I’m in the Kutupalong refugee camp in Cox’s Bazar, following a team of community health workers going door-to-door to vaccinate children against cholera. It’s December 2019, and the dry season has just begun. The sun warms from high above, while a gentle breeze sweeps through the narrow passages that lead us deeper into the camps.

My brick-sized camera doesn’t go unnoticed. Soon, I’m surrounded by curious children, some probably as young as my two-year-old son, Benjamin. I sit down, snap a few photos, and answer “Isaac” when they ask my name. I receive big smiles and giggles in return. I feel cheerful, something I hadn’t expected when we set out that morning.

As we journey further into the camps, I notice how thoroughly the team carry out their work. They stop at every household to ensure that children have been vaccinated, and they take time to speak with parents who have questions or doubts about the vaccine. One father, Hashim, greets us warmly and offers me the chance to ask a few questions.

I take off my dusty shoes and step into his home. He carefully rolls out a carpet on the clay floor and offers me a place to sit. The walls are covered in colourful paintings of flowers, and the ceiling is decorated with paper garlands resembling trees in an upside-down forest. I imagine Hashim’s children made these in the learning centres.

Hashim is 37 and a fisherman by trade. He is calm and gentle, with six children aged two to thirteen. His youngest son, sitting on his lap as we speak, was only two months old when the family arrived in Cox’s Bazar in August 2017.

I ask Hashim about his family’s health and whether all his children have been vaccinated. “The block where we live is very dirty,” he tells me. “After my children have been out playing, I always try to wash their hands to prevent diarrhoea and other diseases.”

His children received their first vaccines upon arrival at the camps. Back home in Myanmar, Hashim’s family had no access to health services, let alone vaccines. “Whenever someone was ill, we used leaves and herbs as treatment.”

“Since my children were vaccinated, they have been less sick,” Hashim says with relief, proudly adding that he “volunteered with the health workers during the first cholera vaccination campaign in our block.”

I ask Hashim if he ever intends to return to his home country. He hushes his son, who is becoming impatient, and sends him off to his mother before answering. I don’t speak Hashim’s language, but from his change in tone and the body language of our interpreter, I can tell this is not an easy question.

Hashim is determined to return but explains how life was very difficult in Myanmar before they fled, and how he was no longer allowed to work. He pauses, struggling to describe the indescribable. He witnessed brutal attacks on his people that forced his family to flee.

I try to hold back tears, but Hashim does not. For a moment, he buries his head in his hands. I sense this is something he needs to talk about. We sit quietly. Outside, the joyful cheers of children playing drift through the air, and I find enough strength to respectfully thank Hashim for courageously sharing his story.

We shake hands. I ask if I can photograph his family and have his consent to publish their story. “I want it to be told,” he says. As his family gathers in the room, I compose my shot, take a deep breath, and press the shutter. I already know I will never need a photograph to remember this moment.