Insight Myanmar

Episode #540: This episode marks a different kind of experiment for Insight Myanmar. Instead of following a single guest, we step back and listen across hundreds of conversations gathered over years of documenting Myanmar's revolution. What emerges is not one story, but a living network of voices—activists, artists, monks, organizers, journalists, and fighters—all wrestling with what it means to endure the collapse of a society and imagine something beyond it. The conversation unfolds across four interconnected themes. The first is “Coming Together”: the quiet, invisible labor that makes resistance possible long before protests fill the streets. Organizers describe years spent building trust, underground networks, and systems of mutual support in the absence of a functioning state. The second is “Creative Expression.” Artists, musicians, photographers, and cooks reveal how humor, storytelling, food, and music become tools for survival and resistance, helping people process trauma while keeping movements emotionally alive. The third dimension, “Moral Alignment,” centers on Buddhist monks grappling with questions of ethics, violence, and responsibility. Their stories expose the tension between spiritual practice and political engagement in a country where suffering can no longer be ignored. Finally, the episode turns to “Conflict” itself. Ordinary people—a tour guide, a hip hop artist, former nonviolent activists—describe being pushed into armed resistance and the irreversible emotional costs that follow. Taken together, these voices reveal a revolution that is not only political, but deeply human: creative, fractured, moral, traumatic, and unfinished.

Episode #539: In his analysis of Myanmar's democratic transition, Elliot Prasse-Freeman highlights the failures of a system that was inherently flawed from its inception. Although the 2010s brought real change to some, the military also retained significant control, making any possibility at political reform superficial. This left marginalized groups without meaningful change, and created a transition that, as Prasse-Freeman says, was “moribund” from the start. Economic reforms during that time emphasized privatization and the commodification of land, disregarding the needs of small-scale farmers. These policies led to land grabs, exacerbating the vulnerabilities of those already struggling. In parallel, he notes that this period failed to address ethnic justice, leaving the grievances of non-Bamar communities, including the Rohingya, unaddressed, and further deepening divisions. Grassroots activism emerged as a critical response, driven by frustration with both the military and the NLD's failure to enact real reform; local groups symbolized sustained resistance, organizing actions to reclaim land and assert their rights. Despite the many flaws, the resilience of the people of Myanmar remains evident. As Prasse-Freeman poignantly states: “One of the things that they talk about is that you have to make people be their own heroes! But in order to do so, you have to act like a hero yourself, because people aren't prepared to be their own heroes in front of a military that's constantly exploited them.”

Episode #538: The fifth episode in our five-part series features conversations recorded at the 16th International Burma Studies Conference at Northern Illinois University, where scholars, students, researchers, and practitioners gathered under the theme Dealing with Legacies in Burma. Held in the midst of political upheaval and humanitarian crisis, the conference offered a rare space for open exchange, collective reflection, and connection. Insight Myanmar was welcomed into this setting to record dialogues with a diverse range of attendees, produced in collaboration with NIU's Center for Southeast Asian Studies. With these episodes, we hope to bring listeners into the atmosphere of the gathering and into conversation with the people who continue to shape the field today. Khaing Wai Wai Zaw taught English in Myanmar for eight years, and went to Northern Illinois University for a higher degree in her field. But she also became a research assistant there cataloging artifacts, in particular 228 rare, scared sasi jo ribbons. While having no qualifications in this area, she relied on her Buddhist literacy and background to interpret inscriptions, andensure they have a safe home at the NIU library, at least until her country regains its stability. She also reflects on the political crisis in Myanmar and wrestles with the role monks should play, balancing her own reluctance to criticize with her belief in social responsibility. “I'm a totally different person when I get on stage.” With this feeling, Karen dancer and community leader Hsa Win reflects on how dance preserves his identity. He grew up in a refugee camp in Thailand after his family fled Burma, and later moved to the U.S. Wanting to educate others about his Karen heritage, he began performing traditional dances at community events. Hedescribes competitions, bamboo dances, and the spiritual dances of the thirty-seven nat spirits. Onstage, he feels confident and transformed, adopting the personalities of the spirits he portrays, and American audiences are enthusiastic. He now lives in Ohio, where he teaches dance to Karen youth to help them “embrace their identity” and keep their culture alive. Researcher and artist Ni Ni Win describes how Burmese marionettes have become a powerful link to her identity now that she lives in America. She explains that puppetry developed to portray particularly sacred Jataka Tales that humans were not permitted to depict. Under royal patronage, puppet shows became very popular; the marionettes conveyed religious teachings, history, and even political concerns, since civilians sometimes asked puppeteers to voice criticisms through the puppets. This art form declined when the monarchy was dismantled by the British, and then as other forms of entertainment became increasingly popular. Amy also draws inspiration from pagoda engravings, known as gnot patterns, which are used on traditional Burmese textiles as well. Living abroad has increased her appreciation for these traditions, which help her stay connected to her homeland.

Episode #537: “Refugees are incredibly remarkable. They're working day-in and day-out to provide for their communities, but they're working under a set of assumptions and a set of regulations that prohibited them from working.” Maximillian Mørch, Head of Program Development and Quality Assurance at The Border Consortium, describes how a system built as an emergency response in 1984 has hardened into a four-decade reality along the Thai–Myanmar border. TBC has long provided food, shelter materials, cooking fuel, nutritional support, and technical assistance across nine border camps. Today, more than 100,000 refugees live inside those camps, with tens of thousands more in rural border areas outside the camp system and at least 50,000 in Thailand's cities. The displacement is not temporary, and it has only further deepened again since the 2021 coup. For decades, camp refugees were largely confined. Leaving without authorization risked being treated as an undocumented migrant, and work outside the camps was prohibited. That restriction made food aid the central pillar of survival. Mørch emphasizes that dependence was structural, not moral: refugees sustained their communities through constant labor, but under rules that prevented real economic participation. Over time, the camps evolved from transplanted villages into organized settlements with homes, schools, clinics, markets, religious life, and refugee-led governance. The Karen Refugee Committee and Karenni Refugee Committee oversee services, coordinate with Thai authorities and NGOs, and manage disputes. Yet the system's viability rested on uninterrupted funding—and in 2025 it began to fail. Food and fuel alone exceptionally costly, and funding gaps at one point left camps without food support for weeks, as global humanitarian crises competed for shrinking resources. With return to Myanmar unsafe and resettlement opportunities collapsing—especially after the suspension and termination of a major U.S. process—Thailand's August 2025 resolution granting eligible refugees the right to work marked a historic rupture. The policy reframes survival around income, with research suggesting a week's wages can exceed a month of past food assistance. Labor shortages in Thailand, particularly after reported departures of Cambodian workers, helped push the reform. Eligibility remains limited, rollout is complex, families generally stay in camps, and around 10% of residents will still need direct aid. “Everyone wants to be self-dependent,” he says. “No one wants to be held hostage to the changing fluctuations” of humanitarian funding. Mørch's portrait is of a system forced to reinvent itself—opening a breach in confinement, but not yet a full pathway out.

Episode #536: “I never feel that war is this close to me,” Bencharat Chua, a Thai human rights professor and activist, reflects as she explains how decades of engagement with Myanmar have reshaped her understanding of conflict, democracy, and regional responsibility. Her central argument is that without democracy and a lived culture of human rights in Myanmar, Thailand will continue to experience instability, displacement, and violence spilling across the border. Human rights language, she insists, only matters if it becomes political practice and public will. Her involvement with Myanmar began in 1999, when she worked with the NGO Friends Without Borders and spent two years visiting refugee camps along the Thai–Myanmar border. There, she learned directly from displaced Burmese communities about repression and conflict, while also witnessing widespread hostility toward them within Thai society. She later joined the Institute of Human Rights and Peace Studies at Mahidol University, where she worked with Burmese students and long-time activists, including members of the 1988 generation living in exile. During Myanmar's political transition in the late 2010s, she became deeply involved with universities inside the country. Around 2018–2019, she helped train law lecturers after international human rights law became mandatory in Myanmar's law faculties. Although many lecturers initially struggled, she later saw lasting gains in confidence and political awareness that endured even after the 2021 coup dismantled the formal education system. Bencharat also traces political change through shifting attitudes toward the Rohingya. She recalls earlier denial among democracy supporters, followed by a significant shift, noting that “now everyone acknowledges what happened.” For her, this signaled that Burmese human rights advocates were beginning to extend rights principles beyond nationalist exclusion. She situates these changes within a broader regional context. While Thai state policy toward Myanmar remains cautious, tied to business interests and the “ASEAN way,” she identifies the Thai youth movement as a countercurrent, arguing that prolonged military rule has politicized a generation despite severe repression. After the 2021 Myanmar coup, her work shifted towards supporting parallel education for students resisting the junta, where she continues to confront the gap between human rights ideals and lived violence. These experiences have made war feel immediate and reinforced her belief that change depends on people willing to insist on dignity and rights, even at great cost. “We are ready to fight for democracy, we are ready to fight for human rights!”

Episode #535: “Meditation kind of lost its traditional sense of going really deep to finding Nibbana,” says David Johnson, a longtime practitioner and senior teacher at the Dhamma Sukha Meditation Center, describing what he sees as a drift away from the Buddha's original intention. Johnson has always had an interest in spirituality. He joined his first retreat in his teens, and at nineteen, he left college to follow his teacher, the monastic Sujata, to the Still Point Meditation Center in California. He cooked, cleaned, and lived among young seekers there for years in what he remembers as a “golden era,” when teachers like Joseph Goldstein, Jack Kornfield, and Munindra passed through. After Still Point closed, Johnson entered the emerging world of Silicon Valley. Fast forward a number of years, and he learned that a Bhante Vimalaramsi was trying to find him. He found out that this monastic had been a lay acquaintance long ago at Still Point, and who had since become a monk after extensive training in Asia. Visiting him in Missouri, Johnson encountered a method centered on relaxation, kindness, and direct reliance on the suttas. He eventually left his tech career to join Dhamma Sukha, convinced that this approach preserved what the Buddha actually taught about the mind's capacity for liberation. Meditation at Dhamma Sukha is based in the Brahmaviharas, and taught as a gentle, natural process grounded in relaxation rather than force. The emphasis is on tranquilizing bodily and mental tension, allowing awareness to open easily, and letting the mind move through increasingly calm states without strain, effort, or suppression. Johnson says that neuroscience is validating the higher states that meditators in that tradition can reach. He ends by affirming his confidence in the Buddha's path and the transformation it brings. “There is a way out of suffering!” he affirms, expressing the same hope for others that began his own journey.

Episode #534: Tracy Bawi Hlei Iang, a Chin activist and co-founder of Myanmar Action Group Denmark, reflects on a life shaped by early family separation, forced migration, and political rupture, and argues that sustained, small-scale collective action—especially across ethnic and religious lines—is both possible and essential for Myanmar's future. Tracy grew up in rural Chin State, and when she was about seven, her father fled Myanmar because of his political activities, landing in Denmark, and her mother left soon afterward, unable to remain safely in the country. After being raised by grandparents, she left Chin State at the age of fourteen to reunite with her father. Language was a major obstacle. She taught herself by reading children's books late into the night with a dictionary, eventually becoming fluent in the Danish language. Cultural integration took longer. Entering school as a teenager in a small town left her feeling invisible, until two years at a Christian boarding school allowed her to form friendships, learn Danish norms, and feel a sense of belonging grounded in social trust. Before the 2021 coup, Tracy was not politically active, but the military takeover shocked her into action. She helped organize a public demonstration in downtown Copenhagen that brought together multiple ethnic communities from Myanmar, an experience that galvanized her commitment. This led to the founding of Myanmar Action Group Denmark, a volunteer-run, registered association focused on advocacy and humanitarian support. From the outset, Tracy has insisted that the organization work for all of Myanmar rather than a single ethnic or religious group. Despite persistent divisions, she has observed growing openness, especially among younger people. Activism has transformed her personally, giving her skills, purpose, and solidarity with those still inside the country. It is important, she believes, for diverse diaspora communities to unite in solidarity. In the end, Tracy considers her efforts as quite small in the scheme of things, yet is satisfied with the impact she is able to make. So she closes with a simple message: “Please don't underestimate [the power of small actions].” She stresses that supporting Myanmar does not require grand gestures; it requires persistence, courage, and willingness to act where one is.

Episode #533: “Before COVID-19 and before the Myanmar coup, I thought that ‘memory of war' meant only World War Two inside Myanmar. But after 2021, I realized for local people the condition is like a war now.”Hitoshi Kameyama, a Japanese photographer, first came to Burma in 2005 on a photography tour. Expecting a repressive environment, he was instead struck by the warmth and friendliness of local people. This impression drew him back repeatedly, and he eventually made more than 25 trips before the pandemic, building close ties by photographing villagers and returning later with prints for them.Myanmar's political opening after 2011 allowed greater freedom for photographers and journalists. While Japanese companies began investing, Kameyama focused on documenting memories of the Japanese occupation in World War Two. He was inspired by encounters with elderly villagers who recalled both suffering and small gestures of kindness from Japanese soldiers. In one case, a woman whose brother had been killed by soldiers still preserved a grenade and other wartime objects for decades, hoping they might be returned to Japan. Such stories led to his book Burma Myanmar Memories of War 2019–2024.The pandemic and the 2021 coup forced him to expand the project beyond historical memory. Unable to enter Myanmar, he traveled to India and Thailand, where refugees had fled. He visited Mae Sot clinics, schools, and camps, meeting displaced families and injured resistance fighters. His work began to connect past and present, showing how conflict continues to shape lives.Many of his images highlight this continuity: a child playing with a Japanese helmet, a tiny tank carried into Chin State by soldiers, ceremonies where survivors still gather to honor the dead, and a 2012 community meeting once seen as ordinary but later understood as a fleeting sign of democracy.Kameyama is critical of Japanese businesses that continue to operate in Myanmar, arguing that profits inevitably aid the junta. Reflecting on two decades of engagement, he stresses that personal bonds matter more than politics. As he put it, “It's important to me, this personal relationship with the Myanmar people.”

Episode #532: “Constitutions need power,” says Henning Glaser, a Bangkok-based lawyer working on constitutional politics in Asia. In his second appearance on the podcast, he argues that Myanmar's constitutional problem is less about drafting the perfect text than about whether any text can bind the actors who hold force, and whether there is enough unity to sustain a shared political community. He describes the early post-independence settlement as broken at its origin, saying the promised autonomy that predated the first constitution “was never really done so from the beginning,” leaving what he calls “the original sin of constitutionalism and statehood” that still shapes mistrust. Later military-era constitutions, in his view, often functioned as cover for power rather than restraint, with the 2008 charter operating as “insurance” that preserved military vetoes and control. Glaser insists a viable constitutional state “needs a certain degree of unity,” and that unity cannot be manufactured by constitutional language alone. Federalism and peace-making become inseparable challenges, because the constitutional design question sits on top of armed realities, competing visions of federation versus confederation, and minority-within-minority tensions that do not map neatly onto territory. He also emphasizes “constitutional infrastructure” as a precondition for any genuine rule of law: courts that function, legal education that produces doctrine rather than slogans, a press able to criticize judgments, and citizens able to engage without fear. Courts can guard a constitution only if judges can rule independently and if the broader system accepts rulings without reverting to coercion. Glaser's most pragmatic conclusion is that Myanmar may need a tentative constitution first—a minimal framework that can be implemented while institutions, doctrine, and civic capacity develop—because constitutional ambition that exceeds enforceable power risks repeating the cycle of promises made on paper and withdrawn in practice.

Episode #531: “The laws that govern the monks' organization were written before 1988, during a one-party dictatorship! In the Sangha organization, you cannot have different voices… everything comes from the top-down. If you say anything unorthodox, your writing will be censored.” U Pandita explains the challenges within Myanmar's Saṅgha, where rigid hierarchies and censorship laws stifle independent thought and research. He critiques the authoritarian governance of the monastic order, noting that senior Buddhist monks resist change because they benefit from the status quo. Monks lack autonomy, and dissenting voices face severe consequences, including disrobement or legal action. He contrasts his current freedom in Sri Lanka with the restrictions in place in Myanmar, where his academic work would be censored, and he would be in danger. He highlights how the Saṅgha'sinability to modernize perpetuates problems like corruption, and silence around controversial topics. He also criticizes the Sangha's role in promoting nationalist and anti-Islamic sentiments, driven by the military's claim of “protecting Buddhism,” which he dismisses as a self-serving excuse. U Pandita delves into Buddhist ethics. His academic work challenges the idea of universally fixed precepts, and believes that ethical standards depend on societal and cultural context, using the precept of sexual misconduct as an example. This perspective, he admits, is unconventional and may surprise and even unsettle many traditional and religious Buddhists. Reflecting on Myanmar's identity as both a source of spiritual wisdom and a nation embroiled in conflict, U Pandita attributes its current struggles to historical cycles of power and aggression. He expresses concern over the military's exploitation of Buddhism, which distorts its teachings and erodes public trust in the monastic community. While acknowledging the resilience of Myanmar's Buddhist traditions, he warns of the risks posed by political turmoil and the resulting decline of the public's faith in monks. U Pandita advocates for research as a means to revitalize Buddhism's intellectual tradition and bridge gaps between Myanmar's heritage and global audiences. He believes a progressive, inclusive approach can ensure Buddhism remains relevant and meaningful in contemporary society.

Episode #530: “I don't want to live under fear, obeying [the military]. I could survive, but would be in fear, like every movement I would feel I don't have freedom, and I think I don't want that for myself,” says JC, a Karen illustrator and activist now based in the Netherlands. Raised in Yangon, JC was unaware of Myanmar's civil war due to school propaganda. Only after moving to Thailand to be near her father did she learn the extent of ethnic conflict and oppression. Seeing refugee camps and hearing stories of the Karen struggle left her angry and determined to understand more. JC earned a communications degree in Bangkok and initially envisioned a career in journalism. A political science course taught by a former prisoner, combined with life among marginalized migrant workers, deepened her sense of purpose. She returned to Myanmar during its brief democratic opening, working with a civil society group serving Karen communities. That optimism collapsed with the 2021 coup. Turning to illustration after protest and journalism became too dangerous, JC found a new outlet for storytelling. “By doing illustration, I feel like I'm contributing,” she says. Inspired by editorial art, she developed a minimalist, emotionally expressive style. Her illustrations accompany stories of trauma and displacement, including one of a pregnant woman who lost twins while fleeing war—a piece she says still haunts her. Creating pieces like this take an emotional toll, however, and she often needs to take breaks between pieces to reground herself. JC's art bridges personal and political experience, offering a visual language that speaks across cultures. she says, “Emotions are universal,” and her work often introduces Myanmar's crisis to unfamiliar audiences. Still in legal limbo, she draws to stay connected. “Since I cannot be there physically, it's a way of me to stay contributing,” she says. “I wish [people] don't forget about Myanmar.”

Episode #529: Daniel Dodd is one of the two center teachers at Dhamma Patapa, a Vipassana meditation center in Georgia in the tradition of S.N. Goenka. Alongside his work as a meditation practitioner and teacher, he has built a career in community organizing, nonprofit leadership, and federal service focused on low-income communities. But it has not been an easy journey. Dodd was born in Brazil to a Colombian mother and an American father. The family later moved to the United States, and much of his childhood unfolded in rural Maine after his parents separated. His mother raised three children on a homestead without plumbing, where daily life required endurance and adaptability. His adolescence and early adulthood were marked by confusion and drift: He struggled in school, barely graduating, and began drinking and smoking marijuana, uncertain about his future, an angry and agitated young man. A period teaching English in Bogotá during Colombia's violent drug-war years broadened his outlook but did not resolve deeper internal struggles. After a painful breakup left him feeling unmoored, he took a ten-day Vipassana retreat. The experience proved transformative, and meditation gradually became the organizing center of his life. Rather than turning away from society, the practice deepened his awareness of suffering's personal and social dimensions. That perspective guided his later work organizing low-income communities and eventually serving at the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. For Dodd, meditation does not remove concern about injustice; it changes how that concern is carried. As he reflects near the end of the conversation, “We're all kind of trying to figure these things out and become better people as we're sitting and living our lives.”

Episode #528: Ola Elvestuen has devoted his political career—and much of his life beyond politics—to tackling the most urgent environmental and societal challenges facing the global community. A member of Norway's Liberal Party since 2013, he has served as Minister of Climate and the Environment and held several high-ranking positions in both local and national government. As a young man in the late 1980s, Elvestuen witnessed a world in upheaval: the fall of the Berlin Wall, the ousting of Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines, and Myanmar's 8888 Uprising. The latter left a particular mark on him and many in Norway, embedding the Burmese struggle deep within Norwegian politics and foreign policy. During the democratic opening of the 2010s, Norway emerged as an important player, pairing diplomatic support with investments in critical industries such as hydropower, oil and gas exploration, and telecommunications. Yet Elvestuen points to a defining controversy in 2022, when Telenor—Norway's majority state-owned telecom giant—sold its Burmese operations to entities with close ties to the junta, effectively handing over sensitive user data. The decision drew sharp criticism from activists and rights groups who warned of the dangers for dissidents, journalists, and civil society. When the military launched a coup in 2021, Elvestuen watched with dismay, arguing the international community should have reacted immediately and forcefully. “The demonstrations that were held were incredible,” he says, “but they did not get the support that they should have gotten in the early days!” For Elvestuen, the path forward is clear: only a federal democracy can secure Myanmar's future, and Norway must play a meaningful role in supporting it. He argues that sustainable environmental initiatives should progress alongside the political struggle, pointing to Myanmar's extraordinary biodiversity and the severe climate threats it faces. In closing, Elvestuen reminds listeners that the urgency of Myanmar's situation extends far beyond its borders. “That is what we [Norway and the West] had to do with Ukraine,” he says, “and that is also the position that we should have with the revolution in Myanmar.”

Episode #527: Nay Chi, a senior researcher with the Myanography project, describes Myanmar's post-coup election as an exercise in coercion rather than public choice. Drawing on reports from community researchers across the country, she says most people were not interested in voting and did not believe the process would change anything. What moved them was pressure: warnings tied to conscription, threats at checkpoints, loudspeaker announcements, and the wider fear created by a military already known for violence. As Nay Chi puts it, “people are forced to vote,” a phrase that strips the election of any democratic pretense.That pressure took different forms depending on the place. Displaced families were told that relatives of military age could be taken if they did not vote. Government staff were steered toward military-aligned parties. Travelers were questioned about voter registration. Even where no direct order was given, people understood what refusal might invite. The point was not to persuade them politically, but to make participation feel safer than refusal.The structure of the election reinforced that logic. Candidates had to report campaign movements and materials in detail to military authorities, and even where local ethnic parties won seats, Nay Chi says the most important positions still flowed toward military-backed figures. For many communities, the result was something already assumed in advance. “We cannot even imagine our future,” she says, describing a public that no longer sees voting as a path toward representation.What followed was not relief. Community researchers reported that conscription pressures intensified after the vote. Families kept paying money to try to shield sons from recruitment, often unsuccessfully. Young men hid in forests. Parents rushed children away after exams, fearing military abduction into forced conscription. In that atmosphere, the election quickly faded behind the larger struggle to stay safe, fed, and out of military reach.Nay Chi's argument is blunt. The election did not reconnect people to politics or representation. It extended a system in which procedure is used to mask force, and in which international recognition would only deepen the sense that the suffering imposed on Myanmar's people can be turned into paperwork and accepted as normal.

Episode #526: “I actually was anti-Muslim when I was in high school!” recalls Thet Swe Win, describing how he was influenced by nationalist propaganda in his youth. But his involvement in the 2007 Saffron Revolution began to change him. Marching with barefoot monks, he witnessed Muslims come from a mosque to give them water, medicine, and slippers. “We do not have to hate each other, but we have to unite and fight back the military,” he realized. His mother, fearful for his safety because of his participation in the protests, sent him to Singapore. Immersed in a multiethnic workplace there, he gradually shed lingering prejudices, concluding that there are only good and bad people, not good or bad religions. Returning to Myanmar, he resumed activism after anti-Muslim violence erupted in Rakhine State in 2012 and spread to other towns, stoked by state television propaganda. In response, he and his peers launched the “Blue Sticker Campaign” to counter the extremist 969 movement and its hate speech. Still, he confesses that the anti-Rohingya propaganda he had absorbed throughout his life left him with lingering bias toward that community—until Rohingya activist Wai Wai Nu drew him into her campaigns and encouraged him to learn their history, which ultimately reshaped his perspective. Later on, Thet Swe Win founded Synergy, an organization dedicated to fostering social harmony. One of its well-known initiatives was the White Rose Campaign of 2019, where Buddhists offered roses to Muslims facing harassment. The gesture spread nationwide as a symbol of solidarity. His activism has drawn threats from MaBaTha, harassment by police, and raids on his office. Yet he remains firm in his resolve, and has refused to leave the region. Thet Swe Win insists Myanmar's future requires moral leadership, curiosity, and accountability. “The revolution without the political leadership or the moral leadership will be a chaos,” he warns. For him, real change “begins within, from within.”

Episode #525: Heidy Quah, founder of Refuge for the Refugees in Kuala Lumpur, describes her work supporting migrants and refugees in Malaysia, particularly those fleeing Myanmar. She began volunteering at a refugee learning center at eighteen and was transformed by what she witnessed, particularly seeing children on the verge of losing their only access to education because of funding shortages. From that moment, she committed herself to ensuring refugees could access basic rights such as education, healthcare, and dignified livelihood. Quah's organization now supports dozens of refugee learning centers, shelter homes for trafficked and abused women, and a livelihood initiative which enables refugee women to earn income through craft production. She emphasizes restoring dignity and agency, not charity or pity. Quah recounts harrowing stories of new arrivals—young people fleeing forced conscription, sexual violence, and the killing of family members—who survive perilous overland journeys to reach Malaysia. Many arrive already indebted to smugglers, having borrowed heavily to finance their escape. Despite deep physical and psychological trauma, they often must begin working almost immediately, driven by the urgency of repaying those debts and protecting the families they left behind. A central concern for Quah is the contradiction she observes in Malaysian society: strong public advocacy for Muslim refugees in distant conflicts, such as Gaza, yet hostility toward refugees trying to live locally, like the Rohingya. She notes that Rohingya refugees in particular face racialized prejudice tied to skin color and stereotypes about cleanliness or criminality. For her, the deeper issue is selective empathy—why compassion extends across oceans but falters at the shoreline. Throughout her work, Quah centers storytelling, representation, and hope. She believes lasting change comes when affected communities speak for themselves and when advocacy preserves dignity rather than reinforcing victimhood.

Episode #524: Max Ante's story begins not with a gradual curiosity, but with a sudden rupture. At twenty, after a series of chance encounters, he found himself on a ten-day Vipassana retreat in the Goenka tradition—an experience that would reorder his life almost overnight. The stillness he encountered at the end of that course carried an authority that eclipsed everything that came before. Ambitions, identity, relationships—all of it fell away in the face of something that felt more real, more urgent, more true. What followed was not casual interest, but total commitment. Max structured his life entirely around the practice, meditating daily, sitting increasingly long retreats, and traveling internationally to deepen his experience. Liberation from suffering became his central aim, grounded in what he believed was direct insight into the nature of reality. The framework was complete, self-reinforcing, and supported by a community that validated both his experiences and his interpretations of them. Over time, this commitment extended into every aspect of his life. Relationships, work, and personal decisions were filtered through the logic of the practice. Challenges—whether emotional, psychological, or relational—were met with more meditation, under the assumption that the technique itself was sufficient. But instead of resolving these tensions, many quietly accumulated beneath the surface. Years later, cracks began to appear. Personal loss, unresolved strain, and contradictions within the tradition itself forced Max to reexamine what he had taken as unquestionable. He began to see how the system had shaped not only his experiences, but his interpretation of them—closing off alternative ways of understanding his own life. Looking back, Max holds a complex view. The practice gave him discipline, clarity, and access to profound inner states. But it also narrowed his world, guiding decisions in ways that, in retrospect, limited his autonomy. In his current view, the issue is not the practice itself, but the degree of authority he had given it. He emphasizes that systems become self-reinforcing when they define both the experience and the “correct” interpretation of that experience, leaving little room for critical thinking.

Episode #523: The fourth episode in our five-part series brings you conversations recorded at the 16th International Burma Studies Conference at Northern Illinois University, where scholars, students, researchers, and practitioners convened around the theme Dealing with Legacies in Burma. Held amid ongoing political turmoil and humanitarian crisis, the gathering became a rare space for open dialogue, reflection, and communal care. Insight Myanmar was invited into this environment to record discussions with a wide range of attendees, produced in partnership with NIU's Center for Southeast Asian Studies. Through these episodes, we hope to carry listeners into the atmosphere of the conference and into dialogue with the people who continue to shape the field today. Our first guest is H, who describes returning to Myanmar from the United States in 2019, hoping to contribute during what looked like a period of national progress. But the 2021 coup shattered his hopes. Like many others, H joined the protests, and witnessed severe brutality, including shootings, beatings, and soldiers forcing a man to crawl while stomping his head. Eventually, he was arrested and spent three days in an interrogation camp marked by torture and psychological stress, followed by three months in Insein Prison. There, political prisoners supported each other and exchanged ideas, which deeply shaped him. Released amid international pressure, H lived in fear of rearrest before deciding to leave Myanmar. Now abroad, he continues supporting the movement while coping with survivor's guilt and a strong conviction that the military must be removed for the country to have a future. Next, political scientist Tani Sebro discusses her long-term research on the Tai (Shan) people living along the Thai–Myanmar border. Initially studying migrant returns through standard research methods, she shifted her focus after witnessing a vibrant cultural renaissance in temples in Chiang Mai, where migrants, refugees, and exiles practiced dance, music, and ritual arts. When she joined the dancing herself, relationships with community members changed, allowing her to engage with them through shared joy rather than extractive questioning. Sebro explains that dance provides emotional healing, communal cohesion, and a politically safe way to sustain Tai nationhood when open political organization is dangerous. Because Myanmar restricted Tai language instruction, performing arts became crucial for cultural survival. Sebro closes with her teacher's belief that dance offers a peaceful way for the nation to endure without violence.

Episode #522: “We became interested in understanding how distrust toward official institutions influences the way humanitarian aid actually moves on the ground, and how donors decide where to place their trust in such a complicated environment,” begins Than Htike Zaw, who, along with Pablo Gassilloud, studies humanitarian aid in Myanmar. Drawing on surveys of roughly 78 donors—primarily Burmese nationals—and interviews with civil society organizations, their work examines how political conditions shape aid delivery in constrained environments. Institutional distrust, already longstanding, intensified after the coup and the 2025 earthquake. Military interference, surveillance, checkpoints, and financial restrictions complicate humanitarian response, delaying supplies and limiting the transfer of funds. As Than Htike Zaw explains, “Trust in state institutions has been very low and the humanitarian environment has become extremely complicated.” The authors emphasize that their analysis focuses on how donors perceive these risks rather than proving direct manipulation of aid flows. In this context, donors face a tradeoff. Large organizations offer formal accountability but are often slower and more vulnerable to obstruction due to reporting and coordination requirements. Gassilloud notes that this does not mean they are untrustworthy, but that they are perceived as less effective for rapid response. Smaller, community-based organizations act more quickly and reach affected populations, though with less formal oversight. As a result, donors prioritize speed, proximity, and confidence in delivery. Than Htike Zaw explains that trust is shaped by social connection and shared understanding of the crisis. Smaller organizations rely on informal verification—updates, direct communication, and gradual release of resources—while maintaining a minimal baseline of transparency. Trust develops incrementally through repeated interaction and cross-checking among actors. These decentralized networks, however, are difficult to scale and coordinate across large areas. This network of smaller, more flexible organizations is rooted in Myanmar's social world, and a result of decades of having to navigate the country's authoritarian rule and oppression of marginalized communities. As Gassilloud emphasizes in closing, “There's nothing more precious than the ability of humans to be able to pull each other up,” capturing both the necessity and the resilience that define humanitarian action in this context.

Episode #521: “The weapon itself just cannot tell the difference between a soldier stepping on it, or a kid on the way to school, or your grandma on her way to the place of worship.” For Erin Hunt, Executive Director of Mines Action Canada (MAC), the harms inflicted on civilians by anti-personnel landmine have motivated her organization's humanitarian work for three decades. MAC was founded in the 1990s “to end the suffering caused by indiscriminate and inhumane weapons such as landmines, cluster munitions, autonomous weapons, explosive weapons in populated areas and nuclear weapons.” In 1997, the Ottawa Treaty, or Mine Ban Treaty, was ratified, with the campaign behind it winning the Nobel Peace Prize the same year. It has since become a model of humanitarian disarmament. That model today faces serious challenges, including its relevance to Myanmar, which has recorded the world's worst casualties from landmines and unexploded ordnance for two years in a row, according to the Landmine Monitor. In a recent interview as part of Insight Myanmar's Navigating a Minefield series, Hunt described how international policy spaces often overlook “the people who have lived with these weapons who are the experts.” Their expertise, she explains, comes from lived experience—mitigating risk as part of everyday life—rather than from formal qualifications or academic training. This perspective has informed MAC's work, particularly in elevating young people and women as leaders in mine action and disarmament. While men and boys are statistically more likely to be landmine casualties, women and girls are disproportionately affected in less visible ways. Gender-based violence and trafficking risks are heightened in conflict and communities under attack. In families that suffer a death or injury, “increased caregiving responsibilities are going to fall on the women and girls”, Hunt says, forcing women and girls to take on additional work or withdraw from school, reinforcing cycles and intersectionality of inequality. As emerging technologies are being adopted to the battlefield in Myanmar, most notably drones in recent years, Hunt points to broader challenges shaping modern conflict including the use of AI and autonomous systems and nuclear command structures. “The big issue is the lack of accountability and the potential for mistakes with no one held accountable,” she says.

Episode #520: “Ancestors are not dead. They're not the living dead. Rather, they should be best thought of as ‘the always living.'” Dr Micah Morton, a cultural anthropologist and professor at Northern Illinois University, describes Akha life across the Upper Mekong borderlands as a struggle to keep that relationship intact while everything around it shifts—states hardening borders, religions competing for allegiance, and markets remaking livelihoods. Morton traces an origin narrative tied to Jadae Mirkhanq, a remembered homeland city-state whose meanings have changed as Akha have become citizens of five countries. The past, he argues, is not a single inheritance but a set of stories shaped by migration, hierarchy, and dissent, including legends of Mongol pressure and internal conflict around a powerful king whose era is credited with laying down the “Akha way.” At the center of Morton's account is Akha customary law, rendered as ghanr, an encompassing system that governs life and death through obligations to ancestors and the maintenance of “vital life giving energy.” Genealogies, ritual offerings, and village gates are not symbolic leftovers but mechanisms that produce health, prosperity, and moral order. Yet modern schooling and language shift change how this knowledge is carried, pushing remembrance from oral mastery toward written records. Morton follows these pressures into a cross-border effort to standardize an Akha writing system, one that was attempted to be designed “by and for Akha,” and into the fractures created when writing becomes a tool for competing missions—Christian evangelism on one side, and neo-traditionalist reform on the other. He frames Christian conversion not as a private belief swap but, in traditionalist terms, an “entirely new set of customary laws,” with the village gate becoming the emblem of rupture, exile, and later reconfiguration. Coffee then arrives as both bridge and threat. In Lawcavq Pu (Doi Chang), wealth from global coffee markets has funded new forms of status and debt, while also underwriting intensified funerals and gatherings aimed at reforming ancestral practice so it can survive beyond the village gates. In the end, Morton does not frame the Akha as trapped between tradition and modernity. He instead regards them as managing competing jurisdictions—ancestral law, church discipline, state regulation, market dependency—none of which can fully absorb the others, and none of which can simply be ignored. “It's an ongoing cultural system of customary law that Akha have, over time, adapted to their particular circumstances.”

Episode #519: Friedgard Lottermoser, a German student of Sayagyi U Ba Khin, describes the unique character of meditation at the International Meditation Center (IMC) in Rangoon between 1959 and 1971. Unlike the large,standardized courses later developed by S. N. Goenka, U Ba Khin taught only one ten-day course a month to small groups. Each student received individualized instruction based on temperament and background. “He went by feeling,” Friedgard recalls, noting that he could sense a student's meditative progress even from afar. She contrasts U Ba Khin's flexibility and adaptability with Goenka's standardized system of recorded discourses and fixed schedules centered on a single technique. When political restrictions prevented U Ba Khin from traveling abroad after Ne Win's 1962 coup, he could not realize his own dream of teaching dhamma outside Burma. So he trained several non-Burmese teachers to undertake this mission, as well as Goenka, who as an Indian businessman was able to obtain a passport. In particular, Goenka's organizational talent and charisma transformed meditation into a vast global network. Yet Friedgard stresses that U Ba Khin never intended his teaching to be wholly standardized; he expected these teaching disciples to adapt the practice to their own cultures. In explaining the technique, Friedgard cites a pamphlet, The Essentials of Buddha Dharma in Meditative Practice, written by U Ba Khin where he outlines ten stages of vipassanā insight. These range from theoretical understanding (samasana) to deep dissolution (bhaṅga) and ultimately to detachment and realization. Unlike Goenka, he placed less emphasis on equanimity and more on “continuity of awareness—anicca with feeling.” Friedgard also goes into great detail about her friendship with Ruth Denison, an U Ba Khin disciple who adapted vipassanā for Western students through movement and mindful walking. Though Denison and her teaching approach was controversial in the conservative, Burmese Buddhist community at IMC, Friedgard believes U Ba Khin would have understood such adaptations. His genius, she says, lay not only in teaching meditation but in trusting that each culture must find its own expression of the Dhamma.

Episode #518: The story of the KMT irregulars in Burma is a historical anomaly tied to the Chinese Civil War, the Cold War, and Burma's early independence. Following their defeat, remnants of the Nationalist Army under General Li Mi crossed into Burma's Shan States. Claiming to continue the anti-communist struggle, they later turned to the opium trade as a means of survival. This trade, expanded under the KMT's control, expanded exponentially, transforming the region into the Golden Triangle—an epicenter of the global drug trade. The KMT's activities also destabilized Burma and strained Prime Minister U Nu's administration, leading to tensions with British and American stakeholders. Meanwhile, the CIA engaged in a covert mission tofund and arm the KMT, further complicating the geopolitical landscape. Meanwhile, the KMT's exploitative practices alienated local ethnic groups, such as the Karen and Mon, deepening mistrust and fragmenting resistance. By 1953, international pressure forced U Nu to address the KMT's presence at the United Nations. This led to evacuations supported by the CIA, though the process was incomplete and fraught with challenges. Many KMT forces remained, leaving an enduring legacy. The Golden Triangle's drug trade flourished, ultimately reaching American inner cities; while regional instability persisted and the Tatmadaw grew in power, setting the stage for military rule in Burma. “By the mid to late 1950s, only about seven or eight thousand had gone [back to Taiwan], which was satisfactory for the government,” Baron says, noting the lasting footprint of the KMT's presence in Burma, and highlighting the incomplete resolutions and ongoing legacies of this historical chapter. “But there was simply in the region, loads that just stayed, loads that never left, and you see their relatives or their descendants still there now.”

Episode #517: “They are using each other for their own benefit.” With this line, Wai Yan Phyo Naing frames a sober account of SinoMyanmar relations. A researcher and lecturer in international relations and modern history who studied in Moscow and later worked with migrants in Thailand, Wai Yan Phyo Naing brings both scholarship and field experience to the conversation. For Wai Yan Phyo Naing, the relationship is transactional. “China is only interested in its national interests,” he says. “China is ready to communicate with whoever becomes powerful in Myanmar.” Myanmar engages because it must, yet, as Wai Yan Phyo Naing insists, “Myanmar is a sovereign, independent state—not a province of China.” Geography drives the rest: China seeks an outlet to the Indian Ocean, and Myanmar's coast provides it. The pipelines from Kyaukphyu to Yunnan are operating; the rail vision remains contested—proof, Wai Yan Phyo Naing says, that consent and fair terms decide outcomes. Security realities push cooperation, as Wai Yan Phyo Naing notes that China brokered talks with MNDAA, TNLA, and AA, even “opened the observer office in Lashio,” and, as the generals realized the limits of unilateral force, they came to “appreciate the Chinese intervention.” The darker side of crossborder interdependence is the scam economy, which Wai Yan Phyo Naing calls “like a cancer.” Strategically, Wai Yan Phyo Naing recounts how Beijing once “wanted to create the tunnel… to the Ayeyarwady River and then to the sea.” That was rejected, but “the port project, gas and oil pipeline” are now real, and China is “ready to continue their highspeed railroad from Yunnan.” The moral is unchanged: both states pursue advantage, and Myanmar must bargain hard. Wai Yan Phyo Naing cautions against extremes. “Whoever holds power in Myanmar cannot forget China's presence,” he says. “Please don't forget we are just beside China… we shouldn't see China as a ‘bad guy' all the time.”

Episode #516: “I want to be able to center women in their full right and to shine a spotlight on how I think they are very much the heroes of the revolution,” says Jenny Hedström, a researcher whose book, Reproducing Revolution, examines women's labor in the Kachin struggle. Joined by Stella Naw, a Kachin activist and scholar, they argue that the conflict cannot be reduced to a simple story of aggressor and victim. Instead, it must be understood through the everyday labor that sustains communities across generations of war. Jenny's engagement with Kachin women began in the early 2000s while working with the Kachin Women's Association Thailand. She found that English-language scholarship centered male fighters and formal politics, while the women she spoke with talked about displacement, rebuilding, and survival. When she began her PhD in 2015, she initially focused on female soldiers, assuming armed actors were the proper lens for studying war. But spending time in Kachin towns, army brigades, and displacement camps shifted her perspective: she realized that labor that was not militarily or publicly celebrated proved equally essential to revolutionary endurance. Together, they argue that Kachin womens' roles in farming, teaching, organizing, and caregiving within Kachin Independence Organization–controlled areas constitute real governance, and not merely domestic support. Stella reframes gender as relational, noting that rigid expectations of masculinity have harmed men as well. “When they can no longer perform the values that define them as Kachin men… they take their own life!” They extend this critique to the international arena, contending that legitimacy is too narrowly defined through sovereignty and armed control. The sustaining labor that makes resistance governance possible remains politically undervalued, and Jenny and Stella want conflict analysis and policy engagement to more explicitly account for this foundational layer of local governance. They stress that the governance sustained by women is politically indispensable, so it should be studied, supported—and valued—accordingly In the end, their commitment remains unequivocal: “We'd rather live and fight for freedom than to submit,” says Stella. “People are willing to die, so they will continue fighting. It's not going to end, but we can end it soon by supporting these resistance actors, who made up for pluralistic states, and support civil society groups who can hold EAOs and EROs accountable.”

Episode #515: Toru Kubota is a Japanese documentary filmmaker who believes storytelling can foster empathy beyond abstract argument. A political science student at Keio University who developed an interest in refugee issues, in 2014 he joined a student project interviewing Rohingya refugees in Japan. Using a camera for the first time, he helped produce a short documentary about their lives. In 2016, Kubota traveled to Sittwe in Rakhine State and entered camps housing Rohingya displaced after the 2012 violence. Though officially designated as internally displaced persons camps, he saw them as places of confinement, where communities were segregated and deprived of adequate services. Filming an accidental fire inside one camp became a turning point; editing the footage later convinced him of film's power to convey lived experience. Following both the military's 2017 campaign against the Rohingya and the 2021 coup, Kubota returned each time to Myanmar to document events unfolding there. While filming a protest in 2022,soldiers arrested him at gunpoint and used staged photographs as evidence of his participation. He was charged with incitement and immigration violations and sentenced to ten years in prison. Fortunately, diplomatic pressure was able to secure his release after 111 days in detention at the notorious Insein Prison, where he had endured solitary confinement and struggled with despair. Since then, Kubota has supported exiled Myanmar journalists in a variety of different ways. His film “Borderline Resistors” follows exile media collectives along the Thai–Myanmar border. Reflecting on his imprisonment and the fragility of civil liberties, he recalls something an activist once told him: “Freedom is like air. You never appreciate it when you can breathe freely. But you finally realize how important is when you get drowned in water.”

Episode #514: Richmond Heath, an Australian physiotherapist, longtime vipassana meditator and senior trainer in tension and Trauma Releasing Exercises (TRE) discusses the involuntary movements that arise for some people in meditation. He argues they are not signs of dysfunction, but rather expressions of underlying bodily processes. It's how a person relates to them that matters most. In his late twenties, Heath developed chronic pain that resisted conventional treatment and forced him to abandon the physical activity that had once grounded him. Turning to vipassana meditation in the tradition of S.N. Goenka, he encountered intense discomfort but discovered that pain was partly a reaction layered onto sensation. By observing it rather than resisting it, its character changed, opening a new way of relating to the body. As his practice deepened, spontaneous movements began to arise. These ranged from subtle shifts to complex, fluid postures that felt unexpectedly free rather than painful. Because he was not consciously producing them, he experienced them as something happening through the body rather than something he was doing. Yet neither medical nor meditative frameworks could account for it. His vipassana teachers discouraged the movements, and eventually he was asked to leave a retreat; medicine, in turn, tended to framed them as manifestations of pathology. Despite this, he trusted his experience and continued observing. He later described these as “neurogenic movements” and came to understand them as part of a broader rhythm of activation and release. While initially interpreting them as trauma discharge, he expanded this view, noting similar patterns in early development, cultural practices, and states of heightened energy. This led him to conclude that no single framework fully explains the phenomenon. Encounters with Aboriginal elder Jack Beatson and later TRE provided validation and context. TRE, which deliberately elicits similar movements, confirmed that such responses can be accessed intentionally, but also reinforced that they function best when not controlled. Heath emphasizes discernment: the same process can regulate or destabilize depending on how it feels. His guiding question—“are you okay, and is it working for you?”—extends beyond meditation to everyday experiences, reframing reactions like panic as part of the body's attempts to adjust. Even in extreme conditions, such as conflict zones, these processes may offer limited but meaningful relief. Ultimately, Heath maintains an openness to interpretation, grounded in a simple principle that the Aboriginal elder told him: “Enjoy the ride!”

Episode #513: Georgi Engelbrecht of the International Crisis Group links two stories that matter for Myanmar: the Mindanao peace process and Russia's ties to authoritarian partners in Southeast Asia.He begins in the Philippines with what he calls the conflict's “master cleavage” — Muslim communities inside a state seeking self-determination against what they see as colonial intrusion. That grievance was reinforced by migration, exclusion, and underdevelopment until it hardened into decades of separatist war. But the macro narrative never explained everything. Alongside it ran “horizontal violence”: clan feuds, communal disputes, and local power struggles that don't disappear just because a deal is signed.For Engelbrecht, the 2012 and 2014 agreements with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front were a turning point, not an ending. The MILF largely abandoned fighting, the Bangsamoro autonomy project became real, and governing structures took shape after the autonomous region was established in 2019. Yet the region remains “in flux,” with delays, elite rivalries, contested legitimacy, and violence that has shifted rather than vanished.From Mindanao he pivots to Myanmar and what major powers mean by “stability.” Russia's push into Asia, he argues, accelerated with its rupture from the West, as Moscow sought partners and arenas beyond Western leverage. In Myanmar, that lens favors the junta: Russia tends to read rebellion as instability and the central state as the default counterweight. With pipelines for hardware, parts, training, and contact, “Myanmar, because of Russia's help, is not that isolated anymore,” and perceptions of durability become a force multiplier.His wager is blunt: “Russia is banking on victory of the regime.” China, by contrast, cannot afford distance and hedges across actors because Myanmar's disorder sits on its border. As Engelbrecht puts it, “Chechnya [for Russia] is probably what Myanmar is for China.” For Moscow, this becomes part of a broader pattern—how Russia shows it can keep partners standing, stay relevant beyond Western systems, and act as a patron for regimes the West is trying to isolate. For Myanmar, that means the relationship isn't a blueprint for victory—but it can function as scaffolding: not determining the war's shape, but bracing the regime's ability to persist.

Episode #512: “The overall consequences are so bad that I myself urged the Norwegian government to stop some of this.” Hanne Sophie Greve, a Norwegian judge and long-time human rights jurist, argues that Telenor's conduct in Myanmar created foreseeable and preventable pathways to severe human rights harm, but existing legal systems struggle to respond proportionately. She frames the case as both a corporate failure and a test of how Norway—a state that portrays itself as committed to democracy and human rights—handles the risks created when a majority state-owned company operates in a fragile political environment. Greve reconstructs Telenor's entry into Myanmar during a period of political opening, when optimism about liberalization was widespread. She notes that Telenor had a strong reputation for transparency and human-rights due diligence, which she describes as a tool designed to identify high-risk contexts. Precisely because of that due diligence, Greve identifies the company's first major failure: Myanmar's telecommunications sector was structurally high-risk even during the democratic transition, because the legal system lacked safeguards, and Telenor knew this. She argues that the company should have insisted on legal protections and planned for an emergency exit. When political conditions deteriorated and sanctions reinforced those risks, Telenor still failed to act on what it knew. The second failure was Telenor's handling of real-time interception equipment. Although lawful when imported, Telenor kept it in Myanmar after sanctions were imposed and was later operationalized by the military. She emphasizes that leaving such capacity behind in a country sliding toward authoritarian violence is not a neutral act. She also strongly criticizes Telenor's exit and sale of its Myanmar operation to a military-linked entity, arguing that sensitive data should have been deleted rather than left accessible. Greve describes the situation in present-day Myanmar as a constant conflict in which surveillance enables arrests, repression, and lethal violence. While she says Telenor's criminal liability under Norwegian law remains legally uncertain, she argues that if responsibility is established it would attach to the company itself, not individual employees. She concludes by treating the case as a warning about how control over communications infrastructure directly affects whether a society can function at all, and she expresses hope that Norway can support a peaceful transition for Myanmar's people. “I would love to see my own country in Norway participating in bringing about that peaceful transition for the benefit of the people of Myanmar.”

In this bonus episode, Better Burma's monastic donation manager, Mora, shares what he has been seeing on the ground in Myanmar after years of conflict and displacement, now compounded by the March 28, 2025 earthquake. He explains why so much of Better Burma's work runs through monasteries and nunneries, as these communities have become frontline sanctuaries for children, providing shelter, food, schooling, and basic healthcare for thousands who have nowhere else to go. Mora describes what it takes to deliver aid under current conditions, the scale of damage and urgent rebuild needs across sites in Sagaing, Mandalay, and surrounding areas, and what Better Burma has been doing since the quake, from constructing temporary and permanent housing to repairing collapsed walls and roofs and helping communities relocate out of unsafe structures. He highlights one orphanage nunnery caring for more than 90 children, including infants, now living in unsafe bamboo shelters after their building was destroyed, and he explains how economic hardship has crushed local giving, forcing some nunneries to travel long distances just to gather rice to send back to the children. He closes by underscoring how vast the remaining needs are, from classrooms and teaching halls to restored water access and basic monastic requisites lost in the debris, and invites listeners who want to support this work to donate at betterburma.org/donation.

Episode #511: Like many young Kiwis, Jarrod Newell wanted to see the world. Taking advantage of the special working holiday visas available in the United Kingdom, he traveled to London,where he participated in the city's wild, partying lifestyle. After saving some money, he would pick up and find some new place to visit, ultimately making his way across cities and even continents. While attending hippy festival in Greece, he met a girl who had just completed a ten-day vipassana retreat in the tradition of S.N. Goenka, and told him of an upcoming course in Crete, and Jarrod went there straight away. The course experience was brutal, but had a deep impact on him. After ten years, he finally returned home, and now a committed meditator, sat and served regularly at the local vipassana center. When Jarrod heard that Goenka would be leading a pilgrimage through Burma, he knew he had to go. As soon as he stepped off the plane in the Golden Land, he realized he was somewhere special. He was especially moved by his sitting in in a cave at Shwe Taung Oo in Monywa, where Ledi Sayadaw used to reside nearly a century ago. It was there that the idea of ordaining as a monk came to him, and Goenka eventually gave him his blessing to take robes. Now a monastic, he returned to Shwe Taung Oo Pagoda, where he decided to sit six, 10-day self-courses in the style of Goenka retreats, with just one day between each. As a monk, Jarrod was greeted with open arms and an open heart by nearly every Burmese person outside the military that he came in contact with, and on more than one occasion was invited to remain in whatever area he was in for life, with promises that all his needs would be looked after. However, in the end, he decided to disrobe, and returned to New Zealand via India, where he sat a 60-day course. When he was 32, Jarrod enrolled in medical school, and met his future wife with whom he had three daughters. He has a medical practice, and has opened a business. “I'm just very much a householder,” he notes. But the memories from his time in the Golden Land are never very far away for Jarrod, and the lessons from those years are precious.

Episode #510: “I'm not an activist,” says Bart Was Not Here, a Burmese artist whose politically oriented work reflects a life shaped by dictatorship and displacement. He argues that art creates a space where memory, humor, fear, and imagination can coexist, allowing both artist and viewer to navigate political realities in ways that ordinary language cannot. Bart sees current global politics as part of a wider shift toward more extreme forms of power. Myanmar's experience, he explains, no longer feels unique but echoes developments now taking place elsewhere. This awareness shapes both his personal outlook and his artistic practice. As an individual he worries about the state of the world, yet as an artist he values the act of creation as a protected interior space from which to observe, reflect, and transform experience into form. Satire plays a central role in his work, as Bart argues that humor can deflate authoritarian power by exposing its absurdity; a practice that Burmese have long been trained in doing. In a society familiar with repression, he notes how humor becomes a subtle form of resistance. For Bart, absurdity reveals how power, while often appearing grand, can be exposed as brittle and theatrical. These ideas shape his recent exhibition, Threshold. The project emerged after he moved to the United States and received an immigration identification number for non-citizens. The label struck him as a strange science-fiction scenario—a “Third World alien” entering the first world. From this experience he developed the idea of a threshold: a suspended, liminal space between departure and arrival where identities shift and renegotiate themselves. It is an interconnected world rather than a series of isolated paintings, and populated by both mythic characters and archetypes from his own internal landscape. Through his layered environments, Bart explores systems of control, waiting, and escape. Ultimately, however, he insists that art should remain playful and exploratory. As he puts it, “Nothing is really that deep… it's all spectacle and entertainment.”

Episode #509: “I don't have hope. But I think that this is something that I should accept. It is reality.” Chalida Tajaroensuk, a longtime advocate of democratic reform and human rights across the Southeast Asian region, argues that human rights work collapses when it is built on prediction rather than conditions. Her account begins in a provincial Buddhist temple where community care wasn't an abstract virtue but daily labor among the elderly, the poor, and those without family. From there, she traces a path through Thai student activism, the violence of the 1970s and 1990s, and a period in the jungle alongside the Communist Party, followed by disillusionment with ideologies that promise total change while leaders chased private benefit. Against grand theories, Chalida advocates a method that stays stubbornly small and specific—bailing people out of detention, negotiating with authorities, finding schools for Myanmar children who can't study in Thai, persuading landlords to accept refugees who must report regularly, building neighborhood trust so displaced people can survive with dignity. “Do a small thing, and then when you have success, you feel success with the small.” Chalida extends that realism to refugee policy, arguing that reforms can still fail in implementation through language barriers, exploitation, and the hollowing out of camp life when key workers are forced to leave. On Thai public life, she is blunt about worsening conditions and the shortage of leaders she trusts, although what remains is obligation and repetition—ground-level fact-finding, people-to-people exchange, and the insistence that action continues even without a promised ending. Asked why she keeps going, Chalida returns to responsibility, not optimism. “I think that this is my duty.” She does not promise outcomes. She does not offer closure. She insists only on the smallest honest pledge: “Today we do today's best.”

Episode #508: Damian Lilly, a veteran humanitarian and human-rights specialist, who has worked in conflict zones across the world, believes assistance must be joined with protection and accountability. “We can't just be there to assist people—we also need to be there to protect them.” He formed this conviction through his work with Médecins Sans Frontières, documenting sexual violence in places such as Afghanistan, South Sudan, and the Congo and turning testimony into pressure on governments. Working with the UN, he returned to South Sudan later as Senior Advisor on the Protection of Civilians. The civil war there drove more than 250,000 people into UN compounds, and although his work helped shelter so many people, he looks upon it as a failure because in the end, there was no justice or redress. Protection without justice, he says, “really loses sight of what we're trying to do.” Later on, he was posted in Gaza in his role as UN Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees: during that time, there were three Israeli military incursions into the territory between 2008 and 2014, with no real repercussions, which only reinforced to Lilly how impunity fuels repeated wars. Accountability, he says, fails not for lack of law but ofpolitical will. When his wife, also a UN employee, received a posting to Myanmar, Lilly and his family moved to Yangon. This was shortly before the coup. He reports watching the tanks roll down the streets. In response, Lilly co-founded the Myanmar Accountability Project (MAP) to pursue prosecutions abroad through what is called “universal jurisdiction,” where crimes against humanity in one country can be prosecuted in another country's national courts. MAP is seeking cases in countries like Indonesia, the Philippines, and Turkey. Lilly critiques the International Criminal Court and UN Security Council for their paralysis, timidity in engaging the junta, and reluctance to recognize the NUG as the people's legitimate representative. While the UN employs the claim of neutrality to justify continued relations with the junta, Lilly argues that true neutrality means fidelity to humanitarian principles, not moral equivalence. Despite bureaucratic inertia and shrinking aid budgets, Lilly insists that localization, persistence, and creative legal action can still advance justice. “It is a complex area,” he says, “but an important part of how we address many of these situations.”

Episode #507: “It's a process of learning and unlearning, and understanding that knowledge exists in many places and is everywhere, not just in the academy,” says Davina Quinlivan, an Anglo-Burmese writer and research fellow in English and Creative Writing, of her second memoir, Possessions. Her first book, Shalimar, reconstructed her father's wartime childhood in colonial Burma through historical inquiry, while Possessions turns toward embodiment and the present, exploring how inheritance lives in memory, belief, and the body. Quinlivan recounts her parents' Anglo-Burmese backgrounds: born before World War II, they knew each other in Burma before their families emigrated to England in the mid-1950s amid post-independence uncertainty. After marrying other partners, they reconnected decades later and married. Raised in West London in the 1980s, Quinlivan grew up with an inherited Burma shaped by atmosphere and narrative. Though she never experienced what her parents described, their stories formed her imaginative interior. Knowledge in her childhood home was transmitted not through books or institutions but through language, food, fragments of memory, and silence. As the first in her family to attend university, she immersed herself in film and French feminist philosophy, later completing a doctorate and building a long academic career. Yet she began to question the hierarchy that privileges institutional knowledge over embodied and inherited forms. Living in rural Devon with her husband and children, she found English folklore—oak trees, medieval churches, Green Man carvings—entering into dialogue with Burmese cosmology. When her youngest son suffered recurring febrile seizures, she rendered the experience through mythic frameworks, imagining ancestors as active presences. Rather than resolve identity into a single narrative, Possessions holds together multiple landscapes, histories, and ways of knowing within one life.

Episode #506: “I think the toll of doing dedicated work even as we grow older is so small compared to that of so many brave Myanmar activists. I can support the cause, but I can also choose not to confront myself with the full reality of what's going on in the ground. That's a choice that Myanmar people by and large don't have! That's how I carry on doing the work I do,” says Patrick Hoffmann, reflecting on the personal and historical drivers behind his commitment to Myanmar's democracy movement. Patrick's personal background indicates how individual narratives can ignite a lifetime commitment to global justice, advocating for freedom even from afar. His Jewish family heritage, marked by his father's childhood under Nazi Germany during World War II in Berlin, imbued him with a deep understanding of trauma and the devastating impact of atrocity; combined with the sense that one must never take democracy for granted, and it is always something worth fighting to preserve. This personal history, as both a German and a Jew, fuels his belief that “we, more than any other people, should stand for preventing genocide anywhere,” a conviction that propels his advocacy. Interacting with Myanmar students and activists in Yangon in 2012, he learned early the nuances in democratic models, particularly in the Asian context. After the 2021 coup, Patrick joined German Solidarity Myanmar, moving from conventional humanitarian aid work to more deeply active political lobbying. He advocates for a nuanced approach for Germany to show solidarity with Myanmar's cause, such as not only condemning the regime but also supporting non-state actors. Through his work, he has realized the power of inclusive narrative building, as well as how art can tell “a much more approachable and human portrayal of people fighting for democracy on the ground.” Despite the immense challenges, Patrick remains inspired by the movement's resilience. “This movement feels so close,” he says. “It's on the verge of success. We cannot give up now.”

Episode #505: In February, Timor-Leste opened judicial proceedings against Myanmar's military regime, marking the first time one ASEAN member has initiated legal action against another. Supporting the case, the Chin Human Rights Organization (CHRO) submitted evidence documenting serious international crimes, including the rape of a pregnant woman, the massacre of ten civilians, an airstrike on a hospital, the killing of Christian religious leaders, and repeated attacks on churches.CHRO Executive Director Salai Za Uk Ling joins the podcast, and argues that because Myanmar's legal system offers little protection for minority groups, international mechanisms have become essential. “Because no domestic laws really protect minority groups inside Myanmar, utilizing internationally accepted human rights standards and instruments becomes our only means by which we can promote awareness and try to address the human rights issues of people across Myanmar.”mv8r3g5fInternational legal action can serve several purposes, he explains. While pursuing long-term justice through legal processes, it also raises global awareness, increases political pressure on the regime, and may help deter future crimes. For people inside Myanmar, these efforts also carry symbolic weight. “We're talking about ordinary people all across Myanmar. Everyone is in one way or another, directly or indirectly, affected by the regime's actions,” Za Uk says. Even small recognition of their suffering can provide a sense that the world has not forgotten them.In Chin State, landmines are one element of a broader pattern of violence. Za Uk describes them as part of a systematic campaign to undermine communities in areas where resistance forces have driven out the military.“Landmines are just a piece of the larger puzzle of the regime trying to destroy lives that could be otherwise thriving in places that have been liberated,” he says. Used alongside indiscriminate airstrikes and other attacks on civilians, such tactics amount to war crimes and crimes against humanity.More than half of Chin State's population has been displaced since the 2021 coup. As families struggle to survive amid constant air attacks and hidden landmines, Za Uk warns the threat could become a long-term crisis. “A landmine is like a soldier that never sleeps,” he says. “And unfortunately, the target has been civilians.”

Episode #504: Michael Sladnick, an American activist who has lived and worked near the Thai–Myanmar border since the 2021 military coup, joins the podcast a second time to argue that the most consequential story of Myanmar's revolution is not elite political maneuvering but the everyday construction of democratic practice by ordinary people under extreme pressure. He presents the movement as one in which civic life, political education, and multi-ethnic solidarity continue to develop despite war, repression, and material deprivation. Embedded in a resistance community along the border, his sustained relationships with activists, fighters and displaced families from central Myanmar have taught him that outsiders often misunderstand the social base of the resistance. He says political participation in these communities reflects ethical reasoning and conscious choice, not ignorance or simple reaction to hardship. He describes a society where young villagers debate democracy, minority rights, women's rights, and LGBT rights while remaining rooted in rural life, and he sees a hopeful trend in the growth of political consciousness within the resistance that encompasses the inclusion of ethnic minority rights as an essential component of a democratic future. Sladnick portrays the conflict as a long struggle defined by endurance rather than imminent victory or defeat. He notes that exhaustion is real, but surrender is not seen as a viable option. Instead, the people are building grassroots democratic and civic institutions, and trying to keep them alive so that when openings appear, they will still be capable of coordinated action. Indeed, to Sladnick, the movement's weakest point is the missing bridge between those voices and the outside world: the lack of recognition, platforms, and material support that would help grassroots groups coordinate, survive, and be heard beyond Myanmar's borders. He does not romanticize conditions—he emphasizes shortages, fear, and constant danger—but he returns to the idea that democratic capacity is being formed “on the ground,” right now, through lived participation, and that the international audience must come to recognize and act on this fact.

Episode #503: Alicia Turner shows that Burmese Buddhists were not passive subjects of British colonialism, but active agents who reimagined Buddhist responsibility, authority, and identity through the concept of the sāsana, the Buddha's dispensation. Rather than treating colonialism as a simple rupture imposed from outside, her work reveals how Buddhists in Burma drew on their own religious frameworks to interpret crisis, decline, and moral obligation. In doing so, Turner challenges scholarly approaches that privilege nationalism, modernity, or so-called “Protestant Buddhism,” arguing that these lenses often miss how Burmese Buddhists understood and defended their tradition from within. Turner situates these developments within a much longer-standing anxiety about the decline and possible disappearance of the sāsana. This concern had always existed, but under British colonial rule it became urgent. The collapse of the monarchy brought with it the loss of royal patronage for elite monastics, creating a moral and religious vacuum. Lay Buddhists increasingly stepped into this space, taking on responsibility for preserving Buddhism through moral discipline, public accountability, and collective reform. Figures such as Ledi Sayadaw were central to this shift, expanding access to Abhidhamma study and enabling women and non-elites to participate directly in safeguarding the sāsana. Turner illustrates these tensions through the colonial “shoe controversy,” when British officials refused to remove their shoes in Buddhist sacred spaces. What colonial authorities framed as a matter of personal custom or symbolic respect was, for Burmese Buddhists, a serious desecration of sacred space and a denial of Buddhist moral authority. For Turner, the episode reveals a deeper clash over how religion itself was understood: whether ritual and embodied discipline were morally efficacious, or merely optional expressions of inward belief. The controversy shows how questions of religious authority, practice, and sovereignty were negotiated—and contested—under colonial rule. Finally, Turner traces how this moral project later fed into the post-Independence turn toward meditation. Promoted nationally under Burma's first prime minister, U Nu, meditation was framed as a universal practice capable of renewing society itself, and it soon spread globally as something that could be taken up regardless of religious background. At the same time, Turner argues that many contemporary mindfulness movements reproduce forms of erasure, treating ritual life, cosmology, and embodied moral discipline as secondary or disposable—echoing older colonial assumptions about what counts as “essential” religion.

Episode #502: This episode, part of the Decolonizing Southeast Asian Studies Conference series, features two powerful voices—Shakil Ahmed and Tümüzo Katiry—who approach decolonization from distinct but complementary perspectives. Together, they show how imagination, identity, and place intertwine in the struggle to reclaim meaning and possibility. Shakil Ahmed, a futurist and educator, explores how his academic field can serve as a decolonial tool. “Future Studies is a study of the future, but the future has not happened yet,” he explains. “So how do you study something that hasn't happened yet? You study how people think about the future currently.” He outlines a shift from prediction to imagination, emphasizing that “there are multiple different futures as opposed to one exact possibility.” He describes key frameworks—“default future, possible futures, probable futures, and the preferred future”—which empower people to move from passive acceptance to active agency. Shakil's “iceberg” model of Causal Layered Analysis asks listeners to look beneath visible issues to their deeper worldviews and myths: “These dominant myths and metaphors have shaped our society.” For him, decolonization means rewriting these inherited stories while balancing global structures with local wisdom. His outlook is hopeful: futures work, he insists, is about imagination, participation, and responsibility. Tümüzo Katiry speaks from the Naga homeland straddling the India–Myanmar border. “The definition of ‘Naga' is still very much debated,” he notes, pointing to colonial borders that divided families and cultures. He grounds his reflections in food autonomy: “First thing is the question of food sovereignty… Nagas tend to be very self-sustaining.” He describes local diets rich in pork, beef, fermented soybeans, crabs, and insects— each part of an ecosystem of survival and creativity. “We say that we eat anything that moves,” he jokes. Tümüzo's reflections expand to the environment: borders, he warns, also fragment wildlife habitats, while climate change and fragile infrastructure leave his region vulnerable. Yet his final words are generous and open: “I highly recommend people to visit the remote areas as well.”

Episode #501: “There were events going on in the world that I really cared about,” says investigative journalist Emanuel Stoakes as he reflects on the path that eventually drew him into reporting on Myanmar's human rights crises. He began reporting on events there in 2012, first covering the Kachin conflict before turning to the Rohingya crisis. When he visited the Rohingya camps in 2013, he was shaken by the scale of deprivation: children with preventable disabilities, untreated burns, and even signs of polio. Outside the camps, he witnessed entrenched anti-Rohingya sentiment, reinforced by decades of propaganda. Conversations with nationalist Rakhine politicians exposed openly dehumanizing views, exemplified by one official's dismissal of rape allegations because, he claimed, Rohingya women were “dirty, smelly women.” Stoakes also describes meeting the nationalist monk Wirathu, who warned that he was asking “very dangerous questions.” Leaked military psychological-operations documents later confirmed what he suspected: the military deliberately stoked communal hatred by spreading fabricated rumors and portraying Muslims as a demographic threat. He saw similar patterns in Meiktila after the 2013 riots, where footage revealed organized brutality against Muslims, including burned victims and dead children. And although the UN had published a report in 2012 after the sectarian violence in Sri Lanka that pledged to stop such atrocities from happening again, it completely failed in Myanmar. Its agencies were divided: development offices prioritized access while human-rights staff issued unheeded warnings, and the Burmese military played one side against the other, effectively marginalizing opposing voices. Since the 2021 coup, he sees a “national awakening” among many Bamar who now experience state violence themselves. But he stresses that sympathy alone is not enough. He believes Myanmar's future depends on sustained resistance, institutional reform, and supporting local journalists who can tell the country's story with depth and clarity.

Episode #500: “If my story offers anything, I really hope that it offers permission to question sincerely, to grow beyond structures that once served us and to hold both gratitude and discernment at the same time,” says Shelina Rose, a former Acharya in the S.N. Goenka Vipassana tradition. Having stepped away from that role a couple of years ago, she does not reject discipline or community. Instead, she argues that the sincerity that draws someone into a spiritual container can later require them to move beyond it. For her, maturity means shifting from dependency to autonomy without losing appreciation for what once helped. Born in Nairobi to an Indian Ismaili Muslim family and raised in London, Shelina studied medicine in Cardiff and trained as a general practitioner in London. A pivotal moment came while working on a pediatric burns ward, where she witnessed a mute child begin to heal only after expressing trauma through art. The experience convinced her of the deep link between mind and body. Despite professional success, she felt unfulfilled and left her job to travel to Australia. There she encountered Vipassana meditation. A powerful experience on her first ten-day course committed her fully to the path. She later studied Pāḷi in India, became an Assistant Teacher, then an Acharya, serving in senior roles across Europe. She remembers the presence of S.N. Goenka vividlyduring these years: “The energy of that man was giant.” Over time, however, she felt the culture discouraged inquiry. “You weren't really trained to think.” Her practice also plateaued; the technique, she says, “becomes a fossil after a while.” After long reflection, she left, losing community and security in the process. However, rebuilding through compassion and creative expression, she now emphasizes care, discernment, and growth. Her closing advice: “I encourage you to question and to continue to grow.”

Episode #499: Paul Vrieze, a Dutch journalist and PhD researcher specializing in Myanmar's Spring Revolution, has observed the country's political trajectory for over 15 years. Drawn to Myanmar's opening in 2012 after working in Cambodia, he joined The Irrawaddy as its first foreign editor, during a period of political reforms under Thein Sein. The February 2021 coup abruptly ended the democratic transition. Nonviolent mass protests impressed the world but were met by brutal crackdowns, prompting a rapid shift to armed resistance. Vrieze saw this as a rare case of escalation without major fragmentation. He notes a common protest dynamic: repression is experienced as a personal and communal assault, a “slippery slope” leading self-defense to evolve into armed struggle. This dynamic played itself out in Myanmar. Armed resistance in the country developed three patterns: spontaneous rural uprisings, organized ethnic acts of resistance, and individuals fleeing to the border who begin training with ethnic resistance organizations (EROs). The NUG adapted to events by formally labeling many of the emerging local resistance groups as People's Defense Forces (PDFs) and by proposing the idea of a Federal Army. However, ethnic resistance organizations (EROs) resisted bringing their forces under a single chain of command, preferring to maintain control in their own areas. This has left tensions and limits on coordinated action, raising the question of international recognition, which depends on territorial control, national standing, and functioning governance. The NUG has the broader political mandate but lacks secure in-country presence, while EROs have effective administrations yet are still regarded as regional rather than national actors. Vrieze believes unity, inclusivity, and a shared political vision are crucial for victory, warning that without them, success will be far harder to achieve. Fortunately, the movement has been able to maintain unity across ethnic divides so far, despite political differences and Chinese attempts to broker a ceasefire between EROs and the junta. He is hopeful that this unity will be maintained, and strengthened.

Episode #498: Caleb, a research coordinator with the Myanmar-based research group Myanography, argues that participation in the military's 2025–2026 election functioned less as a democratic exercise than as a survival mechanism for civilians living under junta rule. In his view, it reflected fear, coercion, and uncertainty, and turnout figures cannot be understood outside that context. For the first time in Myanmar's history, a national election was divided across three dates—December 28, 2025, January 11, 2026, and January 25, 2026—while large parts of the country were excluded because they were not under military control. Myanography monitored 16 locations across 12 states and regions through community-based field research. Across these sites, Caleb identifies patterns of intimidation, administrative manipulation, and ongoing armed conflict shaping participation. Even before voting began, residents faced pressure. Officials reminded members of the Civil Disobedience Movement that their names remained on record and noted that family members were eligible for military conscription. Rumors spread that abstention could trigger retaliation. Voting slips were distributed selectively, and voter lists contained omissions and inaccuracies. Turnout varied sharply. In Haka, the capital of Chin State, participation was extremely low. In other areas, roughly one-third voted, often strategically. One resident explained, “I just pressed the buttons for the other parties… because I was only focused on avoiding the lion and the green,” referring to symbols of the military-aligned Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP). With no meaningful campaign period, limited information, and confusion between similarly named parties, many voters lacked clarity about their options. Conflict further destabilized the process. In Mudon and Langkho Townships, explosions, drone attacks, and heavy military deployments accompanied voting. In Mandalay, residents were warned that if the indelible ink mark used for election control was not visible on someone's finger, they could well be repercussions. For Caleb, the election's phased structure, restricted access, and atmosphere of fear reveal its function: not democratic choice, but the reinforcement of military control.

Episode #497: “This is my life. Life is so precious, and I need to take responsibility for what I'm doing,” says Oliver Tanner, a long-term meditation practitioner and Buddhist scholar whose PhD focuses on early Buddhist textual studies. In his second appearance on the podcast, Tanner reflects on how his path has shifted from an emphasis on meditation techniques and intensive retreats, to sustained, daily practice based on the early teachings of the Buddha as presented in the suttas, all framed by a single concern: how to understand and respond to suffering honestly and clearly. Looking back on his earlier years, Tanner recounts his deep immersion in intensive meditation retreats within the Goenka tradition. At that stage of his life, his primary motivation was experiential transformation. Meditation offered him discipline, ethical grounding, and a direct encounter with his own mind, and he describes this period as profoundly beneficial. It provided stability and direction, demonstrating through lived experience that sustained effort could lead to meaningful change. He treats this phase not as something to outgrow or reject, but as an essential foundation that made later inquiry possible. Tanner affirms his conviction that the early teachings aim for independence in the Dhamma, which ultimately requires the practitioner to be willing to step outside the boundaries of their tradition as needed. And indeed, he felt an increasing need to understand what he was doing and why. While the techniques he practiced were transformative, they did not fully answer deeper questions about purpose. This led him to systematic study, first in Myanmar, where Abhidhamma and commentarial traditions were central and the suttas secondary, and then in Sri Lanka, where the emphasis shifted decisively to the suttas themselves. Encountering these texts directly, he experienced them not as abstract doctrine but as practical, existential guidance addressing suffering, behavior, and everyday life. In sum, he says that the early teachings reward careful attention and lived application rather than belief or loyalty in a particular tradition. “There's a treasure trove waiting in these teachings and such practical guidance is there to incorporate these teachings, not just as some special thing you do on retreat, but in your daily life.”

Episode #496: Jak Bazino, a French novelist with more than a decade of lived experience in Myanmar, discusses his novel Breaking the Cycle as an attempt to make sense of the country's Spring Revolution by situating it within a much longer, unfinished struggle for freedom. He argues that Myanmar's current uprising is not an isolated crisis but the latest chapter in a historical arc that stretches back to the independence era. Through fiction, Bazino seeks to help readers grasp that continuity in a visceral way that conventional reporting often cannot. The novel is structured around two intertwined timelines. One unfolds in 1942 during the Japanese invasion of Burma. A British archaeologist identifies a votive tablet believed to point toward the location of sacred Buddhist relics. Working with a Burmese woman who provides essential local knowledge, and accompanied by a British colonial officer, he begins a deliberate search for the relics. As the war closes in, the group attempts to preserve the tablet and the knowledge it represents by evacuating it by plane. The aircraft crashes in remote jungle terrain, abruptly ending the search and freezing the mission in history. The story then jumps to 2024, during the Spring Revolution. Displaced civilians and resistance members stumble upon the long-forgotten wreckage and find the tablet. Initially understood only as an old religious object, they carry through an active war zone, where possession itself becomes dangerous. Information about the tablet eventually finds its way outside Myanmar, and scholars and others figure out its connection to that abandoned wartime search. This creates new risks, when external pressures collide with the immediate survival needs of those still living inside the conflict. Bazino also confronts unresolved problems within the resistance, including internal divisions and gender inequality, insisting these issues cannot be postponed without shaping the society that emerges after the war. Through the main Burmese character of Khin Yadanar, a young medic aligned with the Chin Defense Force, he articulates a broader ethical vision of resistance that values care, endurance, and responsibility alongside armed struggle. Despite the novel's darkness, Bazino maintains a guarded hope that the Spring Revolution can finally break Myanmar's recurring cycles of domination and defeat. “I really want this book to show that actually [breaking these cycle] can happen,” he says, “even if it's not easy, and it's not certain.”

Episode #495: Mark McDowell, a Canadian foreign service officer and former ambassador in Yangon from 2013 to 2016, traces Myanmar through a set of mismatches between how the country is narrated abroad and how it actually operates on the ground. He describes his first visit in the early 2000s as a moment when ordinary life could feel disarmingly quiet and culturally intact even as the background reality remained a military dictatorship and a long civil war. That doubleness, he argues, is part of why outsiders repeatedly misunderstand Myanmar, replacing contact and complexity with policy-as-story. Based in Bangkok in 2003 and travelling into Myanmar before Canada had an embassy, he built relationships with activists, emerging civil society groups, and political figures newly released from prison. He argues that Canadian engagement was often shaped by organizations and narratives that sat outside the country, rewarding moral certainty while discouraging long, inside-country investment. He describes the post-Nargis period as a mostly forgotten incubator for modern civil society, with relief funding and emergency programming spawning local networks that later mattered when political space began to open. During his ambassadorship, McDowell recalls the transition years as a brief window of porosity and improvisation, when Myanmar appeared hungry for information and receptive to new norms, even as the military retained structural power. His meetings with Min Aung Hlaing are remembered less for theatrical menace than for the normality of extended, history-heavy monologues and the general's self-justifying thesis, proclaiming that “the military is the glue that holds the country together.” Looking back from the coup, he names the discomfort of that ordinary room: “this is now the banality of evil.” Looking on the current reality, McDowell points to capacity that now exists in dispersion, especially the proliferation of independent organizations. “You've got this ‘one hundred flowers blooming' situation here,” he says, “and it's not a monolithic opposition to the junta anymore. You've got huge numbers of independent organizations, whether they're ethnic-based or interest-based and so on.” He treats that plurality as the defining feature of the present landscape, and a source of future leadership, even as it resists any neat story about unity.

Episode #494: “Any one, any countries, any government, who recognize the results of this elections, they are made a fool by the junta!” Myay Thet is a co-founder and leader of a Myanmar nonprofit research organization that operated inside the country before the 2021 coup and now continues its work through pseudonyms and a distributed network of local researchers. She describes an ethnographic approach she calls Myanography, built to document life under dictatorship not through results and statistics but through daily mechanisms of coercion, fear, and forced accommodation. The election, in her account, is not only fraudulent as an outcome, but also as a process that presses people into visible compliance while keeping punishment close and ambiguous. She explains that the election research was conducted with community ethnographers across Myanmar's states and regions, alongside civil society partners, beginning two months before voting and tracking the three phase structure. She places the work inside a longer ethnographic project that began after the coup, when researchers themselves experienced “a very forceful political rupture” and began recording how oppression reorganizes ordinary life. In that setting, refusal is not a clean political gesture. It is a risk calculation made under the gaze of local authorities and paramilitary auxiliaries embedded in neighborhoods. Myay Thet draws a sharp divide between rejecting the election from outside the country and living inside it, where “the people inside Myanmar have to accommodate this oppression.” Economic collapse intensifies the pressure, and a single arrest or conscription order can destroy a household, making surface compliance feel like a form of protection even among those who privately resist. She describes subtle resistance continuing under the surface, but argues that the election's real work is to force visible participation through threats, proximity, and bureaucracy rather than persuasion.

Episode #493: The entry point was children. During the reform period, as the Myanmar military and other armed groups feared making concessions that would affect the battlefield, international mine action specialists sought common ground by emphasizing civilian protection."The civilians were the victims, and everybody could see that it was not a good thing to have young children being killed or wounded by the mines," says Pascal Simon, a veteran humanitarian mine action and national capacity development officer. “Everybody wants to save lives and protect civilians, in theory.”In this episode, Simon reflects on his work in Myanmar from 2016 to 2020 and the delicate process of expanding mine action education in contested space. He describes how it was importantto "try to remain open and neutral" in an attempt to focus on prevention rather than blame. Simon says this neutrality allowed mine risk education to be gradually integrated into education and social welfare networks, including in EAO-controlled areas and refugee communities in Thailand.Progress culminated at the 2019 National Mine Action Conference, which brought together civilian ministries, military representatives, international organizations, and ethnic actors, putting "the government in the leading seat" to discuss landmines as a national humanitarian issue. The workshop concluded with the need to establish a National Mine Action Authority.The proposed authority never materialized. When the 2021 military coup abruptly ended the transition period, it dismantled both the coordination infrastructure and the trust that had been built.Throughout the interview, Simon returns to the importance of trust, consistency, and neutrality, engaging with all actors. Engagement with the military, which risks legitimization, remains a critical tension for international organizations. "We have to talk to everybody, at least to try to and, of course, we have to make sure that they're not using us," Simon says.

Episode #492: Wong Chen, a Malaysian Member of Parliament active in international relations as Malaysia held the ASEAN chair, argues that the Myanmar crisis will not be resolved through moral appeals, symbolic diplomacy, or repeated Western advocacy alone. He maintains that the Myanmar military is far more resilient than many outsiders assume and largely unmoved by external condemnation. In his view, meaningful progress will come only when the junta faces real leverage generated by coordinated internal resistance, supported by pragmatic regional engagement. Without such pressure, he suggests, dialogue risks becoming performative and ultimately serving the military's interests. Wong Chen situates this argument in Malaysia's 2025 experience leading ASEAN, a consensus-based organization with a rotating annual chair. When Malaysia assumed the role, he initially felt optimistic, given Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim's human rights reputation and ASEAN's existing Five-Point Consensus on Myanmar. That optimism faded as Malaysia adopted what Wong Chen describes as “pragmatic engagement” with both the junta and resistance groups. While he accepts that communication with all parties is unavoidable, he stresses its asymmetric effects because the junta is not a good-faith actor. For example, junta-controlled media reframes such meetings as “recognition,” even when this is far from the case. He also argues that ASEAN's institutional design undermines long-term crisis management. Unlike short, bilateral disputes ASEAN has mediated successfully, Myanmar requires sustained, multi-year engagement. Rotating chairs shift operational control to new national bureaucracies, reset personnel and priorities, and prevent the accumulation of institutional memory. The junta exploits these recurring reset points by re-litigating settled issues and using the sheer quantity of engagements to claim legitimacy. Wong Chen therefore calls for a permanent, well-resourced ASEAN mechanism dedicated to Myanmar, one that is not affected despite the changes inherent in the rotating chair. Beyond ASEAN, Wong Chen identifies China as the pivotal external actor, motivated less by ideology than by stability and trade. As long as Myanmar's opposition remains fragmented, Wong Chen points out that China will usually default to dealing with the junta. He criticizes the National Unity Government for strategic stagnation, internal rigidity, and overreliance on Western moral appeals, urging greater unity, clearer goals, and stronger use of diaspora resources. While cautiously optimistic that geopolitical shifts—potentially involving U.S.–China rivalry and even unconventional actors like Donald Trump—could create openings, Wong Chen ultimately places responsibility on Myanmar's resistance and opposition to unify around a shared vision and leadership in order to create the leverage needed to force a resolution. External actors can assist, he says, but “you have to do it yourself.”

Episode #491: The third episode in our five-part series features conversations recorded at the 16th International Burma Studies Conference at Northern Illinois University, where scholars, students, researchers, and practitioners gathered around the theme Dealing with Legacies in Burma. Held amid ongoing political turmoil and humanitarian crisis, the conference created a rare space for open dialogue and shared reflection. Insight Myanmar was invited into this environment to record conversations with a wide range of attendees, produced in collaboration with NIU's Center for Southeast Asian Studies. We hope these episodes bring listeners into the atmosphere of the gathering and into conversation with the people who continue to shape the field today. Naw Moo Moo Paw, a PhD candidate at UMass Lowell, grounds her research on disability caused by political violence during her own upbringing. Raised in the conflict-ridden Bago region amid landmines, forced labor, and death, she witnessed numerous civilian injuries, including of her own father. She completed a master's in Japan, where the quiet environment triggered long-suppressed PTSD stemming from her childhood experiences. Her current research examines post-injury political participation, social inclusion, and cultural interpretations of disability. She emphasizes that disabled people in Myanmar seek acceptance and community support more than financial aid and warns that unaddressed trauma may lead to future societal instability. Aye Minn discusses his work with an online university in Myanmar, which was formed after the 2021 coup to provide a learning space for teachers and students who left the state system. He characterizes his work as combining parahita, the Buddhist principle of acting for the good of others with atahita, or acting for one's own benefit… which Burmese culture often views negatively. He argues that self-improvement is inseparable from service, especially in a country where opportunity is rare. The university now operates largely on unpaid volunteer labor, reflecting Burmese society's long tradition of service and its scarcity of financial resources. He champions equity, urging Western scholars to recognize their privilege and consider more culturally adaptive academic standards. As he puts it, “We should bring more scholars who are underprivileged onto the table.” Grace, a master's student researching rare earth mining in Kachin State, explains that these minerals are essential for global technologies and green energy, but their extraction causes severe environmental and health damage. In northern Myanmar, communities face rising cases of skin disease, respiratory problems, and digestive disorders, intensified by post-coup instability. After restricting domestic mining, China shifted to Myanmar, where a complex mix of militias, the military regime, and the Kachin Independence Organization control territory. China pressures these groups to maintain mineral supply chains while Chinese investors conduct mining with little oversight, leaving toxic waste behind. Local resistance exists through petitions and faith-based organizing, but militarization and poverty limit effectiveness. Many villagers depend on mining for basic survival, reflecting longstanding resource-curse dynamics. She references recent reports of U.S. interest in sourcing rare earths from here, which could be of interest to Kachin leaders as it offers them a lifeline away from China.