to multiple international conventions, including the Convention on the Rights of the Child, the Maldives must ensure that these children are protected, repatriated, and rehabilitated in a child-sensitive and rights-based manner.

Continuing to delay their return is not just a policy failure; it is a human rights violation and a reflection of our lack of shared humanity as a nation. More dangerously, it is the planting of seeds for future instability.

“I hope this helps us,” Hajer reiterated, echoing her hopes for repatriation that extended far beyond the confines of Roj Camp as she chose to lay bare their current status, risking her life. It is a question that demands an answer not just from policymakers, but from the entire nation. The new governing administration in Syria does little to clarify the fate of those stranded in camps like Roj, offering no substantial legal framework or accountability for the displaced, leaving them in a dangerous limbo, neither protected nor prosecuted.

The cost of waiting is not merely diplomatic or logistical. It is deeply moral. Each day that passes without action compounds the trauma of those stranded abroad and deepens the wounds of those returned without proper support. It signals to children that their suffering is invisible, and to families that they are disposable. It risks turning victims into future threats, not by nature, but by neglect. The Maldives must confront the uncomfortable truth: silence is not neutrality, it is complicity. The time to act is not when conditions are perfect but when humanity calls. And its calls are reverberating.∎