Episode #527: Nay Chi, a senior researcher with the Myanography project, describes Myanmar’s post-coup election as an exercise in coercion rather than public choice. Drawing on reports from community researchers across the country, she says most people were not interested in voting and did not believe the process would change anything. What moved them was pressure: warnings tied to conscription, threats at checkpoints, loudspeaker announcements, and the wider fear created by a military already known for violence. As Nay Chi puts it, “people are forced to vote,” a phrase that strips the election of any democratic pretense.

That pressure took different forms depending on the place. Displaced families were told that relatives of military age could be taken if they did not vote. Government staff were steered toward military-aligned parties. Travelers were questioned about voter registration. Even where no direct order was given, people understood what refusal might invite. The point was not to persuade them politically, but to make participation feel safer than refusal.

The structure of the election reinforced that logic. Candidates had to report campaign movements and materials in detail to military authorities, and even where local ethnic parties won seats, Nay Chi says the most important positions still flowed toward military-backed figures. For many communities, the result was something already assumed in advance. “We cannot even imagine our future,” she says, describing a public that no longer sees voting as a path toward representation.

What followed was not relief. Community researchers reported that conscription pressures intensified after the vote. Families kept paying money to try to shield sons from recruitment, often unsuccessfully. Young men hid in forests. Parents rushed children away after exams, fearing military abduction into forced conscription. In that atmosphere, the election quickly faded behind the larger struggle to stay safe, fed, and out of military reach.

Nay Chi’s argument is blunt. The election did not reconnect people to politics or representation. It extended a system in which procedure is used to mask force, and in which international recognition would only deepen the sense that the suffering imposed on Myanmar’s people can be turned into paperwork and accepted as normal.

Episode #526: “I actually was anti-Muslim when I was in high school!” recalls Thet Swe Win, describing how he was influenced by nationalist propaganda in his youth. But his involvement in the 2007 Saffron Revolution began to change him. Marching with barefoot monks, he witnessed Muslims come from a mosque to give them water, medicine, and slippers. “We do not have to hate each other, but we have to unite and fight back the military,” he realized.

His mother, fearful for his safety because of his participation in the protests, sent him to Singapore. Immersed in a multiethnic workplace there, he gradually shed lingering prejudices, concluding that there are only good and bad people, not good or bad religions. Returning to Myanmar, he resumed activism after anti-Muslim violence erupted in Rakhine State in 2012 and spread to other towns, stoked by state television propaganda. In response, he and his peers launched the “Blue Sticker Campaign” to counter the extremist 969 movement and its hate speech. Still, he confesses that the anti-Rohingya propaganda he had absorbed throughout his life left him with lingering bias toward that community—until Rohingya activist Wai Wai Nu drew him into her campaigns and encouraged him to learn their history, which ultimately reshaped his perspective.

Later on, Thet Swe Win founded Synergy, an organization dedicated to fostering social harmony. One of its well-known initiatives was the White Rose Campaign of 2019, where Buddhists offered roses to Muslims facing harassment. The gesture spread nationwide as a symbol of solidarity. His activism has drawn threats from MaBaTha, harassment by police, and raids on his office. Yet he remains firm in his resolve, and has refused to leave the region.

Thet Swe Win insists Myanmar’s future requires moral leadership, curiosity, and accountability. “The revolution without the political leadership or the moral leadership will be a chaos,” he warns. For him, real change “begins within, from within.”

Episode #525: Heidy Quah, founder of Refuge for the Refugees in Kuala Lumpur, describes her work supporting migrants and refugees in Malaysia, particularly those fleeing Myanmar. She began volunteering at a refugee learning center at eighteen and was transformed by what she witnessed, particularly seeing children on the verge of losing their only access to education because of funding shortages. From that moment, she committed herself to ensuring refugees could access basic rights such as education, healthcare, and dignified livelihood.

Quah’s organization now supports dozens of refugee learning centers, shelter homes for trafficked and abused women, and a livelihood initiative which enables refugee women to earn income through craft production. She emphasizes restoring dignity and agency, not charity or pity.

Quah recounts harrowing stories of new arrivals—young people fleeing forced conscription, sexual violence, and the killing of family members—who survive perilous overland journeys to reach Malaysia. Many arrive already indebted to smugglers, having borrowed heavily to finance their escape. Despite deep physical and psychological trauma, they often must begin working almost immediately, driven by the urgency of repaying those debts and protecting the families they left behind.

A central concern for Quah is the contradiction she observes in Malaysian society: strong public advocacy for Muslim refugees in distant conflicts, such as Gaza, yet hostility toward refugees trying to live locally, like the Rohingya. She notes that Rohingya refugees in particular face racialized prejudice tied to skin color and stereotypes about cleanliness or criminality. For her, the deeper issue is selective empathy—why compassion extends across oceans but falters at the shoreline.

Throughout her work, Quah centers storytelling, representation, and hope. She believes lasting change comes when affected communities speak for themselves and when advocacy preserves dignity rather than reinforcing victimhood.

Episode #524: Max Ante’s story begins not with a gradual curiosity, but with a sudden rupture. At twenty, after a series of chance encounters, he found himself on a ten-day Vipassana retreat in the Goenka tradition—an experience that would reorder his life almost overnight. The stillness he encountered at the end of that course carried an authority that eclipsed everything that came before. Ambitions, identity, relationships—all of it fell away in the face of something that felt more real, more urgent, more true.

What followed was not casual interest, but total commitment. Max structured his life entirely around the practice, meditating daily, sitting increasingly long retreats, and traveling internationally to deepen his experience. Liberation from suffering became his central aim, grounded in what he believed was direct insight into the nature of reality. The framework was complete, self-reinforcing, and supported by a community that validated both his experiences and his interpretations of them.

Over time, this commitment extended into every aspect of his life. Relationships, work, and personal decisions were filtered through the logic of the practice. Challenges—whether emotional, psychological, or relational—were met with more meditation, under the assumption that the technique itself was sufficient. But instead of resolving these tensions, many quietly accumulated beneath the surface.

Years later, cracks began to appear. Personal loss, unresolved strain, and contradictions within the tradition itself forced Max to reexamine what he had taken as unquestionable. He began to see how the system had shaped not only his experiences, but his interpretation of them—closing off alternative ways of understanding his own life.

Looking back, Max holds a complex view. The practice gave him discipline, clarity, and access to profound inner states. But it also narrowed his world, guiding decisions in ways that, in retrospect, limited his autonomy. In his current view, the issue is not the practice itself, but the degree of authority he had given it. He emphasizes that systems become self-reinforcing when they define both the experience and the “correct” interpretation of that experience, leaving little room for critical thinking.

Episode #523: The fourth episode in our five-part series brings you conversations recorded at the 16th International Burma Studies Conference at Northern Illinois University, where scholars, students, researchers, and practitioners convened around the theme Dealing with Legacies in Burma. Held amid ongoing political turmoil and humanitarian crisis, the gathering became a rare space for open dialogue, reflection, and communal care. Insight Myanmar was invited into this environment to record discussions with a wide range of attendees, produced in partnership with NIU’s Center for Southeast Asian Studies. Through these episodes, we hope to carry listeners into the atmosphere of the conference and into dialogue with the people who continue to shape the field today.

Our first guest is H, who describes returning to Myanmar from the United States in 2019, hoping to contribute during what looked like a period of national progress. But the 2021 coup shattered his hopes. Like many others, H joined the protests, and witnessed severe brutality, including shootings, beatings, and soldiers forcing a man to crawl while stomping his head. Eventually, he was arrested and spent three days in an interrogation camp marked by torture and psychological stress, followed by three months in Insein Prison. There, political prisoners supported each other and exchanged ideas, which deeply shaped him. Released amid international pressure, H lived in fear of rearrest before deciding to leave Myanmar. Now abroad, he continues supporting the movement while coping with survivor’s guilt and a strong conviction that the military must be removed for the country to have a future.

Next, political scientist Tani Sebro discusses her long-term research on the Tai (Shan) people living along the Thai–Myanmar border. Initially studying migrant returns through standard research methods, she shifted her focus after witnessing a vibrant cultural renaissance in temples in Chiang Mai, where migrants, refugees, and exiles practiced dance, music, and ritual arts. When she joined the dancing herself, relationships with community members changed, allowing her to engage with them through shared joy rather than extractive questioning. Sebro explains that dance provides emotional healing, communal cohesion, and a politically safe way to sustain Tai nationhood when open political organization is dangerous. Because Myanmar restricted Tai language instruction, performing arts became crucial for cultural survival. Sebro closes with her teacher’s belief that dance offers a peaceful way for the nation to endure without violence.

Episode #522: “We became interested in understanding how distrust toward official institutions influences the way humanitarian aid actually moves on the ground, and how donors decide where to place their trust in such a complicated environment,” begins Than Htike Zaw, who, along with Pablo Gassilloud, studies humanitarian aid in Myanmar. Drawing on surveys of roughly 78 donors—primarily Burmese nationals—and interviews with civil society organizations, their work examines how political conditions shape aid delivery in constrained environments.

Institutional distrust, already longstanding, intensified after the coup and the 2025 earthquake. Military interference, surveillance, checkpoints, and financial restrictions complicate humanitarian response, delaying supplies and limiting the transfer of funds. As Than Htike Zaw explains, “Trust in state institutions has been very low and the humanitarian environment has become extremely complicated.” The authors emphasize that their analysis focuses on how donors perceive these risks rather than proving direct manipulation of aid flows.

In this context, donors face a tradeoff. Large organizations offer formal accountability but are often slower and more vulnerable to obstruction due to reporting and coordination requirements. Gassilloud notes that this does not mean they are untrustworthy, but that they are perceived as less effective for rapid response. Smaller, community-based organizations act more quickly and reach affected populations, though with less formal oversight. As a result, donors prioritize speed, proximity, and confidence in delivery. Than Htike Zaw explains that trust is shaped by social connection and shared understanding of the crisis.

Smaller organizations rely on informal verification—updates, direct communication, and gradual release of resources—while maintaining a minimal baseline of transparency. Trust develops incrementally through repeated interaction and cross-checking among actors. These decentralized networks, however, are difficult to scale and coordinate across large areas.

This network of smaller, more flexible organizations is rooted in Myanmar’s social world, and a result of decades of having to navigate the country’s authoritarian rule and oppression of marginalized communities. As Gassilloud emphasizes in closing, “There's nothing more precious than the ability of humans to be able to pull each other up,” capturing both the necessity and the resilience that define humanitarian action in this context.

Episode #521: “The weapon itself just cannot tell the difference between a soldier stepping on it, or a kid on the way to school, or your grandma on her way to the place of worship.”

For Erin Hunt, Executive Director of Mines Action Canada (MAC), the harms inflicted on civilians by anti-personnel landmine have motivated her organization’s humanitarian work for three decades. MAC was founded in the 1990s “to end the suffering caused by indiscriminate and inhumane weapons such as landmines, cluster munitions, autonomous weapons, explosive weapons in populated areas and nuclear weapons.”

In 1997, the Ottawa Treaty, or Mine Ban Treaty, was ratified, with the campaign behind it winning the Nobel Peace Prize the same year. It has since become a model of humanitarian disarmament. That model today faces serious challenges, including its relevance to Myanmar, which has recorded the world’s worst casualties from landmines and unexploded ordnance for two years in a row, according to the Landmine Monitor.

In a recent interview as part of Insight Myanmar’s Navigating a Minefield series, Hunt described how international policy spaces often overlook “the people who have lived with these weapons who are the experts.” Their expertise, she explains, comes from lived experience—mitigating risk as part of everyday life—rather than from formal qualifications or academic training. This perspective has informed MAC’s work, particularly in elevating young people and women as leaders in mine action and disarmament.

While men and boys are statistically more likely to be landmine casualties, women and girls are disproportionately affected in less visible ways. Gender-based violence and trafficking risks are heightened in conflict and communities under attack. In families that suffer a death or injury, “increased caregiving responsibilities are going to fall on the women and girls”, Hunt says, forcing women and girls to take on additional work or withdraw from school, reinforcing cycles and intersectionality of inequality.

As emerging technologies are being adopted to the battlefield in Myanmar, most notably drones in recent years, Hunt points to broader challenges shaping modern conflict including the use of AI and autonomous systems and nuclear command structures. “The big issue is the lack of accountability and the potential for mistakes with no one held accountable,” she says.

Episode #520: “Ancestors are not dead. They’re not the living dead. Rather, they should be best thought of as ‘the always living.’” Dr Micah Morton, a cultural anthropologist and professor at Northern Illinois University, describes Akha life across the Upper Mekong borderlands as a struggle to keep that relationship intact while everything around it shifts—states hardening borders, religions competing for allegiance, and markets remaking livelihoods.

Morton traces an origin narrative tied to Jadae Mirkhanq, a remembered homeland city-state whose meanings have changed as Akha have become citizens of five countries. The past, he argues, is not a single inheritance but a set of stories shaped by migration, hierarchy, and dissent, including legends of Mongol pressure and internal conflict around a powerful king whose era is credited with laying down the “Akha way.”

At the center of Morton’s account is Akha customary law, rendered as ghanr, an encompassing system that governs life and death through obligations to ancestors and the maintenance of “vital life giving energy.” Genealogies, ritual offerings, and village gates are not symbolic leftovers but mechanisms that produce health, prosperity, and moral order. Yet modern schooling and language shift change how this knowledge is carried, pushing remembrance from oral mastery toward written records.

Morton follows these pressures into a cross-border effort to standardize an Akha writing system, one that was attempted to be designed “by and for Akha,” and into the fractures created when writing becomes a tool for competing missions—Christian evangelism on one side, and neo-traditionalist reform on the other. He frames Christian conversion not as a private belief swap but, in traditionalist terms, an “entirely new set of customary laws,” with the village gate becoming the emblem of rupture, exile, and later reconfiguration.

Coffee then arrives as both bridge and threat. In Lawcavq Pu (Doi Chang), wealth from global coffee markets has funded new forms of status and debt, while also underwriting intensified funerals and gatherings aimed at reforming ancestral practice so it can survive beyond the village gates.

In the end, Morton does not frame the Akha as trapped between tradition and modernity. He instead regards them as managing competing jurisdictions—ancestral law, church discipline, state regulation, market dependency—none of which can fully absorb the others, and none of which can simply be ignored. “It’s an ongoing cultural system of customary law that Akha have, over time, adapted to their particular circumstances.”