Norbanu speaks with her daughter's boyfriend, from an internet hut in Thae Chaung village. He has broken his promise to send for her daughter, Norbanu tells him, so she will now marry her off to another man.

In this teeming camp for displaced Rohingya Muslims in western Myanmar, it's easy to overlook the internet huts. The raw emotion they generate is much harder to ignore.

What emerges is an intimate portrait of the Rohingya, a mostly stateless people living in grim conditions in Rakhine State.

The huts also provide a chilling insight into the human traffickers who prey upon the boat people and the families they leave behind.

The huts have bamboo walls, thatched roofs and - most importantly - dusty laptop computers that allow Rohingya to re-establish contact with relatives who have left on boats for Thailand and Malaysia. The internet connection comes via mobile phones jammed into the cobweb-strewn rafters.

Smoke from the camp's cooking fires seeps in through the flimsy walls. Sound filters back out just as easily, obliging callers to share their personal dramas with everyone within earshot.

Today, there is joy: Fatima, 56, is blessing her son's choice of bride. Connected via a Skype-like app, he sits in an internet cafe in the Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur, where he works as a cleaner.

“Of course you must marry her, if her skin is fair,” Fatima tells him. Her son promises to introduce his sweetheart in a later call.

Noor, a 28-year-old Rohingya woman, jokes with her husband Muhammad Rafiq while their son Noor listens.

Rafiq has been working in Malaysia for 10 months; this is the fifth time they've spoken during that period. "Don’t send us more money," Noor urges him. “Make sure you have enough to buy clothes for yourself first.”

“Can I kiss you?" asks Rafiq. Noor laughs: "There are other people here. Think about what you say.”

Many people arrive with scraps of paper bearing Malaysian phone numbers belonging to traffickers who each year ferry thousands of Rohingya to Thailand, then hold them for ransom in remote camps near the border with Malaysia.

The ransoms range from $1,200 to $1,500 - a fortune for most Rohingya living on a dollar or two a day.

They raise the money by borrowing from relatives or friends, or by selling everything they own, or both.

Jeweliyar, 35, counts out about $600 worth of Myanmar currency, part of a $1,500 ransom demanded for her sister who is held by traffickers in Malaysia.

She gave the money to the internet hut's operator, who delivered it to a traffickers' middleman in a nearby village.

A trafficker is demanding $1,400 to release Rahana's 12-year-old son. She has already sent $1,100 but the trafficker won't free the boy until the balance is paid.

She is at least allowed to talk briefly with her son. Usually, after an initial “proof of life” call, traffickers don't let relatives speak until the ransom is paid in full.

A man answers the Malaysian number Rahana calls. “Let me speak to my son,” she tells him.

A few seconds pass. Then a small voice says, “Mum?”

Rahana's eyes fills with tears and her jaw trembles. She quickly composes herself. “I will send the money,” she assures the boy. “Then they will let you go.”

After the call, Rahana is dazed and fretful. “My son told me he was sick,” she says. “Whenever he eats, he vomits.”

"They trust me"

Thae Chaung was a fishing village until 2012, when ethnic Rakhine Buddhists drove thousands of Rohingya from the nearby city of Sittwe. Religious violence in Rakhine State that year killed at least 200 people and left 140,000 homeless.

Today, Thae Chaung is a grimy, overcrowded camp. For most residents, a boat to Thailand is the only way out.

All those arrivals and departures presented Rohingya merchant Kyaw Thein, 29, with an opportunity. Until 2012, he sold ice and gasoline to village fishermen. Now he runs a busy internet hut, with three battered laptops in almost constant use.

He charges his customers 100 Myanmar kyat (10 cents) per minute for an overseas call. He also provides other services.

Rohingya working overseas routinely send money to relatives back home. Kyaw Thein ensures the money goes where it’s supposed to for a 3 percent commission.

His windowless shack is also the conduit for thousands of dollars in ransom money.

Relatives entrust Kyaw Thein with bricks of kyat that he delivers to a Rohingya middleman in a nearby village. He says he doesn't charge for this service or deal directly with the traffickers.

"They trust me," he says, "but I don't trust them."

Kyaw Thein has watched the traffickers' tactics evolve. In the past Rohingya had to pay hundreds of dollars to board Malaysia-bound boats. Now, they pay only a few dollars to be ferried to large ships moored far offshore. Their onward voyage is free.

That's because traffickers know they can extort much higher sums in the form of ransom payments by detaining these boat people in secret camps in Thailand and Malaysia.

Brokers roam the Rohingya camps dotted along the Rakhine coastline, says Kyaw Thein, and get a “finder's fee” from traffickers for each person they lure aboard the larger ships.

Abdul Kadar blames these brokers for luring away his 14-year-old daughter. She left home one morning to visit a neighbour and never came back.

She is now in a camp in Thailand or Malaysia. The traffickers want a $1,500 ransom that Abdul Kadar, a whippet-thin rickshaw driver, cannot pay.

"They told me they would kick her off the top of a mountain," he says.

Abdul Kadar told them to find a man who wants to marry her, then ask him to pay the ransom. He knows he is effectively giving them permission to sell his daughter.

"All I have are worries," he says. "I can't do anything."

Abdul Kadar's pain is acute. But other customers carry similar burdens, and a disproportionate number of them are women.

There is an endless stream of mothers, all struggling to piece together what remains of families torn asunder by poverty, exploitation and distance.

Robizar is speaking to her 18-year-old son Abdul Rahman, who left by boat ten months ago. He now lives with his father in Malaysia, so Robizar doesn't have to worry about Abdul's safety. She just misses him, badly.

“Son, I can't tell you how it feels to hear your voice,” she says. Then she buries her head in her arms and weeps.