စိတ်ထဲရှိသမျှ

When she called me, I was sipping sweet Burmese tea and reading a book which I had bought last week, a collection of short stories set during the Japanese occupation. Outside, the dark clouds were forming, and soon the drizzle began, accompanied by a playful wind that shook the mango tree. Young buds and baby mangoes fell hard onto an old tin roof above me, making a loud rattling sound. I pressed my phone hard against my ear and tried to keep up with her over the rain and traffic noise. She was telling me about a dream,

I juggled multiple Burmese political books last year, and this was the only non-political book I read, and I loved it. The book tells the story of a teenage boy, 14 years old, growing up in 1930s Japan, and his uncle, who cares for his nephew and offers him advice—loads of it, most particularly in Japanese ways. In addition to the story, it educates the readers not only on art, science, language, history, politics, and philosophy but also teaches a powerful message on the value of thinking for oneself and standing up for others during troubled times.

As we move through our lives as human beings, all of us, young and old, encounter sadness, hardship, and pain, each in our own way. Of course, those are not things anyone ever wishes for. But it is thanks to sadness, hardship, and pain that we come to know what a free human being is. There is not limited to the pain and suffering that one feels in one’s heart. Likewise, the pain and suffering that we feel right in our bodies hold the same sort of meaning.

I’ve read Yearning (တမ်းတတတ်သည်) by Kyi Aye. In all honeslty, I chose to read it solely because of the title. However, I was disappointed to discover that among all the Burmese books I’ve read, this one was the most challenging to comprehend because it was filled with unfamiliar words, expressions, regional terms, and complex sentence structures. And it’s with much shame I hereby also admit that I understood only about 45% of it. From what I could grasp, the story revolves around a love affair between a 19-year-old man and an older woman. However, I’m certain that there are still

The most famous Shakespearean quote is “To be or not to be.” But right now, it would not be wrong to say that the real burning question for young Burmese people is: “To stay or to leave” the country. I was not an exception to this. I asked myself the same question six months after the coup, and it took me another six months to make a final decision. Back then, I sat by the shore almost every day, watching the restless waves crashed. As I turned the question over and over in my head, I smoked one cigarette after another, enduring every level of hell

“We had livestock, a chicken farm,” she said. “We sold them one by one to stave off hunger. Now, we’re down to three chickens, two ducks, and this trishaw, which we’re trying to sell just to buy a bag of rice for the month.” The sun blazed like an angry god that day, sweating me like a pig. We walked across the parched paddy fields, now littered with waste. We were heading towards a cluster of huts. I found a woman there in her early thirties sitting on the doorstep, having her lunch. A few chickens and ducks were roaming near a battered trishaw in her

I heard this thought-provoking idea from a friend about a decade ago. I can’t recall the exact words now, but I believe it went something like, “As we focus on the days we assume we have left, we tend to forget the day we will inevitably leave this world.” I have been reflecting on this for the past few days; the more I think about it, the more I find myself realising, like many others, that I don’t think much about death in my everyday life. And like many others, I also take tomorrow for granted. This, of course, goes without saying how much I love to fill my days with endless plans—

When the question of how to cope with loss arises, it is far easier to offer words of comfort to a friend than to bear the weight of that sorrow yourself. After all, only through personal experience do we truly understand. I knew it was coming and thought I was well-prepared for it, both mentally and physically. But when I heard it spoken aloud, everything I had cherished and owned was gone, it felt like being hit by an enormous crashing wave, leaving me gasping for air. No, I do not think it was sadness

Voici plus d'un an que je n'ai pensé à Vous. It's been more than a year now since I stopped thinking about you. Since I wrote my last letter My life has changed a lot. But I'm still the same. Don't laugh I've even wanted to become a painter I want to paint about Life That's what I've ransacked. I spent a sad day thinking about you And writing in my journal Life crucified in journal I hold at Rockets Turmoils Cries Departures You might think an aeroplane is dropping But it's actually me Passions Fires Sadness Losts It's useless not wanting to think about yourself I suppose we all have to cry out sometimes No? Maybe I'm the other one Too sensitive.

The first time I read "First They Killed My Father" by Loung Ung was many moons ago in a café near the backpacker hostel where I was staying in Siem Reap. Back then, I chose to read the book for no other reason than to educate myself about the Khmer Rouge regime ahead of my upcoming trip to the Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, which was just two weeks away. However, despite the heart-wrenching survival story of Loung under the brutal Khmer Rouge, I found myself reading it with the detached mindset of a distant observer, indulging in carrot cake and sipping a hot Americano in the comfort of an air-conditioned room.

Yesterday, my 14-year-old nephew texted me that he would be joining a benevolent community organisation and travelling tomorrow to NPD, the capital, to help the flood victims, without me or his Dad accompanied. As much as I am proud of him for stepping up and wanting to help those in need, I can't help but worry about him. Today, I find myself constantly thinking about all the possible dangers: what if... and what if. I know that I can't always protect him but I hope he would be careful and stay away from anything risky, and those accompanying

History has repeated itself numerous times, but we human beings never learn from it. We witness it, experience it, and yet fail to change or grow from it. Things heated up a day after I booked my flight ticket to Ngapali. The cyclone Komen left Myanmar in disrepair. Most of the cities, along with 10 out of 14 states, went underwater. Up to 150,000 people had been displaced or had their livelihoods affected. Aid workers flooded into the affected zone. In and out of the country, from back streets to main roads, and at every corner of every junction, we saw groups or kind-hearted individuals with an outpouring of compassion

Almost everyone who knows me well enough knows the cricket story. As I always say, it all began on 19th Street in Chinatown. I was in my late teenage years then, out with my mates, enjoying some beers. One of my mates persuaded me to try crickets. I was terrified, especially by the heads of the crickets. Their big compound eyes and sharp legs were quite intimidating. This mate of mine was clever. He started by giving me the abdomen, the lower part of the cricket, then next were the hind legs. He broke them off and hand-fed me. Despite my fear, a part of me was curious

These days, I find myself looking forward to spending time with my nephew. I meet him once a week, specifically on Saturdays. I teach him English, a subject that he shows a keen interest. It will be a matter of time before I end up teaching him Mathematics as well. He is an average student at school, but I am happy as long as he manages to pass his subjects. I do not force him to study hard because I believe that real-life education is far more valuable than what is being taught in schools, especially in Burmese schools.  A week ago, he surprised me with a peculiar request. I do not know how but he learnt the existence

Finding houses in Maungdaw has proven to be more difficult than I anticipated. Before my arrival, I had envisioned a simple elevated house with basic features such as bamboo walls, a thatched roof, a well, an outside toilet, and plenty of shady trees. I was hoping for a rural setting with a peaceful atmosphere. That envision of mine was wishful, unfortunately. Furthermore, things got even more difficult as I was unaware at the time but later found out that being an outsider posed an even greater challenge in finding a place to live, as I had to

I met her at a friend's wedding a few days ago. She was so surprised to see me that she called out my name in excitement. The last time I had seen her was almost a year ago at our makeshift rooftop bar in MUA. She had many questions about me and wanted to know what I had been up to since I left work. However, the music was too loud to hold a conversation.  “Learning German,” I told her over the loud music but of course, she didn’t catch it. She asked me again for confirmation. I repeated myself but to no avail. She suggested we walk to a corner, out of the reception hall. “Learning German,” I told her

Walking in the pitch black, with each step taken cautiously, unsure of the path ahead. Shadows play tricks on the senses, amplifying the feeling of uncertainty. The absence of light obscures landmarks, leaving one to navigate through the darkness, relying on instinct and perseverance. In this challenging situation, it becomes an exploration of trust, both in oneself and in the unseen possibilities that lie beyond the shadows. It is in these moments that the true strength of the human spirit is tested, as one finds resilience and the determination to forge ahead, even when the destination remains unknown.

It took me over 13 years to get my hands on this book, 'Harp of Burma,' written by Michio Takeyama with the aim of giving young Japanese readers hope after the devastation of World War II. It was first published in 1946. The English translation by Howard Hibbett was released 20 years later, in 1966. By chance, I watched the film adaptation back in 2011 and fell in love with it. That was how I learnt about the book. The story is set during the World War II

I am a great believer in equality and treating people with dignity regardless of their racial, religious, and socioeconomic backgrounds. I have always been proud to say that I was brought up to treat people around me this way, and I have held pride in saying that. However, there was this particular time that shook my long-held beliefs, questioned me, and even cast a shadow of doubt on me. Before I tell you the story, I must explain where and how this happened so that you can fully comprehend it. Two weeks after my arrival in Maungdaw,

Today, I would like to dedicate the following French poem to Ce. L’Adieu The farewell by Poet Guillaume Apollinaire. J’ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère L’automne est morte souviens-t’en Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre Odeur du temps brin de bruyère Et souviens-toi que je t’attends The last time I saw Ce was five years ago today. Of course, neither of us anticipated it would be the last time we saw each other. Even as the years have passed, the memory of our