Episode #599: “I've been blessed to be on a spiritual journey for well over the last 50 years,” says psychiatrist Raman Khosla, reflecting on the lifelong search that eventually led him to S.N. Goenka’s Vipassana tradition. In this, the first in a series of ongoing conversation with Insight Myanmar, he traces the influences that shaped his quest to understand suffering and the mind.

Khosla credits his parents with creating a deeply spiritual home grounded in the Bhagavad Gita’s teachings on devotion, selfless action, ethics, and compassion. His fascination with the causes of suffering and inner transformation began in childhood. He recalls asking why a classmate was sad, noticing that physical pain changed while sitting quietly during family yoga sessions, and questioning why religious chants described moral transformation without explaining how it could be achieved.

As a teenager, an underlying dissatisfaction persisted despite an outwardly fortunate life. Reading about the Buddha, Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, and encountering dedicated religious figures strengthened his conviction that genuine inner freedom must be possible. He explored numerous traditions, learning from Osho Rajneesh, the Ramakrishna Mission, the Bihar School of Yoga, and especially Jiddu Krishnamurti. While each offered valuable insights, none fully answered his central question: how can profound psychological transformation actually be realized?

Believing the mind to be the most important subject of study, Khosla pursued medicine and psychiatry, hoping science and spirituality would illuminate the same mystery. During postgraduate training, however, he concluded that while Western psychiatry effectively treated mental illness, it offered far less guidance for cultivating humanity’s highest mental potential. Ajahn Sumedho’s Chitta Viveka further convinced him that the Buddha’s teachings described a lived reality rather than an abstract philosophy.

Everything changed in 1987 when Khosla attended his first ten-day Goenka Vipassana course. He describes it as “the biggest single life-changing event of my life,” transforming the study of the mind from an intellectual pursuit into direct experience. Although he immediately wanted to dedicate himself fully to the practice, Goenka advised him first to complete his psychiatric training and allow the transition to unfold naturally, setting the stage for the next chapter of his journey.

Episode #598: Rare earth mining has drawn Kachin State into a global struggle over minerals essential to electronics, green technologies, automobiles, and defense, while communities near the mines bear the environmental and social costs of extraction. Produced by Insight Myanmar for the International Development Research Centre’s Knowledge for Democracy Myanmar Initiative (K4DM), this episode brings three Kachin researchers into conversation with themes from their August 13 Dialogue on Sustainable Development, including transboundary pollution, community vulnerability, environmental governance, and regional cooperation across the Mekong.

First, Brang (a pseudonym being used for safety) sees rare-earth mining as both a local disaster and a geopolitical asset. Heavy rare earths from Kachin feed defense, electronics, automobiles, and green technology, while mining clears forests, contaminates water, destroys crops, and damages health; around the Chipwi River, he points to vanished fish and cattle dying after drinking polluted water. China, he argues, has pushed toxic extraction across its borders while retaining control over processing technology. Western access therefore depends on more than securing ore; in Brang’s view it also depends on political change in Myanmar rather than a commercial accommodation with the military.

Tu Nan (a pseudonym being used for safety) approaches the industry through environmental and transitional justice, asking not only who carries the damage now but who will be responsible for repair after conflict. His focus stays with communities whose livelihoods, forests, water, and cultural practices are being depleted. Yet he also documents their activity: villagers create protected community forests and defend watersheds against mining pressure. “They have that kind of agency to respond to a threat of oppression.” For Tu Nan, the Kachin Independence Organization’s claims to future statehood will be tested by whether resource governance includes public participation and protects community welfare even while extraction finances conflict.

Seng Li studies the gap between KIO mining regulations and conditions on the ground. He sees greater institutionalization since 2025, but environmental restoration, labor, and gender protections remain weak. Women seeking mine work can face sexual coercion from Chinese operators, while polluted water and lost agricultural markets reshape village life. Conflict has expanded extraction by increasing desperation and armed groups’ need for revenue. Seng Li’s final concern reaches the international system: resource-governance frameworks often ignore non-state authorities, even though those actors control mines and communities. Accountability, for him, requires bringing them within the standards applied to state governments.

Together, these accounts frame Myanmar’s rare-earth industry as a regional concern requiring credible monitoring, community participation, accountable state and non-state governance, supply-chain responsibility, and cooperation that gives affected communities a voice and a fair share of the benefits.

Episode #597: Victor Chan’s life began not with a spiritual calling but with motion. Born in Hong Kong and trained in physics, he left without a fixed destination and spent the early 1970s moving across Europe and Asia along the hippie trail. “I was into sex, rock and roll and hedonism,” he says. Yet through a chance encounter in Kabul, he was introduced within a single year to three figures who would stay with him: the Dalai Lama in India, Mahasi Sayadaw in Rangoon, and Chögyam Trungpa in Colorado.

Of the three, Mahasi Sayadaw left the deepest mark. Chan found formal meditation nearly unbearable, but Mahasi’s presence stayed with him for decades. The Dalai Lama made a very different first impression: when Chan arrived in Dharamsala in 1972, road-worn, unwashed, and dressed like a wandering hippie, the future Nobel laureate could barely suppress his laughter.

Later, Tibet itself became Chan’s great field of movement. Entering during a brief window of looser restrictions in the early 1980s, he walked far beyond the usual routes, reaching monasteries, pilgrimage circuits, and remote artistic sites that had survived the Cultural Revolution. What drove him was not money or institutional backing, but compulsion, curiosity, and a nomadic instinct he still cannot fully explain.

That work led to the Tibet Handbook, a vast guide documenting places, histories, and routes that were almost unknown to outsiders. It also brought him into the orbit of scholars like Michael Aris and, through those circles, into early contact with Aung San Suu Kyi, long before her political emergence.

In later years, Chan’s attention shifted toward another kind of movement: conversation. Through public events and intimate dinners, he came to value not instruction or mastery, but the exchange itself—an active, searching encounter between people, ideas, and worlds, forged in travel, risk, attention, and lifelong restlessness.

Episode #595: Salai Vanni Bawi, a Chin researcher focused on migration, refugees, and transnational repression, speaks about how the country’s crisis extends beyond its borders into a system that continues to shape the lives of displaced people even after they have fled the country.

For example, in Thailand, individuals passing through Bangkok airport may be detained and interrogated, sometimes finding that authorities already possess detailed information about them. The presence of Myanmar embassy officials during questioning suggests further coordination. However, outcomes vary: in Bangkok, visibility and legal support may prevent deportation, while in border areas such as Mae Sot, enforcement is harsher and more unpredictable. Charges like illegal entry or human trafficking can be used to justify detention or pressure detainees, sometimes reframing political cases as criminal ones.

Corruption further shapes outcomes, as bribes may determine whether someone is deported—an outcome that can lead to imprisonment, forced conscription, or death. At the same time, local relationships and informal arrangements can allow limited movement, showing that authority is negotiated as much as enforced.

Vanni Bawi situates these regional dynamics within a broader structural problem: the way international engagement with Myanmar is still overwhelmingly organized around state-to-state relations. In practice, this means external actors continue to prioritize engagement with the military regime—treating it as the primary interlocutor—while the resistance and ethnic groups remain largely excluded. He argues this is not simply a political choice but a built-in limitation of conventional foreign policy frameworks, which are not designed to engage meaningfully with non-state actors.

What is missing, he argues, is sustained and direct engagement with the actors actually shaping events inside Myanmar. Without incorporating these perspectives into regional and international dialogue, any attempt at resolution will remain fundamentally incomplete.

Episode #594: “We fumble through life a little bit, and we end up doing different kind of things.” Arthur Nichols uses this modest explanation for a life that has now been shaped by Vipassana for fifty years. At eighty-three, he has spent four decades conducting courses in the tradition of S. N. Goenka and helped establish the practice across Latin America. Yet he refuses to describe his path as heroic, carefully planned, or inherently wiser than the lives other people build.

Nichols was teaching at a university in Atlanta when he took leave in 1975 and traveled overland to India. A book by Jiddu Krishnamurti opened his interest in living differently, and travelers later directed him toward a vipassana meditation course in the tradition of S.N. Goenka. He soon joined the first students at the newly opened Dhamma Giri center in Igatpuri, visited U Ba Khin’s International Meditation Centre in Rangoon, sat long courses, and was appointed one of the very first assistant teachers in 1986. Although he repeatedly considered returning to academic work, conducting courses and maintaining twice-daily practice gradually became his full-time life.

Beginning in Venezuela in 1994, Nichols worked across Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Peru, and much of Latin America, often conducting retreats in temporary rented sites before permanent centers existed. He learned Spanish and Portuguese for the courses and watched small local groups develop into a regional network that has held thousands of retreats. He credits neither persuasion nor personal leadership for that growth, but the pāramīs (or spiritual potential) that he believes draw people toward practice when their time ripens.

Nichols also resists presenting total dedication to meditation as a prescription. A monk, a parent, a professional, and a course server may each follow a different path. And in Burma, where war and displacement are now making sustained practice all but impossible, he offers no easy spiritual answer to abject physical suffering. At eighty-three, he continues to meditate, answer questions, and travel where courses need him. The work has expanded across continents, but his own measure remains deliberately small: practicing sīla, following right speech, and staying dedicated to this path.

Episode #593: “Why are values included in international trade?” Arianna Bondi’s research begins with that question, but Myanmar turns it into a problem of limits. A PhD candidate at McGill University studying international political economy, Bondi examined how the European Union tried to promote human rights through trade policy, focusing on Myanmar’s place in the EU’s Generalized System of Preferences.

Her study, completed in 2020 at Johns Hopkins SAIS in Bologna, looks at the period before the 2021 coup. That timing matters; Myanmar had been brought back into the EU’s Everything ButArms trade scheme in 2013 after preferences were withdrawn in 1997 over forced labor concerns. The policy was supposed to support development while encouraging respect for international standards. Bondi found that this created two different tools: positive conditionality, through engagement and market access, and negative conditionality, through the threat or use of withdrawal.

Her interviewees saw little evidence that withdrawal had produced human rights change. Negative conditionality could send a signal, but it risked punishing workers while failing to reach the military structures responsible for the gravest abuses. Positive conditionality seemed more promising, especially in the garment sector, where EU-linked trade could improve wages, standards, and opportunities for largely female workers. But that success remained narrow. It could touch factory floors more easily than constitutional power, military violence, or the Rohingya crisis.

Bondi’s account keeps returning to mechanism. Human rights cannot be treated as one broad category that trade either improves or fails to improve. The question has to be which right, which sector, which actor, and which channel. EU policy also carried other motives: business access, regional influence, concern over China, and member-state interests. That makes the application of values uneven.

Myanmar leaves the trade instrument under pressure. A tariff preference may help workers, a withdrawal may make a statement, and neither may reach the institution doing the most harm.

Episode #592: In this, the 7th installment of a series of discussions with Jonathan Crowley, a former longtime practitioner and assistant teacher in the Goenka Vipassana tradition, he reflects on his decades-long relationship with the Goenka Vipassana tradition. For many years he believed the technique was complete, consistent, and capable of carrying a diligent student all the way to liberation. The emotional rewards of early practice reinforced that certainty, and the culture’s strong discouragement of outside study made alternatives seem unnecessary. Only later did he realize how those conditions prevented him from seeing the limits built into the system itself.

A turning point came when he started reading the suttas. He saw that key concepts—in particular, vedanā, saṅkhāra, jhāna—were taught in ways far narrower than their Canonical meanings. Vedanā was treated almost exclusively as physical sensation, rather than the full affective tone of experience. Saṅkhāra became a simple “reaction” rather than the broad field of conditioned formations. And jhāna, central to the Buddha’s description of the path, was omitted entirely. These gaps shaped the expectations of long-course students, who were told that deep meditation would unfold through patient observation of bodily sensations alone. Without strong samādhi, however, the clarity needed for deeper insight never develops.

He links these doctrinal limitations to cultural ones: a spectrum of fundamentalist tendencies, discouragement of inquiry, fear of “confusion,” and a social environment where silence and equanimity become tools of conformity. Yet he also speaks with affection for what the practice gave him and hopes his reflections give others permission not to abandon the tradition, but to think more freely within and beyond it.