Insight Myanmar

Episode #582: “If you're having weird meditative experiences, I'll be happy to talk to you about those for free. I won't even take a donation.” Daniel Ingram, a physician, meditation teacher, author of Mastering the Core Teachings of the Buddha, and cofounder of the Dharma Overground, has spent nearly three decades creating language and support for contemplative experiences that can be mistaken for pathology, exaggerated into attainment, or silenced by Buddhist institutions. His concern began with lucid dreams, blissful states, energetic surges, and an out-of-body experience during childhood and adolescence. He hid them from his pediatrician father, who later admitted that he might have responded in a harmful way. Intensive retreat practice in the 1990s made the phenomena reproducible, but the decisive moment came at the Malaysian Buddhist Meditation Center, where an old recording of a Burmese monk described the sequence Ingram had just undergone. Burmese insight maps transformed private confusion into a path that others had already observed. Those maps also placed him in conflict with Western meditation communities that discouraged open discussion of stages and attainments. Ingram accepts that maps can produce scripting, competition, and inflated claims, but argues that silence leaves practitioners isolated and clinicians unprepared. His book and the Dharma Overground created public spaces for experiences that conventional settings often refused to name. After a 2003 retreat with the younger Sayadaw U Paṇḍita, he claimed arahantship as a permanent loss of belief in a separate subject, while acknowledging that fear, irritation, and desire still arise—a result that conflicts with strict readings of the Theravāda ten-fetter model. Ingram now supports research intended to bring physicians, psychologists, neuroscientists, and contemplative practitioners into the same inquiry. Rather than resolve doctrinal disputes through authority alone, he proposes testing advanced practitioners under controlled conditions to see whether classical claims about the eradication of fear, anger, and desire can be observed. The maps once helped him survive territory that seemed unintelligible; he now wants medicine and Buddhism to submit their competing explanations to the same unresolved experiment.

In this bonus episode, we share a special online fundraiser for Better Burma led by Richmond Heath, a certified TRE (Tension and Trauma Releasing Exercises) provider and trainer based in Australia, whose full conversation on Episode 514 explored the meeting point between meditation, trauma, spontaneous movement, and the body's own intelligence. In this conversation, Richmond moves from theory into practice, guiding participants through an accessible introduction to the exercise.Richmond explains that stress and trauma do not live only in memory or thought; they also appear as patterns in the muscles, breath, and nervous system. He reframes shaking and trembling not as symptoms to suppress, but as instinctive recovery responses the body uses to come out of fight, flight, freeze, or shutdown. Drawing on TRE, polyvagal-informed language, and examples from other cultures, he invites participants to understand the body not simply as the place where trauma is stored, but also as the place where release and regulation can begin.The heart of this event is experiential. Richmond carefully leads attendees through a guided tremor session, continually emphasizing safety, choice, self-regulation, and the importance of stopping whenever the body needs rest. Participants are encouraged to listen deeply, move slowly, and allow the body's natural intelligence to unfold without forcing anything.The episode closes with reflections on how TRE might support communities affected by Myanmar's violence, and a hope that future funding could bring this training directly to local caregivers, educators, organizers, and border communities who need it most right now. Please consider making a donation of any amount to support our continued programs!

Episode #581: Tin Tin Htar Myint, a medical epidemiologist based in France who has worked in vaccines for more than two decades, describes Myanmar's immunization collapse as a problem of governance as much as medicine. Before 2021, she argues, the national program had been expanding in concrete ways, adding vaccines that could reduce childhood pneumonia and diarrhea and protect girls from HPV. Then the coup shattered the human infrastructure that makes routine immunization possible. Health workers joined the Civil Disobedience Movement, hid, fled, or were arrested, and the country's vaccine system became a set of reported numbers that no longer match the conditions on the ground. Tin Tin points to official coverage figures that appear to rebound after 2021, but says they cannot be reconciled with the reality of airstrikes, displacement, and villages trapped behind checkpoints. In surveys she describes from Sagaing, the most isolated areas show catastrophic “zero dose” rates for children born after the coup—no BCG, no DTP, no MMR—while villages near large cities can still manage partial coverage because access exists and parents take risks to reach it. Some organize ad hoc “vaccination trips,” moving groups of children through military checkpoints to get a shot and return home. For her, the downstream damage is already visible. She describes signs of vaccine-preventable outbreaks appearing again through social media reports, and she that tuberculosis is resurging rapidly in places with limited detection and no reliable drug supply. The collapse does not stop at vaccines. Tin Tin argues that immunization normally arrives with basic care packages, health education, and family planning, and that when the program breaks, those services break too, driving rising pregnancies, miscarriages, and the reemergence of sexually transmitted infections. The most painful detail she offers is also the simplest proof of what is missing. “They still carry the vaccine booklet of their children.”

Episode #580: Professor P. L. Dhar, a longtime Vipassana teacher in the S.N. Goenka tradition, reflects on his life-long spiritual journey. A decade immersed in Vedanta and other Indian traditions, along with a meditative and devotional practice, helped him develop deep concentration. Yet he gradually became dissatisfied, wondering whether these practices investigated reality deeply enough.Then a series of crises transformed his spiritual search. Political violence in India, the assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, the Bhopal disaster, and most importantly the death of his young son in 1985 pushed him into profound grief and self-doubt. These events moved him to enroll in one of Goenka's ten-day Vipassana courses, where he discovered a form of practice that seemed to reach levels of suffering he had not previously been able to address.Over the next several years he devoted himself intensely to Vipassana, completing long retreats, becoming a teacher, and eventually helping introduce meditation programs into Delhi's Tihar Jail, one of India's largest and most notorious prisons. He regards the Tihar project as a remarkable demonstration of meditation's transformative potential. Yet it was connected to an issue that concerned Professor Dhar. He had always been troubled by Goenka's frequent criticisms of other spiritual traditions, and indeed, some Tihar inmates were very angry when they heard them. Goenka responded by removing the offending parts and adding in more positive messaging, which were very well received in Tihar. Yet for whatever reason, these revised Hindi versions were not used other than at the Tihar courses. Later, as Dhar gained more responsibilities within the organization, he also became concerned that institutional growth, hierarchy, and status were receiving more attention than deeper questions about liberation.His most significant concern was around anattā, the Buddhist doctrine of not-self. Professor Dhar explains that while years of practice gave him a deep experiential appreciation of impermanence, he eventually concluded that neither the Goenka technique nor the culture surrounding it sufficiently examined how the sense of self is constructed, nor was there much enthusiasm within the organization for doing so. While he remains forever grateful to Goenka, these concerns led to his departure from the organization in 2010. Since then, his investigationsinto non-self have led him to believe it is the key link between meditation practice and liberation.

Episode #579: “I did not expect to be conversing in Urdu with someone in Yangon.” Bilal Hassan, a Pakistani creator and doctor, traveled to Burma after noticing how much of Karachi's everyday culture carried unexplained Burmese traces: khao suey, family names, old songs about Rangoon, and stories no one could quite complete. His trip began as a search for those missing links, but Yangon gave him something more complicated than recognition. The city felt to him like the place where South Asia and Southeast Asia meet, with Urdu-speaking caretakers at Bahadur Shah Zafar's shrine, Surti and Memon mosques tied to Karachi business families, Tamil and Chulia Muslim institutions, halal food, and Burmese Muslim cuisine shaped by migration. Yet those familiar traces existed inside a post-coup country marked by checkpoints, fuel shortages, surveillance, airport controls, and a visible gap between wealth and hunger. A roadside woman near Bago had only white rice to offer, while a hotel buffet back in Yangon complete with French champagne cost dozens of dollars. The deepest tension came through Muslim life itself. Downtown Yangon looked visibly Muslim in ways Bilal had not expected, but when the subject of Rohingya was broached, it changed the air in the room. Some Muslims distanced themselves; others admitted fear and sadness but refused to keep speaking. Bilal came to see Muslim communities as connected, careful, and guarded, maintaining names, food, language, and religious life while learning how not to stand out. He left resisting both tourist denial and headline simplification. Burma was not only a war zone, not only a beautiful country, and not only a forgotten extension of South Asian memory. It was all of those at once, and the connections he found could not be separated from the silences people used to survive.

Episode #578: Aye Myat Thwe is a Burmese lay Buddhist practitioner raised inside the Mahasi Vipassana world, where devotion, meditation, and study were braided into ordinary family life. Watching her grandmother sit daily, she grew up assuming the classic Burmese hierarchy of authority was stable and complete, the commentaries as canon, Abhidhamma as the tradition's intellectual summit. For years, she accepted that inheritance without friction. Then scholarship cracked it open. Learning that Abhidhamma may not be the Buddha's original teaching shocked her, not because it erased its value, but because it revealed how much Burmese certainty is cultural as well as doctrinal. Once that door opened, she began questioning everything, and felt the social cost of doubt in a society where deference and inherited interpretation can outweigh inquiry. Her widening view extended to lineage identity. Early impressions, shaped by polemics against Pa Auk, taught her suspicion before she had direct experience. Later, encountering Mogok and Pa Auk more honestly, she came to see these traditions as parallel approaches rather than rivals, with conflict often generated by institutional competition and the anxieties of authority rather than by founding masters themselves. She also rethought the role of samathā and “powers,” recognizing both the risks of misuse and the legitimacy of deep concentration when ethically grounded. And she became attentive to how communities code-switch about cosmology, sometimes muting supernatural discourse to appear rational or modern, even while insiders quietly acknowledge it. The Rohingya crisis then forced an ethical reckoning. She saw how fear of protecting the Sāsana could override compassion, and admits she stayed quiet under communal pressure, turning blame inward. After the coup, the fractures deepened. She believes Burmese Buddhism's future depends less on defending institutions than on recovering moral credibility and everyday application, a reform that keeps roots while refusing corruption.

Episode #577: Thomas Shapwon, a Naga elder and former politician, recounts the long struggle of the Naga people for sovereignty and survival between India and Myanmar. He describes the Naga as an ancient, independent nation with distinct language, culture, and traditions. From the formation of the Naga Club in 1918 to the declaration of Naga independence in 1947— one day before India's own— the community has resisted external domination. Mahatma Gandhi supported their independence, but his successor, Prime Minister Nehru, rejected it, eventually dividing the Naga homeland along the India-Myanmar border without consultation. Shapwon explains that the Naga people have traditionally lived under village councils with no kings or centralized rulers, embodying a democratic, republican ethos. He traces their ancestry to Mesopotamia and describes their migration through China before settling in the region. Christianity, brought by American Baptist missionaries, became central to Naga identity, with 95% of the population now Christian— a fact Shapwon sees as a potential bridge for international support. He emphasizes peaceful advocacy over armed resistance, using careful language: the Naga, he says, “request” recognition of independence rather than “demand” it, asserting equality rather than subjugation. Yet he acknowledges the armed movements that arose after Indian and Burmese military aggression in the 1950s, which forced the Nagas to form their own militias. The Burmese army's campaigns of violence and forced Buddhist conversions devastated Naga villages, while internal divisions— fueled by politics and drug infiltration— further weakened their cause. Despite assassination attempts and near-death experiences, including a bear attack he survived through what he interprets as divine intervention, Shapwon remains devoted to peace. Through his NGO, the Eastern Naga Development Organization, he promotes education, healthcare, women's empowerment, and opium eradication. Reflecting on the post-coup era, he calls for cooperation with other ethnic groups and envisions a future decided peacefully by the Naga people themselves.

Episode #576: “I have been attempted [at assassinations] twice when they shot me, but I escaped. My family, my brother, they are targeted, and armed groups are always behind us. They kill in a second.” Peter Saiful, a pastor with the Rohingya Christian Fellowship and a human rights defender, describes what it means to live as a Rohingya Christian refugee in Bangladesh after his family fled Myanmar in 1992. His account centers on a community he estimates at around 3000 Christian individuals in Bangladesh, dispersed across camps where concealment becomes a survival strategy rather than a choice. In blocks dominated by Muslim majorities, he says, Christians often cannot identify themselves safely, and “now they are pretending to be Muslim,” because discovery can bring abduction, beating, torture, and ransom. Saiful argues that the primary engine of fear is not the broader Rohingya population, but small armed factions with outsized power. A group of “very few people [are able to] control the Rohingya, because [the armed groups] have access to weapons that we cannot imagine,” leaving the majority too frightened to speak out. He traces this environment into specific violence, including attacks culminating in January 2020, when he says more than 400 youth set fire to Christian shelters, destroyed documents, and injured community members. On repatriation, Saiful rejects near-term promises as unrealistic, pointing to continuing flight from Myanmar and the lack of enforceable guarantees, while still insisting on belonging and citizenship rights, warning that without equal treatment and access, any return risks repeating a cycle in which Rohingya are moved and renamed for other people's purposes. “The government must ensure us that [they will] welcome us as a child, the way we welcome our children,” he says, and without that, he expects the same cycle will repeat and “we will be treated as a football.”

Episode #575: Lindsey Kennedy, an investigative journalist and documentary filmmaker focused on organized crime, corruption, and conflict, argues that the scam-compound economy across Cambodia, Myanmar, and Laos can no longer be treated as a marginal criminal problem. It has become a governing force in parts of the region, shaping infrastructure, labor flows, border management, and even the logic of war. “They are not a separate organized crime phenomenon. They are a core part of the economic activity of a country.” Her account widens the frame far beyond online fraud. Inside these compounds, people can be trafficked through fake job offers, trapped behind guarded walls, tortured for missing targets, sold between operators, or pushed into sexual exploitation. Many do not even realize which country they have been taken to until they arrive. “People are completely tricked into working somewhere they have no idea what's happening.” Others enter under economic pressure and discover too late that there is no easy line between coercion and consent once the system closes around them. Kennedy is especially focused on state responsibility. These industries do not grow into cities without permissions, land access, military or police protection, and a wider network of businesses willing to build, transport, finance, and normalize them. “They just cannot take root without state sponsored backing,” as she puts it. Casinos, special economic zones, and new fintech platforms help move and launder money while giving criminal infrastructure the appearance of development. In Myanmar, those same criminal economies blur into conflict itself. Armed groups need revenue, illegal industries expand, and even landmine contamination becomes harder to address when crime, territory, and war finance overlap. Survivors, meanwhile, are left with little support. “There's not a lot of thought for aftercare,” Kennedy says, pointing to a system that recycles people through exploitation rather than helping them exit it. What emerges is not a hidden underworld but a visible structure of power—one that continues to expand and harden.

Episode #574: Diego Prieto, a Chilean filmmaker, embarked on a journey to explore the Buddha's legacy and its modern relevance. His documentary started as an effort to explain the core teachings of Buddhism but evolved into a personal and transformative journey. Together with co-producer Camila Arias, he traveled to key sites in Buddhist history, including India and Sri Lanka, to trace the historical Buddha's life and teachings. At one point, Diego faced an intense personal challenge while attending a meditation retreat, which shifted the documentary's focus from an external exploration to one reflecting an internal journey.Through interviews with scholars and practitioners from diverse Buddhist traditions, Diego came to appreciate the adaptability of the Buddha's teachings. He realized that Buddhism cannot be confined to a single formula; instead, it offers varied paths tailored to individuals. This understanding reshaped the documentary into a motivational tool meant to inspire personal exploration of Buddhism, rather than providing definitive answers.Diego's final message is that spiritual growth is deeply personal and cannot be systematized. The documentary aims to encourage viewers to embark on their own journeys, embracing the multiplicity of approaches within Buddhism. As Diego concluded, “We found out that the Buddha taught different practices for different people... there is no one-size-fits-all path.”

Episode #573: “I brought you here to the United States not so you could forget our homeland,” Salih Hudayar remembers his father telling him, “but so you could become educated and one day return to liberate our people and our country from the Chinese occupation.” Hudayar, now Foreign Minister of the East Turkistan Government in Exile, traces his political life to that instruction. Born in 1993 near Kashgar, he grew up amid tightening state control and left for the United States as a child after his father fled repression. He situates the current crisis within a longer history that includes two short-lived East Turkistan republics before Communist consolidation in 1949. He describes a post-2009 escalation of surveillance, detention, and forced labor under the banner of counterterrorism. Citing Chinese government documents and satellite imagery, he argues that mass internment, religious repression, family separation, and demographic engineering amount to genocide. Now based in Washington DC, Hudayar presses U.S. lawmakers to move beyond condemnation. Recognition of genocide, he says, is not enough without confronting what he calls the root problem of colonial rule. Running a government in exile, dispersed across continents and sustained by diaspora donations, requires coordination, discipline, and constant vigilance against external pressure. Myanmar surfaces repeatedly in the interview as both comparison and caution. Hudayar draws parallels between the Rohingya genocide case and his own effort to bring a complaint before the International Criminal Court, noting that the Rohingya precedent shaped the jurisdictional argument he pursued. He also references Myanmar's strategic importance to China's Belt and Road Initiative, particularly access to the western coast and energy corridors that could reduce Beijing's vulnerability in the Strait of Malacca. At a broader level, he frames the Uyghur and Myanmar struggles as linked by geography and power politics—both situated along China's periphery, both affected by Beijing's economic leverage and security influence, and both navigating how global powers respond when human rights concerns collide with strategic interests.

Episode #572: “The government will survive for as long as it can feed the people,” says Christopher Lamb, former Australian Ambassador to Myanmar, distilling what he believes defines the country's political fate more than any ideology. He reflects on a relationship with Burma that began in the early 1970s, when the generals were drafting a Socialist Constitution and creating a surveillance state, and evolved through the 1988 uprising, which began not as an idealistic revolt but as a desperate reaction to hunger and daily indignities. Years later, he reconnected with Myanmar around humanitarian work in the aftermath of Cyclone Nargis in 2008, and then academic engagement in 2013, when he co-founded the Australia–Myanmar Institute as a platform for academic and civil-society exchange Lamb situates Myanmar's politics within a wider regional frame, drawing on Shan history, federalism debates, geography, and Chinese influence to show why the struggle against the junta cannot be reduced to a simple clash between dictatorship and democracy. He also contrasts the current military leadership with earlier eras, noting that Min Aung Hlaing lacks the ideological projects—whether national unity or the “Burmese Way to Socialism”—that once guided previous generals. Instead, Lamb sees today's junta as driven largely by personal ambition, with Min Aung Hlaing positioning himself to transition into a civilian presidency through a tightly controlled electoral process. Without this sort of guiding ideology, Lamb believes the regime's future becomes harder to predict and possibly more brittle. Myanmar remains close to Lamb's heart. It shaped him as a diplomat, it shaped his curiosity and it shaped his friendships. When asked whether any memory stays with him above all others about the country, he references a remark offered by the senior Burmese official decades earlier over tea: “The government will survive for as long as we can feed the people.”

Episode #571: “For students living through uncertainty, I think online learning and online education becomes a lifeline rather than simply an alternative.” Eaint Thet Hmu, a Philosophy, Politics, and Economics (PPE) student at Parami University, came to education through disruption rather than continuity. COVID-19 interrupted the expected path after matriculation; the 2021 coup closed off the university future she had imagined in Yangon. Online learning became the route through which she found Parami, community work, and a new way of reading Myanmar. At Parami, Eaint's Bamar-majority background was unsettled by studying with classmates from ethnic nationalities she had rarely encountered before. She began to understand what it meant to move “from being the ethnic majority and becoming a minority in the classroom.” That shift shaped her interest in civic education, gender equality, and the kind of learning that does not stop at theory. For one thing, she came to understand that “the role of the student isn't to save the community but is to learn with them.” Her youth-led Project PyitTineHtaung brings sexuality and gender education to underserved secondary students, including monastic education students in Magway and Mandalay. Eaint sees this work as part of survival in a country where misinformation spreads more easily than accurate guidance about their bodies, gender, and safety. “Restrictions are not always the solution,” she says. Her research on the Civil Disobedience Movement extends the same question into the political sphere. After the coup, students who refused military-controlled universities were refusing more than classes; they were refusing legitimacy. Among twelve higher education students she interviewed, all said the decision came at once: “they decided immediately, they didn't hesitate for a moment.” Eaint's account keeps returning to education as a contested space. A degree is not the whole of learning. In Myanmar now, learning means recognizing power, resisting false legitimacy, and continuing to think when the official institutions meant to teach have become part of the pressure.

Episode #570: The AAS Conference in Vancouver brought together thousands of scholars and practitioners from around the world, creating a dense, fast-moving environment of panels, conversations, and informal exchange across the full breadth of Asian studies. Within that wider landscape, Burma surfaced as one of several pressing areas of focus, shaped by the realities of its ongoing crisis. Insight Myanmar Podcast was invited by the organizers to work from within the conference itself, setting up an on-site recording space and speaking with participants as they moved between sessions. The result is a series of short, real-time conversations—captured in the midst of the event rather than in hindsight—now shared with a wider global audience. This is the first of a four-part series. Gita reconstructs the return of Buddhism to modern India not as a simple story of rediscovery, but as a struggle over ownership, identity, and political meaning. Beginning with Anagarika Dharmapala's late nineteenth-century campaign to reclaim the Mahabodhi Temple at Bodh Gaya, she follows the networks that linked India to Sri Lanka, Burma, Japan, and other Buddhist worlds across the Bay of Bengal. The result is a far wider picture than the familiar colonial tale of British archaeologists unearthing lost Buddhist sites. Her argument is that modern Indian Buddhism emerged through mobility as much as excavation through pilgrims, monks, courts, relics, shipping lines, railways, and reform movements. Burma is especially important in that story. Burmese courts recognized and patronized Bodh Gaya long before Buddhism became newly legible to colonial scholarship, and later Burmese monks and pilgrims helped restore visible Buddhist practice at key sites in India. That revival unfolded alongside a competing effort to absorb Buddhism into a Hindu civilizational frame. As Hindutva thinkers tried to define India as fundamentally Hindu, Buddhism became both useful and inconvenient: useful as proof of India's past influence across Asia, inconvenient when Buddhists insisted on separateness or when Ambedkar turned to Buddhism as a rejection of caste Hinduism. And then, “Nehru chooses Buddhism,” Gita says, describing how the Indian state later used Buddhist symbols, relics, and diplomacy to project a different moral and geopolitical language after independence. What remains unresolved in her account is the question of what kind of Buddhism has reemerged in South Asia. It is now highly visible, but that visibility can serve very different ends. Her interest finally is less in Buddhism as state identity than in whether an older ethical and transnational imagination can still be recovered.

Episode #569: When Hla Hla Win was sentenced to twenty-seven years in prison at age twenty-three, she did not focus on the number. “I decided that in politics, the way things change, I will be released.” She narrowed her horizon to the day in front of her — reading, teaching other inmates' children, and sleeping without the constant fear of arrest that had defined her underground reporting. A former teacher turned DVB journalist after the 2007 Saffron Revolution, Hla Hla Win was arrested in 2009 for interviewing monks about military killings. During interrogation, she protected a secret Yangon office by answering almost everything truthfully — except the one question that mattered. “They asked ten questions. I answered nine questions true, and then one is false!” After her release, Hla Hla Win refused to return to party politics. “If the government or the NLD party or other people do some mistake, I would report them,” she says. “Everyone!” She rejected campaigns that shielded power from criticism and insisted, “We have to report both sides, [where there are] human rights violation.” Following the 2021 coup, Hla Hla Win resumed reporting despite being a new mother, and with internet blackouts in place, she uploaded frequent livestreams and reports. Eventually the military recognized her voice, and so she had to flee to Thailand. Now based along the border, she repeatedly returns to some of the worst-hit conflict zones, working as both journalist and fixer. Hla Hla Win admits that airstrikes are the one thing she cannot control. “I can't do nothing,” she says of the twenty seconds between hearing a jet and impact. She has filmed fighters meeting newborn children over video calls and listened to young resistance members shout from mountains, “I want to go home!” The war has expanded, reshaping territory and institutions. The strain is visible — especially among young fighters — yet she does not believe morale has collapsed. “I believe people continue to fight to the end of the military.”

Episode #568: “I think a world where people partner and support each other is the world I want my kids to grow up in,” says Greg Tyrosvoutis, co-founder and director of the Inclusive Education Foundation (InED) on the Thailand–Myanmar border. For fifteen years he has worked with refugee camps, migrant learning centers, and ethnic-run schools serving communities displaced by conflict. His guiding belief is that education in crisis settings is not charity, but long-term partnership built on shared responsibility. Greg arrived in 2010 after graduating from Teachers College in Ottawa. Simultaneously offered a stable teaching job in Canada and a volunteer role on the border, he chose Mae Sot, assuming it would be temporary. Teaching displaced students at a GED-equivalent higher education program, he encountered youth who viewed schooling as a lifeline. Over time, he watched former students return as teachers, reinforcing his belief that education creates generational continuity. After funding shifts ended his position with an international organization, Greg and colleagues founded what became the Inclusive Education Foundation (InED) They expanded from teacher training to out-of-school enrollment, youth programs, and emergency relief during COVID-19, when migrant communities were locked down without income. InED's mission addresses what Greg describes as a steeply narrowing triangle of enrollment: many children enter early grades, but only one in five finish school. Today, InED supports roughly 1000s of teachers annually and 1,200 students through enrollment and classroom support. Access to technology is problematic, and funding instability remains acute. “They're doing something meaningful, but it's a band aid on cancer, essentially,” he says of short-term grants. Still, he perseveres, and continues to adapt, in the strong belief that creativity and innovation are born of necessity.

Episode #567: Stella Naw, a Kachin academic activist focused on indigenous and decolonial peacebuilding, is joined by Dustin Barter, a senior research fellow at the Humanitarian Policy Group at ODI, and together they argue that in the turmoil since the 2021 coup, ethnic resistance organizations (EROs) and their civil society partners are reshaping governance and legitimacy from the ground up, even as international recognition and aid decline. Stella traces the problem to Myanmar's founding. Before 1948, indigenous communities governed themselves. The creation of the Union imposed internal and external borders that divided communities and ignored longstanding political realities. After the military consolidated power in the 1960s, governance became increasingly centralized, and divide-and-conquer tactics deepened ethnic and religious fragmentation. In response to state neglect, EROs began to build parallel systems—schools, clinics, land administration, and local dispute resolution—in areas beyond effective central control. During the 2010s political opening, international engagement centered on Naypyidaw and Yangon. The Nationwide Ceasefire Agreement (NCA), a centralized peace framework between the military and selected ethnic armed organizations, drew major donor funding and pressure on non-signatories. While it introduced some reforms, Stella and Dustin argue it ultimately reinforcedcentralization and sidelined federal visions emerging from border regions. After the coup, urban protest evolved into nationwide armed resistance aligned with longstanding EROs. As junta control contracted, regional authorities expanded governance. In Kachin and Karenni, resistance-linked institutions collaborate with civil society and religious networks, emphasizing accountability. Stella challenges international definitions of legitimacy, arguing it should derive from sustained relationships between governing actors and communities. Though some fear decentralization may marginalize minorities within minority regions, Dustin maintains that complexity requires inclusive negotiation, not disengagement. With humanitarian funding shrinking, he calls for cross-border aid and sustained diplomatic pressure. As he concludes, “The best pathway forward… is for the revolution to succeed.”

Episode #566: Daniel M. Stuart, an Associate Professor of Religious Studies at the University of South Carolina and a visiting scholar in Hamburg, examines the elusive historical figure Maung Po Thet—also known as Saya Thet Gyi—whose place in the lineage associated with S. N. Goenka reveals how modern Vipassana narratives often simplify a far more complicated past. Stuart explains that there is very little firm historical evidence about him, the available sources limited mainly to a colloquial Burmese meditation manual and a later biography written in the 1970s. While these texts preserve important memories, they also reflect the conventions of religious writing, elevating the teacher and blurring the line between devotion and documentation. As a result, Saya Thet Gyi remains historically important yet difficult to reconstruct with certainty. From those sources, Stuart presents a portrait that differs from the polished lineage figure often found in contemporary meditation accounts. He explains that Saya Thet Gyi was a lay farmer who turned to meditation after suffering painful, personal losses, connecting this to other important lineage figures for whom healing was an important part of their Vipassana story. He was also a practitioner whose authority came from disciplined practice and communal recognition rather than scholastic rank or monastic recognition. Saya Thet Gyi's importance also lies in his role as a lay person in the dissemination of the teachings, as the influential monk Ledi Sayadaw recognized his progress and encouraged him to teach. This moment opened the possibility that lay practitioners could become meditation teachers themselves, helping Burmese meditation spread through lay communities and eventually beyond Burma. Stuart also emphasizes that Saya Thet Gyi's training complicates simplified portrayals of Vipassana. Before becoming known for insight meditation, he intensively practiced samathā, or concentration meditation, a practice that many modern mindfulness iterations downplay vis-à-vis vipassana. Within traditional Buddhist cosmology, such concentration could involve experiences interpreted as encounters with spiritual beings, elements that the rational and scientific presentations of contemporary teachers often minimize. By restoring these dimensions, Stuart argues that Vipassana's history becomes more understandable as a tradition shaped by interpretation and change.

Episode #565: In Anyar, or the central Dry Zone, community protection is by necessity locally led and informed by facts on the ground. In a huge area comprising swathes of Sagaing, Magway, and Mandalay regions, often referred to as the country's “political heartland”, communities have faced intensified violence since the coup and persistent barriers to access, information, and livelihoods.Kant Kaw is a protection specialist, and she explains how humanitarian work, including humanitarian mine action, is being implemented on the ground under these challenging conditions.Unlike many ethnic areas in Myanmar, Anyar was relatively untouched by armed conflict prior to the 2021 military takeover. Communities were largely free from contamination by landmines, improvised explosive devices (IEDs), unexploded ordnance (UXO), and explosive remnants of war (ERW).“There are a lot of casualties in central Dry Zone due to military patrols, airstrikes or incidents of landmines and UXO in the community,” Kant Kaw says. “This is a heartbreaking moment for our area.”As a protection specialist, her work focuses on supporting youth empowerment, education, and community protection, including risk assessment and protection strategies to mitigate threats from landmines and other forms of conflict. Airstrikes rank as the most serious threat to civilians, with military patrols and checkpoints posing serious dangers for civilians, alongside the growing threat of landmines and ERW.The humanitarian mine action brief includes risk education and victim assistance, without direct involvement in ad hoc demining being carried out by some armed groups as well as civilians. Kant Kaw provides training to staff covering risks related to landmines and UXO, how to identify such devices, and safe behaviors, using posters, pamphlets, and storybooks for children.

Episode #564: “We want to make federalism not just as a slogan, but also as an action. We want to turn it into action!” Neineh Plo is secretary to the International Relations and Alliance committee of the Karenni National Progressive Party, and he has worked closely with the KNPP since the 2021 coup through international relations, humanitarian work, and headquarters administration. He describes Karenni State as a place where resistance actors are forced to do two things at once under war pressure: protect civilians at scale, and build an interim governing system credible enough to hold a diverse state together. Neineh Plo argues that Karenni State's diversity makes unilateral leadership both illegitimate and self-defeating. “KNPP cannot do it alone,” he asserts, “and should not also do it alone and impose its agenda on other people.” He describes the KNPP reaching out to other stakeholders and forming the Karenni State Consultative Council, then drafting interim arrangements meant to translate coordination into real authority. Those arrangements created interim executive, legislative, and judiciary bodies, with the interim executive council providing the most visible services. The list he gives is bluntly practical: humanitarian assistance, food and shelter, civilian protection, education, healthcare, and limited rehabilitation and livelihood support. On the international side, Neineh Plo describes access as constrained by aid systems built to work through the junta's capital. He says organizations willing to cooperate with non-state actors are limited, even as needs expand in displacement and war zones. Here he references cross-border assistance as a longstanding pathway, but argues for an added channel that can reach resistance-held areas directly, including a proposed inclusive humanitarian forum meant to bring donors and Myanmar stakeholders into a workable design. Neineh Plo treats negotiation as a daily discipline inside the wider resistance ecosystem, including relationships with the National Unity Government. “We disagree,” he says simply, “but at least we are on the same side of the movement.” Federalism, in his framing, is the only model capable of accommodating Myanmar's differences without returning to domination, and he insists that it has to be practiced now through structures and coalition governance rather than promised later.

Episode #563: As president of the CCDK (Chin Community in Denmark), a non-profit organization established in 2003 by refugees from Myanmar, Van Neih Thang believes he has a duty to advocate for the people of his home country and state. This unwavering sense of purpose is tied to his experience as a refugee. “I feel like I have some duty to do something, even though I'm one thousand miles away.”Van Neih Thang's parents made the difficult decision to leave Myanmar when he was just thirteen years old. He describes his humble life in Chin State, one of Myanmar's most beautiful yet most deprived regions, before being swept away at such a young age to a place where the people look and sound very different. Learning the Danish language was hard, he admits, but that was the only aspect of his new home that he found difficult. Amid the culture shocks, he made friends and developed a passion for education, eventually becoming an influential community leader within the Chin diaspora.His connection to Chin State and its people never disappeared. He says that providing humanitarian assistance to the Chin people, as well as the wider population in Myanmar, is crucial. Since the coup in 2021, the military has devastated the region, destroying whole towns, while its people lack equipment and financial support. Van Neih Thang discusses the Chin groups that are fighting the junta, how these groups are divided by generations and language. When asked to consider what a post-military Myanmar might look like, it is clear he does not believe in easy answers. Van Neih Thang reflects on how life could've been different, especially as a young Chin. He is conscious of his privileged position, calling that privilege a blessing. But, he says, “it is a blessing with a purpose.”

Episode #562: “I thought there was something, but I didn't know there was a way to get there.” That sense of longing has shaped Eion Meades's spiritual life. His father abandoned the family when Meades was around ten years old, leaving his mother to raise six children while working long hours as a cleaner. He drifted toward crime and bad behavior before leaving home at fifteen. He hitchhiked across Australia and New Zealand, then traveled through Asia. Not finding a clear spiritual path on his travels, be returned to Australia to join Chenrezig Institute, a fledgling Tibetan Buddhist community there. Meades became one of the earliest residents and builders of what later grew into a major Tibetan Buddhist center. The Buddhist community gave him structure, intellectual clarity, and a disciplined path toward awakening. “I felt, ‘Ah, this is it, I'm home!'” The commitment of the community to building the center inspired him. Over time, however, he sought more meditative depth than he felt Chenrezig provided, and turned to Robert Hover, an American teacher from the U Ba Khin Vipassana lineage. Under Hover's guidance, Meades's practice became an intense confrontation with fear, emotion, and altered states of consciousness. He describes Hover as almost shamanic, representing a more personal and experimental form of Vipassana practice. Another decisive influence came through Mary, an older psychic medium connected to the Tibetan Buddhist community. Through her, Meades encountered trance mediumship, spirit guides, visions, and other experiences that defied “rational” explanation. Mary eventually led him away from the security of institutional Buddhism and into a more uncertain but deeply personal spiritual path. Later, another U Ba Khin lineage teacher, John Coleman, became important to Meades because he was willing to seriously discuss experiences that seemed to blur the boundary between deep meditation and psychic phenomena. Meades came away feeling that some advanced meditative states naturally opened unusual capacities, even if Buddhist traditions often hesitated to speak openly about them. Through all his experiences, Meades never lost sight of awakening as the central aim of spiritual life. Looking back, he describes spiritual growth as a long process of integration and transformation. By the end of his reflections, he speaks less about institutions or psychic abilities than about what spiritual practice ultimately leaves behind. As he puts it, “the wisdom and love you gain in this life will never be lost.”

Episode #561: The third episode in a three part series, this was recorded inside Malaysia's Parliament during the final stretch of Malaysia's ASEAN chairmanship. It sits where diplomacy meets consequence—non-interference, the limits of influence, and the reset button of rotating leadership. Beneath that is Malaysia's lived reality: refugees arriving as people, not headlines, often in legal limbo and reliant on UNHCR papers. MPs speak of gaps in data, barriers to legal work and schooling, strained clinics, and the politics of backlash. The first guest is Zahir Hassan, a first-term MP for Wangsa Maju in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia's most densely populated constituency. An engineer and disaster-risk advocate, he treats displacement as a systems failure that has turned permanent. Refugees were meant to be part of “a few months transition,” yet some families are now third or fourth generation in Malaysia. With no legal status, “they technically cannot work. They cannot earn a living here, [so] for them to survive over the years, they have got to work illegally,” he says. Hassan also warns that Malaysia can't drift year after year without proper data, planning, burden-sharing, and serious leadership at regional levels, and that stronger action needs to be taken towards the crisis. Mohammed Suhaimi Abdullah, MP for Langkawi and a former two-term senator, describes Bukit Malut as a settlement that began in 1982 with about 12 Rohingya families, and has grown to nearly 15,000 today. Some residents, he says, “have got blue identity card,” adding, “when you have a blue card, you have to treat them like Malaysians;” despite this, he laments that much of the region is plagued by poor infrastructure and few schools. Abdullah rejects stereotypes, asserting that these Rohingya communities are “not poor people! They're very hard-working,” and adds that this fact that has created resentment among local populations who are not willing to take on equally strenuous jobs. Finally, Hassan Karim is a MP for Pasir Gudang and a lawyer shaped by civil-liberties fights. Referencing his youth, he says: “We fought any attempt by the [Malaysian] government tosuppress the space for democracy.” Karim's actions aligned with his words then, as he notes that he was arrested on sedition charges for protesting authoritarian tendencies. Concerning thecurrent influx of refugees, he calls out Malaysian society for not extending sympathy to those fleeing conflict. “This kind of humanism must transcend religions and race,” he insists. If Malaysians can mobilize around Palestinians in Gaza as a matter of human rights, he argues, they cannot practice moral compartmentalization when the persecuted are nearer, poorer, and politically inconvenient. As Karim ask openly, if Muslim solidarity is invoked loudly elsewhere, why is it so thin here? His harshest criticism, however, is for Myanmar's military, adding that currently, “I feel pessimistic. I never heard or saw any tangible effort [of progress.]”

Episode #560: “We have to get rid of this military dictatorship. Otherwise the whole country and the coming generations will be in a really troubled situation.” Mun Awng, born in 1960 in Myitkyina, Kachin State, is one of Myanmar's most iconic protest singers and a lifelong advocate for democracy. Raised by a teacher father and nurse mother amid conflict between the Burma Army and the Kachin Independence Army, he learned early about danger and resilience. Music became his refuge — “We only had shortwave radio that I could listen to, so that was my main source of knowledge about music,” he recalls. The Beatles and Western pop inspired him, even as such influences were banned under General Ne Win's regime. By the 1980s, Mun Awng led the band The Rhythm, known for original songs that defied the trend of copying Western tunes. His 1984 debut album 8/82 Inya became a sensation among students and marked a new era in Burmese music. But as censorship tightened, he grew disillusioned and joined the 1988 pro-democracy uprising, where he witnessed deadly crackdowns before fleeing into exile. At the Thai-Myanmar border, Mun Awng joined the All Burma Students' Democratic Front (ABSDF) and began composing revolutionary songs. “We believe that armed struggle is the only way we can remove the military dictatorship,” he says. His revolutionary anthems — Battle for Peace, Tempest of Blood, and Moment of Truth — were smuggled into Burma, hidden under luggage and buried underground, eventually becoming rallying cries for generations. Granted asylum in Norway in 1996, he has continued performing for the diaspora, reminding audiences that “music can do that” — bridge generations and renew hope. Today, Mun Awng remains devoted to his cause: “We have to unite… we have to give our life for the country… until we achieve the ultimate victory.”

Episode #559: “Comrade,” Renata says, when asked how she would like to be remembered. A member of the People's Defense Force and a former political prisoner, she uses the word to name what sustains her in Myanmar's revolution: loyalty to those who have suffered, fought, been jailed, and died. Before the 2021 coup, Renata was a law student who describes her life as centered on study and office work. Following the coup, she hesitated initially to take part in direct action, and instead chose to participate online, calling herself a “keyboard fighter” then. But as the crackdowns intensified, she joined street protests, and then learned to make Molotov cocktails and small bombs for her brother and his friends. In June 2021, she was arrested with her mother and four-year-old sister, who became the country's youngest political prisoner. Renata was sentenced to three years with hard labor but freed after four months upon signing a pledge not to participate in revolutionary activity. She describes prison as lasting trauma. After her release, she joined the PDF in northern Shan State. Jungle life revolved around food and water scarcity, physical endurance, and evading airstrikes and landmines. For young people anxious to join the resistance, she says they must prepare physically and mentally for hunger, discrimination, sleeplessness, and trauma; women, she adds, will face additional burdens. Her own ability to sustain herself through these challenges is rooted in her relationships with her comrades and her dedication to defeating the junta. Yet Renata still allows herself to imagine a peaceful future after this long struggle. “Please keep on watching our revolution!” she pleads to the international audience.

Episode #558: “I've always had a certain resistance to the over-institutionalization of anything,” says renowned meditation teacher Delson Armstrong, who argues that one of the deepest obstacles on the spiritual path is attachment to the very systems intended to help people become free. Meditation methods, lineages, institutions, and teachers can all be valuable, yet they can become objects of clinging when practitioners mistake the tools for the goal. Throughout his reflections on meditation, tradition, and authority, Armstrong returns to two principles: liberation requires a willingness to continually examine and release attachment, and genuine understanding must be grounded in direct experience rather than inherited certainty. Armstrong's perspective emerged through a long exploration of contemplative traditions. Raised in a Catholic environment, he later studied yoga, Vedanta, Sankhya, and a range of Buddhist systems, including Dzogchen, Mahamudra, and Theravada practices that emphasized deep concentration. Over time, however, he became dissatisfied with approaches that seemed more concerned with achieving meditative states than understanding the causes of suffering. A turning point came when he encountered Brahma Vihara practice and later Tranquil Wisdom Insight Meditation (TWIM), associated with Bhante Vimalaramsi, which emphasizes relaxation, observation, and the gradual unraveling of mental conditioning. Armstrong argues that concentration can suppress disturbances without transforming the conditions that create suffering; relaxating into practice, by contrast, allows practitioners to directly see how craving, resistance, and identification operate. Armstrong maintains that practice should be judged by how people respond to ordinary life rather than by what happens during retreats, even in very challenging situations. “Meditation is life; life is meditation,” he says. He warns against turning traditions, attainment maps, teachers, or institutions into unquestionable authorities. Useful frameworks become dogma when they stop being questioned. Teachers can guide, but they cannot replace personal understanding: “The map is one thing, but your journey is your own.” Ultimately, Armstrong presents spiritual development as an ongoing process of inquiry rather than certainty. His guiding principle remains simple: “Do not just take my word for it, do not take the word of the lineage for it, do not take the word of tradition for it. But see for yourself!”

Episode #557: Born in Yangon, Aung Tun grew up listening to foreign news broadcasts, which provided an uncensored view of a world beyond Myanmar's military control. Inspired by the 1988 uprising in which his brother was detained, he felt compelled to ensure the truth was documented.So Aung Tun joined the Democratic Voice of Burma (DVB), an independent media organization. His work was clandestine and risky—using hidden cameras to document the regime's brutality and the resilience of the Burmese people. In 2007, Aung Tun played a vital role in filming large parts of the Saffron Revolution, an uprising led by monks. His footage became part of the documentary "Burma VJ," which garnered international acclaim for bringing Myanmar's struggle to global attention.Despite a temporary setback after being arrested during the revolution, Aung Tun returned to the streets to continue documenting the protests. He believes in the power of citizen journalism to transcend borders and inspire action.In 2021, Myanmar once again faced a military coup, and while technology had evolved, the danger of speaking out remained the same. Aung Tun stresses the importance of learning from the past, being transparent, and fostering growth through self-critique. Now living in exile, he continues to train young Burmese journalists, ensuring that Myanmar's fight for democracy is not forgotten. His dedication stands as a testament to the unyielding spirit of Myanmar's people."In Saffron, all I could do is to just to keep recording," he says. “So as long as you survive, you keep recording! Somebody will use your footage. Even though I am in exile, and I cannot film, I still keep telling the story, like I'm telling right now. So don't think too much! Sometimes you think too much, you'll be overwhelmed by what you have to do. Just look at the present moment."

Episode #556: “I just find it so interesting that the Buddha actually talked about discussion as being a really important part of our Dhamma journey,” says Bruce Stewart, a longtime practitioner, former assistant teacher, and one of the early builders of the Goenka Vipassana meditation tradition in North America. In this second appearance on this platform, he addresses the concerns that caused him to question key aspects of the organization, which culminated in his being barred from even visiting centers in the tradition. Drawing on decades of committed involvement, including being appointed a Senior Teacher (Achariya), Stewart reflects on the challenges that have emerged as the Goenka tradition became a large, global institution. He became particularly concerned with what he calls the tradition's purity and prophecy narratives—beliefs about the unique authenticity and historical mission of the Goenka tradition that have become difficult to question now that they are embedded in organizational culture. Over time, he also observed that some teachers and students alike privately expressed a variety of concerns while hesitating to raise them publicly, leading him to wonder whether, ironically, a culture that encourages self-observation was itself uncomfortable with institutional self-examination. Those concerns deepened through a project in which Stewart and others gathered feedback from seventy experienced practitioners, and conducted extensive video interviews with a small group of them. After nearly a year of preparation, the findings were presented to Senior Teachers, but the response was largely negative. For Stewart, this raised a broader question about whether institutions can remain open to information that challenges established assumptions. He also began questioning whether the tradition's success in spreading meditation had outpaced the development of teacher training, individualized guidance, and mechanisms for learning from criticism. At the same time, Stewart's study of Early Buddhist Texts began to widen his understanding of Buddhism beyond the Goenka lineage, and raised some theoretical questions about the accuracy of some of Goenka's interpretations concerning the technique itself. Although he remains grateful for the practice and the community he helped build, he ultimately stepped down from leadership and later found himself barred from centers in the tradition. Even so, he remains hopeful that future generations can preserve what is valuable while becoming more open to honest dialogue, historical inquiry, and critical reflection.

Episode #555: Note: this podcast episode includes frank anatomical language and extended discussion of women's bodies, including terms for female genitalia, in the context of human rights, state abuse, and activist movements. Reader and listener discretion is advised.“[They say that] Thailand is the only country that has never been colonized. But it's not true!” Kornkanok “Pup” Khumta, an activist from Isaan, argues that the myth of sovereignty hides a colonial order, where Bangkok defines language, history, development, and which bodies are allowed to exist. Isaan, she says, is Lao in language and culture, and the borders that separate people along the Mekong are still newer than the state admits. “People in Isaan, we have been brainwashed to be Thai people,” she says, adding that even the word “Thai” itself is a recent invention. Pup describes Siam's consolidation as violent, then sustained through schooling that punishes local speech and replaces regional memory with a Siam-centered story. The same center–periphery structure shapes “development” as extraction: resources flow to Bangkok while poverty in the northeast is treated as normal. Generations migrate to the capital for education and wages, leaving Isaan hollowed out, a place many return to only for Songkran or New Year. At Thammasat University, Pup expected democratic critique but instead found classmates aiming for bureaucratic power. She pushed back, arguing provincial governors should be elected, not appointed from Bangkok. After the 2014 coup, she tested the regime's limits with quiet protest and was arrested, learning that visibility alone can trigger punishment. Later, after refusing to sign a pledge to stop political activity, she was sent into prison, and processed through searches that turned discipline into bodily violation. That experience sharpened her feminism. She framed organizing around bodily autonomy, using taboo-breaking protest—speaking openly about female body parts and insisting democracy includes control over one's body. Pup then moved to extend her politics beyond borders, rejecting ASEAN's “non-interference” policy as a cover for authoritarian cooperation, including support for Myanmar's military. For her, constitutional change in Thailand is the hinge between refuge and repression—and survival requires joy: “I believe in fun,” she says, because despair is also a weapon. “We are at the point that we don't have to belong to any state,” she says. “I mean, we can just treat each other as a humans and we can all come together against all forms of repression.”

Episode #554: Bruce Stewart, an early Western student and teacher in the S.N. Goenka Vipassana tradition, reflects on a lifelong search for spiritual meaning driven by curiosity, wonder, and a desire to understand life more deeply. The sudden death of his younger sister prompted early questions about life's meaning, while stories from traveling hippies kindled a desire to explore the wider world. Leaving New Zealand, Stewart worked his passage to Europe on a cargo ship and spent several adventurous years traveling through Europe and Africa and immersing himself in the hippie counterculture. Eventually Stewart found his way to a Sivananda ashram in Canada, where his spiritual interests were given structure. There he met his future wife, Maureen. Together they returned to New Zealand and founded one of the country's first yoga centers, creating a vibrant community centered on yoga, vegetarianism, retreats, and alternative culture. Later, Stewart took a vipassana course with John Coleman, a student of U Ba Khin; the experience was life-changing. Soon after, he and Maureen dissolved their yoga center and traveled to India to became involved with the fledgling Vipassana center at Dhamma Giri in Igatpuri, where they worked closely with S.N. Goenka. As the movement expanded, Stewart and Maureen were heavily involved in helping the tradition take root in the U.S. Yet over time, he became increasingly uneasy with organizational culture, leadership styles, and narratives of purity and authority. Historical study and deeper inquiry eventually led him to question long-held assumptions, and eventually his decision to broaden his practice and step down from his Senior Teacher responsibilities. Still, he remains grateful for the practice and its benefits, viewing his spiritual life as a series of valuable stages that collectively formed a rich, demanding, and deeply meaningful journey.

Episode #553: Naw Moo Moo Paw grew up in a Karen village near Bago where conflict and landmines were part of everyday life. “I have seen a lot of people injured or die because of the war and intense conflict,” she says. “This is very normal for me.” Today, she is a PhD candidate in Global Studies at the University of Massachusetts Lowell, where her research focuses on what happens to people, their bodies, livelihoods, and place in their communities affected by political violence. She has interviewed civilians, injured soldiers, and active resistance fighters, gaining access to armed groups most outside researchers cannot reach. Resistance groups in ethnic Karen communities have used landmines primarily as a defensive tactic, but the warnings offered to civilians are frequently imprecise. For many, the warning changes little. “Civilians, they have to work on a daily basis, so that they can survive, for their economy, to take care of their family.” People are warned, but they have to go on with their lives. She finds that accountability is increasingly difficult to establish. Mines captured from military bases are reused by resistance groups, propaganda obscures who planted what, and records of mine locations can die with the soldier who laid them. “I think both sides are violating the law,” she says. Civilians, she finds, rarely assign blame. They understand the nature of war, fear the land's growing unpredictability, and keep moving because they have no choice. Those injured in warned areas often face community ostracism, and too many take their own lives. As a Karen scholar, Naw Moo Moo Paw wants local knowledge, history, and experience placed at the center of any peace. “I want [Karen people's] voices to be included in the future, too.”

Episode #552: Mon Mon Myat, a journalist, filmmaker, and peace scholar, frames Myanmar's political struggle as a long contest over power, moral discipline, and the possibility of change without domination. Her account begins with U Hpo Hlaing, the nineteenth-century thinker she calls “a kind of very early political theorist in Myanmar,” and moves toward Aung San Suu Kyi, whose politics she sees as part of the same search for accountable authority. For Mon Mon Myat, U Hpo Hlaing matters because he complicates the idea that democracy arrived in Myanmar only through Western influence. He studied Western parliamentary systems, but tried to translate them into Burmese moral and Buddhist terms, creating what she calls “Burma-native democracy.” His work was not a full modern system, but it offered a principle: rulers must be bound by ethical restraint, not merely by power. Aung San Suu Kyi, in Mon Mon Myat's view, widened that principle. She did not speak only to rulers, but to citizens. Through speeches, radio broadcasts, and years of nonviolent resistance, she helped Mon Mon Myat understand politics as personal responsibility. “Politics had nothing to do with me,” she says of her younger self, before Aung San Suu Kyi's example changed her sense of what citizenship required. That is why nonviolence remains central to Mon Mon Myat's reading. She knows it is slow and costly, but argues that armed struggle leaves wounds across society, while nonviolence risks the masses less than others. The post-coup conflict has only deepened her fear of trauma that may last for generations. Her defense of Aung San Suu Kyi during the Rohingya crisis rests on a difficult distinction. Mon Mon Myat does not present her as flawless. She insists that Aung San Suu Kyi was a politician trying to hold together a fragile country, preserve civilian rule, and avoid further conflict under military pressure. Critics saw silence. Mon Mon Myat sees constraint, calculation, and a refusal to inflame communal violence. The hope she still holds is narrow but persistent: that Myanmar's future depends not only on removing military rule, but on whether power can be morally restrained before it consumes everything around it.

Episode #551: Fred Stockwell arrived in Mae Sot by accident more than twenty years ago while traveling through Thailand to photograph temples, a wrong bus dropping him off in what was, at the time, a bustling border town filled with NGOs and young volunteers. Someone told him to visit the garbage dump, and a man drove him there by a route that felt deliberately hard to retrace. “It was like it was a secret where it was,” he recalls. At the dump, Burmese migrant families survived by salvaging and selling recyclables, building shelters from whatever they could pull from waste. “They were living on top of the garbage!” he says. “Everything they built was what they found in the garbage.” Before Mae Sot, his life had already been shaped by self-taught risk and logistics—having introduced paragliding in the U.S. through early testing and instruction, and later becoming the first person to fly in and photograph the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina, doing so from the air, when ground access had largely collapsed. And now back in the United States after that first Mae Sot visit, the contrast stayed with him: a comfortable life at home, and a border world where small failures—transport, housing, medical access—could turn fatal. His mind now made up,he returned to Mae Sot, and the first step he points to is concrete: “You've got to start somewhere. I started with one kid,” he says, describing a girl “as close to death as you're ever going to get” and taking her to the hospital, then building outward through routines that held children in school, kept housing standing, and kept people connected to services they otherwise could not reach. The critique that follows stays procedural. People arrived wanting to help and then stalled, not from cruelty but because they lacked a method for what came next, and the same problem appeared in organizations that could arrive with structure and still fail to change the conditions at the dump, or elsewhere in the town. “I saw a lot of people here, no disrespect to them, that came in to help but didn't have a clue what to do.” He ties effectiveness to the pairing of resources and competence, and reduces the mismatch to a single blunt line. “There's a very large gap between the people that want to help and the people that need help. That gap is huge.”

Episode #550: “There was something inside of me that was calling me,” says Jerry Roy, a long-time Vipassana meditator and early student in the Goenka tradition. “Not a thought, but something pulling me.” He argues that liberation comes not from rigid adherence to technique or authority, but from direct understanding of the mind—especially craving and aversion. Raised in a Jewish household, Roy felt pressure to conform to a shared identity he experienced as restrictive. He rejected its religious element early, identifying instead as a “cultural Jew,” and developed a lasting determination not to live “in a box.” That impulse aligned with the 1960s counterculture, where he immersed himself in experimentation and activism. Psychedelics presented a spiritual potentiality, yet, as he later reflects, “It opened a door, but it didn't show me how to walk through the door.” Disillusionment with activism, along with the suicide of a housemate, pushed him toward a deeper inquiry into suffering. That search led him to India. He rejected both the hedonistic hippie scenes and guru-centered traditions he came across, but then discovered Vipassana meditation as taught by S.N. Goenka. “I realized that I had found what I was looking for,” he says. He became deeply involved in the tradition, valuing its discipline and accessibility. Over time, however, he began to see increasing rigidity within the organization, especially after his divorce led to a feeling of being excluded from the community. His practice also continued to evolve beyond the strict technique of the Goenka tradition, towards more continuous awareness. “The practice is not a technique,” he explains. “The practice is being present in the moment.” Today, Roy emphasizes direct experience over doctrine. “All you need to do is understand the root cause of suffering, which is craving and aversion.”

Episode #549: Mohammad Siraj, a Rohingya researcher, political analyst, educator, and aspiring legal scholar living in a refugee camp in Bangladesh, studies citizenship, constitutional reform, education, and human rights. Drawing on his work with the Rohingya Academic Research Institute and his experience teaching in refugee settings, he argues that the Rohingya crisis is not simply a humanitarian emergency but a political and institutional crisis rooted in discriminatory law, particularly Myanmar's citizenship framework and constitutional structure. Siraj's own life reflects the realities he studies. He once hoped to become a doctor, but military violence forced his family to flee Myanmar. In Bangladesh's refugee camps, he continued studying through limited educational opportunities and later pursued research training. Statelessness created major barriers: even when he received university offers, he could not accept them because he lacked a passport or travel documents. He turned toward law because he believes legal systems have excluded Rohingya from citizenship, political participation, and protection. He repeatedly highlights statelessness as one of the greatest obstacles Rohingya face. Without citizenship, movement, higher education, and professional opportunities remain difficult to access. His own studies through the online University of the People illustrate both determination and the limits of such alternatives. Siraj's research and teaching are rooted in these same conditions. At the Rohingya Academic Research Institute, a community-led organization in the camps, he helps Rohingya scholars document their history and rights. He also criticizes humanitarian education programs that prioritize administrative requirements over meaningful learning. In response, Rohingya teachers have created community schools using the Myanmar curriculum, though their certificates are rarely recognized by universities. For Siraj, the deeper cause of the crisis lies in Myanmar's 1982 citizenship law, which stripped Rohingya of citizenship and legal protection. He argues that lasting reform must restore equal citizenship and dismantle constitutional structures that entrench military power, while dialogue across communities remains essential for building a democratic Myanmar where all ethnic groups share citizenship, representation, and dignity.

Episode #548: Sunda Khin shares a remarkable family journey through contemporary Burmese history. She starts with her father, U Chan Htoon, who suggested that a young Indian businessman named S.N. Goenka learn meditation from Sayagyi U Ba Khin to cure his migraines. Growing up as the daughter of the country's first Supreme Court Justice, she recalls spending time in General Ne Win's home during the "Caretaker Government" years. Ne Win's coup in 1962 marked a shift, leading to economic turmoil and loss of civil liberties, including the arrest of her father. As a means for explaining the many challenges that have befallen her country since 1958, she explains the Burmese Buddhist concept of "tha gyarr thar tha nar," which is a Burmese prophecy that signifies the end of the Buddha's protective period after 2,500 years.Sunda Khin shares several international situations that her father was involved with. The most complex of these was when South Vietnamese members of the World Fellowship of Buddhists (WFB) demanded the organization stand up against Ngo Dinh Diem's discrimination of the country's Buddhist minority. The US was concerned that this move could weaken their ally against rising Communist influence in the region, and indeed, that the influential WFB might be falling under Communist control. U Chan Htoon was making some headway is mediating this crisis, but unfortunately, before it could be resolved, Ne Win had him arrested, perhaps out of a political fear of his popularity and influence.Sunda Khin also describes her father's rather unexpected acquisition of a lakefront property, which was later inherited by Aung San Suu Kyi, and where she endured decades of house arrest.And she discusses her childhood friendship with Louisa Bensen, who transformed from a beauty queen to a Karen insurgent leader, and their involvement together in the democracy movement many years later.“A lot of things have happened, but I have a lot of hope for things to change,” she says regarding the current resistance movement. “I might not see it right now, or before I die, but I'mhoping that it will change and that the people will be able to have their own government and their freedom. That is my hope.”

Episode #547: Scott Leckie, an international human rights lawyer, and Jose Arraiza, a specialist in housing, land, and property rights and citizenship in conflict-affected settings, argue that land in Myanmar is not simply a resource but a central mechanism through which power is exercised, inequality is produced, and political authority is maintained. They emphasize that housing, land, and property (HLP) rights extend beyond formal ownership to include anyone whose ability to remain on land is vulnerable to arbitrary interference. The roots of Myanmar's current land system can be traced to colonial policies that classified inhabited land as “wasteland,” which enabled appropriation. This framework was later adopted by the country's military regimes; as a result, this legacy persists in a system where land can be taken with minimal process and little recourse, allowing authorities to reallocate land and consolidate control. The effects of this system are most visible in the interaction between conflict and land governance. While large-scale displacement is primarily driven by armed conflict, the land system determines what happens afterward. Displaced people frequently lose practical control over their land, as it is reclassified or repurposed, often for commercial activities such as mining or agriculture. In this way, temporary displacement is transformed into longer-term dispossession. The same system also shapes economic outcomes, directing the benefits of land use toward elites and those with political connections rather than affected communities. These practices diverge from international legal standards, which require safeguards such as compensation and access to remedies. The situation is further complicated by citizenship and documentation issues, which weaken individuals' ability to assert claims, particularly for marginalized groups such as the Rohingya. Although reforms between 2011 and 2021 showed that alternative approaches were possible, the 2021 coup reversed these changes. Today, governance is fragmented between military authorities and ethnic resistance groups, with some efforts to develop alternative land systems. Civil society organizations continue to support affected populations but face reduced capacity due to declining international support. Despite these challenges, Leckie and Arraiza argue that any future transition must center land rights, restitution, and legal protection, and that meaningful change remains possible.

Episode #546: Recorded in Kuala Lumpur during Malaysia's final stretch as ASEAN chair, this is the second episode in a three part series which looks less at policy language and more at political consequence. Recorded inside Parliament, lawmakers grapple with what regional diplomacy can realistically achieve while communities across Malaysia absorb the human fallout of Myanmar's implosion — refugees navigating precarious legal status, strained public systems, and a debate that grows sharper the longer the crisis drags on. The first guest, Willie Mongin, is the Member of Parliament for Puncak Borneo in Sarawak and a former deputy minister who now serves as Deputy Chair of Malaysia's parliamentary select committee on international trade and international relations. His engagement with Myanmar deepened after joining the committee three years ago, when he began closely monitoring ASEAN geopolitics. For Mongin, the logic is simple: regional peace underpins shared prosperity. “When we have a peaceful region, we can actually work together and work towards prosperity together,” he says. Instability in Myanmar, he argues, threatens ASEAN cohesion and fuels refugee pressures in Malaysia. While acknowledging Malaysia's limits, he calls on the United Nations and major powers to press for a democratic resolution led ultimately by Myanmar's own leadership. The second guest, Ahmed Tarmizi, is the Member of Parliament for Sik in Kedah and Deputy Chairman of Malaysia's All-Party Parliamentary Group on Refugee Policy. Before entering politics, he worked in humanitarian relief connected to Myanmar, traveling to Rakhine State and refugee camps in Cox's Bazar. He describes Myanmar's crisis as regional in impact, calling it “like a cancer for the Asian community.” In Malaysia, he highlights the presence of more than 180,000 refugees, mostly from Myanmar, and the country's lack of a formal legal framework recognizing them. “We don't have any legal [act] to recognize the refugees,” he says, urging clearer policy and stronger ASEAN and UN action to stop the violence driving displacement.

Episode #545: The promise of justice for war crimes in Myanmar is far from perfect, says Dr. Stuart Casey-Maslen, a leading legal expert on disarmament and international humanitarian law. The military regime's alleged war crimes continue unchecked, with airstrikes against civilian targets, the destruction of homes, schools, and places of worship, and indiscriminate use of landmines exacting a cruel toll. On a different scale, some resistance armed groups have also been accused of war crimes.“Justice can, and sometimes does, catch up with you even many years afterwards,” says Casey-Maslen, who is editor of the Mine Action Review and has written extensively on international law related to landmines. “If a member of the Tatmadaw, or a senior official in the Myanmar government, travels in years to come to one of many countries that have legislation for war crimes or crimes against humanity… that can also be a prosecution of the use of an anti-personnel mine.”Anti-personnel landmines fall into a distinct class of “victim-activated” weapons, which are designed to be detonated by the victim. The deliberate delay between the deployment and detonation also distinguishes landmines from weapons such as firearms or artillery, in which a specific target is chosen and impact is relatively immediate. This delay makes accountability much more difficult, including identifying who laid the mine.Prosecutions for crimes committed in Myanmar face considerable challenges, but the facts of the case remain. “The use by the Tatmadaw and by certain rebel groups, but particularly the use by the Myanmar military, has been indiscriminate,” Casey-Maslen says. “They have committed war crimes through their use of anti-personnel mines. In certain instances, they have forced people to walk through minefields. That is a war crime. That kind of conduct is beyond any rule of IHL, and hopefully one day those who are responsible will be brought to account.”

Episode #544: May Shine, a recent graduate of the Elliott School of International Affairs, approaches policy work from the position of someone shaped by displacement and minority identity within Myanmar's Chin community. Her work focuses on a persistent gap between lived realities and international policy, particularly in how crises like Myanmar's remain underrepresented despite ongoing conflict and displacement. Her research along the Thailand–Myanmar border reveals how issues such as child labor emerge directly from structural pressures like legal insecurity and economic instability. “I have also come across with child labor,” she adds, describing how children miss school not by choice but necessity. These observations inform her critique of humanitarian aid systems that often fail toreach affected communities due to political and logistical barriers. She argues that more representation within policymaking spaces is essential, noting that Myanmar remains underrepresented globally. At the same time, she situates this within broader geopolitical realities, where competing crises limit sustained international attention. Within Myanmar's movement, she emphasizes collective leadership over reliance on singular figures, even as fragmentation across ethnic and community lines complicates unity. “The strength of Myanmar's movement should not depend on a single figure or leader,” she says, advocating for collaboration across differences. Her work remains grounded in a constrained but deliberate role: to carry lived experience into policy spaces that often operate without it, despite the difficulty of translating between the two.

Episode #543: “We believe in dialogs among people of different backgrounds,” says Chayan Vaddhanaphuti, a Thai professor at Chiang Mai University and director of the Regional Center for Social Science and Sustainable Development (RCSD). While Myanmar's crisis is often framed in political and humanitarian terms, he argues that Myanmar is also living through an “interregnum”: that is, the old political order has lost legitimacy, but no coherent alternative has yet taken shape, and foundational questions about national identity, federalism, and shared values remain unresolved. This instability, he explains, creates both the danger of ethno-political fragmentation and the opportunity for developing a more inclusive framework for Myanmar's post-junta future RCSD is one of those platforms now attempting to articulate and synthesize this future. Long before the 2021 coup, the center brought together journalists, activists, and researchers to examine land issues, education, and social transformation. It collaborated with universities and organized Myanmar-focused conferences. After the coup, it established a scholar-at-risk fellowship program in Thailand for journalists, artists, and civil society researchers, creating a relatively safe academic space at a time of growing repression. Chayan frames this support as urgent. Many young people who fled Myanmar, including participants in the Civil Disobedience Movement, are stranded in Thailand without stable documentation or access to higher education. Their continued exclusion would harm not only Myanmar but the region as a whole, as Thailand depends economically on migrant labor and stability across its borders. At the heart of his argument is the need for what Chayan calls “organic intellectuals”—individuals who remain rooted in their communities while developing analytical tools to interpret them—and developing “counter-hegemonic knowledge.” Resistance alone is insufficient, he stresses; Myanmar must imagine what comes after military rule. He warns against reducing political identity solely to ethnicity, and calls for a framework that respects differences but is grounded in shared values.

Episode #542: Max Ante, a former deeply committed practitioner of the Goenka Vipassana tradition, describes a spiritual journey shaped by a relentless desire to understand reality directly, regardless of where that search might lead. From early in his practice, he committed fully to a structured path that promised liberation through disciplined meditation, organizing his life, relationships, and sense of purpose around that goal. Early on in his practice, he traveled to Myanmar on a pilgrimage led by Goenka, where he received permission to become a monk. The experience was immersive and meaningful, offering a glimpse into a life fully dedicated to spiritual practice. Yet it also revealed the intensity and demands of that path, and he recognized that he could not sustain that level of renunciation. Over time, his confidence in the system began to erode. And as he encountered alternative interpretations of Buddhist teachings, his doubts expanded beyond specific ideas into a broader uncertainty about how to understand his life. He came to feel that he had internalized a system that had overridden his own independent judgment, resulting in this departure from that tradition. However, without the structure that had defined his identity and progress, he had no clear direction. He turned to other sources, including the writings of Jed McKenna, which challenged the assumption that there is a stable self that progresses along the path. Ante's inquiry eventually extended beyond meditation, to a culminating psychedelic experience in Mexico that fractured his sense of identity, and reinforced his growing view that no fixed system could fully resolve the question he was pursuing. He continues to meditate and live ethically, but without grounding these practices in a prescribed framework. He now approaches his life as an open-ended process, no longer guided by a single system or final answer.

Episode #541: “There is no such thing as ‘traditional Buddhism.'” For Marte Nilsen, this idea defines her career-long exploration of how faith and power intertwine in Myanmar. A senior researcher at the Peace Research Institute Oslo (PRIO), she studies how religion evolves with politics, art, and everyday life. “I'm a scientist, and I'm a researcher,” she says. “So I'm always looking at religion as part of society, not as an individual endeavor.” Nilsen explains that religion in Myanmar has long been a political tool. During the late socialist era, the military built pagodas to project spiritual legitimacy. “The military really needed to take control of politics, obviously, but they did it through religion in many ways.” Yet communities quietly resisted, reclaiming symbols through ritual and art. “Religion is never a static thing,” she says. “It always evolves.” Her research also explores the Ma Ba Tha movement, which gained strength by serving local needs where the state and political parties did not. “It's incredibly important for people who want to have a political impact or social impact to actually be there with the people,” Nilsen says. The movement's success, she argues, revealed both the vulnerability and adaptability of faith amid Myanmar's ongoing struggle for justice. She also notes that Myanmar's struggle is not only political but psychological and spiritual — a revolution of the mind. The country's future depends not just on ending military rule, but on unlearning the fear and obedience instilled by decades of dictatorship. Real freedom, she says, will come when people reclaim the empathy and moral courage that oppression tried to erase — a reminder, in her words, of how all things shift and pass. “Life isn't permanent,” she says, referencing Buddhist teachings, “and everything will change. Nothing will stay.”

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.”