Jomtoli refugee camp occupies one of the higher vantage points from which the hills of Myanmar's Rakhine State are clearly visible. Early evening finds groups of Rohingya gathering at this spot, mobile phones in hand, hoping for a signal strong enough to gather news from relatives still on the other side of the border.
Hakimpara camp: Outside the simple bamboo-and-plastic shelter that 60 year-old Dulu, her husband Salamat and their family call home, there is nothing more than a narrow ledge, less than a metre wide. After that, the ground drops away precipitously into a gully some 50 metres below where shelters belonging to other families have been erected.
Balukhali camp: One year after the newly-arrived refugees began clearing scrubland and setting up primitive plastic and bamboo shelters, the camps appear more settled and organized. New roads and other infrastructure have been installed. Paths roughly paved with red brick snake through bustling markets, while steep stairways of bamboo and sandbags make crossing the hills on which the camps are mostly built somewhat less hazardous. Street lamps powered by solar panels are increasingly common.
Balukhali camp: In the narrow paths and alleyways that thread past the homes of nearly one million Rohingya refugees, there's nothing that spreads quite as quickly as rumours.
Although the visible scars may be slowly fading, the invisible ones are not. The trauma of what happened a year ago is still felt by all communities. Economic activity is down and Muslims continue to face travel and other restrictions, severely limiting their access to services and livelihoods.