Episode #611: “I always want to be free.” Lienchi Tran, a Vietnamese American meditation teacher, first learned what unfreedom meant in postwar Vietnam. After South Vietnam fell in 1975, her father was sent to a reeducation camp, the family was expelled from Saigon, and the children were scattered among relatives. At night, Tran tied a rubber band around her fingers to keep herself awake while reciting the Buddha’s name and praying for her father’s safety and eventual return.

Raised in Mahāyāna Buddhism and shaped by the writings of Thích Nhất Hạnh, she began meditating seriously as a teenager. Yet an image of a Theravāda monk, seen just before her family emigrated in 1990, opened another direction. In California she found Bhante Khippañño, trained in Mahāsi practice, ordained as a nun, and traveled to Myanmar for an intensive forest retreat under Sayadaw U Paṇḍita. Myanmar felt like a second home, but the freedom she sought did not finally lie in austerity or ordination.

Under Sayadaw U Tejaniya, Tran found a practice built around awareness and wisdom rather than a fixed formula. Eating, engaging in her householder task as an architect, feeling anger, and caring for family could all become part of the same investigation. The task was neither to suppress difficult states nor to make them disappear, but to know what was present and strengthen a different momentum from greed, aversion, and delusion. She applies the same approach to dāna, which she defines as a kind of letting go, and to sīla, which she notes is an examination of the mind before speech or action.

Now a teacher herself, Tran no longer considers robes the measure of seriousness. She remains in the United States to care for her mother, while imagining a return to Myanmar and long practice near Sayadaw U Tejaniya when that responsibility ends. The monastery still attracts her, but not because a nun’s clothing can confer freedom. Practice must proceed through the mind and conditions she actually has, including the attachment she can admit without disguise: the bed at home is still more comfortable than the one at the center.

Episode #610: “I can't leave anymore, because if I were to leave now, I would like never be able to live the same way, because of the comrades who have fallen and the comrades that are still with me… I would not be able to have that guilt with me.”

Dr. Sunshine— a pseudonym that reflects both his warmth and resilience— is a Burmese physician whose life has become deeply intertwined with Myanmar’s modern struggle for freedom and survival.

After the coup, he learned tactical combat medicine to help protesters under fire. Soon he was teaching others—first small groups, then resistance fighters and medics hiding in the jungle. “I’ll shoot him in the hand,” he tells trainees in role-playing sessions. “He will have three minutes until he bleeds out. What are you going to do?”

After fleeing to Thailand, Dr. Sunshine continued traveling through border regions, training men and women from every ethnicity and faith. “We have Muslim soldiers,” he says. “Even during Ramadan, [the non-Muslim PDFs] respect the prayer times and fasting.” He beams when describing this unity: “It’s incredible how everyone comes together inside, even [towards] women and LGBT—they all treat them equally.”

Dr. Sunshine also helps run secret jungle clinics that treat hundreds of displaced people and fighters. “All we’re doing is trying to extend the life of a patient that comes in until they get to a hospital or clinic that can help treat them,” he explains. Supplies are scarce—“I was at one PDF base,” he adds, “they have like four or five hundred soldiers there, and only two tourniquets!”

He admits the toll is immense. “Every time I go in for a training, when I come back, I’ll cry like a baby in my room.” Yet his message remains simple and resolute: “Don’t give up on us. Even just words of support mean everything.”

Episode #609: Jostein Kobbeltvedt, director of the Rafto Foundation for Human Rights in Bergen, Norway, reflects on how the 1990 Rafto Prize awarded to Aung San Suu Kyi helped bring Myanmar’s democracy struggle to international attention and how the global narrative surrounding her later collided with the realities of governing. The Rafto Foundation was created to recognize human rights defenders while their struggles are still unfolding. Early laureates were dissidents from Eastern Europe, and the committee’s decision to recognize Suu Kyi marked an expansion of the prize’s focus beyond that region.

At the time of the award, Suu Kyi was under house arrest and largely unknown outside Myanmar. Her name came to the committee’s attention through a brief newspaper mention, yet the prize helped introduce her story to wider audiences. International recognition soon followed, including the Nobel Peace Prize. The Rafto Foundation maintained long-term contact with Suu Kyi and her family during her detention, and in 2013 she traveled to Bergen to formally receive the prize.

But the narrative surrounding Suu Kyi shifted dramatically after she entered government following Myanmar’s 2015 elections. As State Counsellor, she confronted political constraints that differed from those she faced as an opposition leader. Violence against Rohingya communities beginning in 2016, and her response to the crisis shocked many international supporters who had viewed her as a democratic icon.

The experience highlights the complexities of democratic transitions and the enduring influence of military power within Myanmar’s political system. It also illustrates how international advocacy, economic engagement, and diplomacy have shaped Norway’s evolving relationship with Myanmar. Despite continuing setbacks, Kobbeltvedt emphasizes that Myanmar’s citizens remain committed to pursuing democracy, and their struggle continues to draw international solidarity.

Episode #608: Dave Hopkins came to vipassana meditation not as a scholar, traveler, or spiritual seeker, but as a working-class tree worker carrying grief, anger, addiction, and exhaustion. Raised in Delaware after his father’s DuPont job brought the family north, he moved through school trouble, the Navy, drinking, restaurant work, and tree crews before landing at Dhamma Dharā, the Massachusetts meditation center in the tradition of S.N. Goenka. The pressure that brought him there was blunt: “Grief, yeah.”

His younger brother Ed had taken a course at Dhamma Dharā in 1987 and returned radiant, but in March 1989 he died by suicide. Hopkins smoked more pot, tried to dull the wound, and found that nothing was working. His first ten-day course was brutal. He arrived as a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker, left his cigarettes in the truck, endured craving, pain, drowsiness, and anger, then ran out on the tenth day, lit up, gagged, and never smoked again. The discipline gave him something he had repeatedly lost: a reason not to quit.

Over the decades, practice, service, and tree work became linked. Washing pots for students taught him that ordinary labor could help others receive Dhamma. Tree work taught him preservation without sentimentality. He removes dangerous trees when necessary, but his business-card principle is simple: “Ff there's a tree that can be saved, let's have a conversation.”

Yet Hopkins’ loyalty to the tradition does not erase his questions. He has seen Dhamma Dharā grow from rough accommodations into polished infrastructure, watched the community become younger and more professional, and felt the assistant teacher world become more distant. Since Goenka’s death, he senses “a little less heat” in the tradition’s momentum. He remains committed, but wonders about rigidity, taboo subjects, samādhi, jhāna, and older Burmese teachings that seem wider than what the contemporary organization now permits.

Hopkins never made it to Burma, and given the current conditions of conflict now ranging there, he doubts he may ever reach the Golden Land. “A lot of trains that I missed, a lot of boats that I missed,” he muses. Still, the deeper truth he draws from the path is less romantic than exacting: “You had the framework, and you had the technique, and no matter what length of course you're taking, you're on your own.”

Episode #607: “I could not stay under a military rule that’s been killing thousands of people,” Maple says. “I cannot just sit and watch.”

When Myanmar’s military seized power in February 2021, Maple was a scholarship student in South Korea studying Business Management and Entrepreneurship, already thinking about how she might one day redirect her education toward reforming the system she had grown up in. School, as she experienced it, had been shaped by hierarchy and competition rather than curiosity. Students were ranked into sections, with privileges reserved for the highest group. “The top students were in section A,” she recalls, describing how access to resources like the computer room followed those divisions. By fifth grade, monthly “talent” badges were awarded to the top ten students and publicly removed from anyone who fell behind. “It’s not about learning,” she says. “It’s all about memorizing everything and just taking the exams in the best way possible.”

Maple’s political awareness formed early. At eight years old, during the 2007 monk-led protests, she marched with her family and later watched video footage of crackdowns at home. “I saw the bodies and everything,” she remembers. By the time the coup trapped her in Myanmar during a visit from her Korean university during the pandemic, she initially believed international pressure might reverse it, studying United Nations statements closely before realizing those words offered no protection.

Maple began fundraising for the Committee Representing Pyidaungsu Hluttaw, offering scholarship consultations to students who could show donation receipts. The post spread; her bank account was frozen; soldiers arrived with a warrant under Section 505A. She spent eleven months in hiding while continuing her Korean coursework online, the isolation eroding her health and pushing her toward suicide until a drawing from her younger sister interrupted that spiral. After a failed attempt to cross into Thailand and a deportation, Maple eventually made it back across the border.

In Mae Sot, she now works with displaced students navigating the legal and financial barriers that stand between them and formal education. Here she is continuing her life’s work that started many years ago, yet under very different conditions. Myanmar students, she insists, are “smart, outstanding, and hardworking,” and resilient beyond their years. What they lack is not determination but access. “If you just give them a chance,” she promises, “they would do whatever it takes.”

Episode #606: Anusorn Tamajai’s attempted intervention during Min Aung Hlaing’s visit to Thailand began with an undelivered letter. Prevented from placing his proposals directly before Myanmar’s military leader, the Thai member of parliament raised his voice instead. The act was spontaneous, but the reasoning behind it was not. “My intention was to demand for peace in Myanmar, and I would like to fight for humanity.”

Anusorn favors a democratic federal future for Myanmar rooted in popular participation. Political activity and free expression must be restored, he argues, followed by a genuinely free election; if the military authorities cannot conduct one credibly, he believes an international body such as the United Nations should do so. His support for the Panglong tradition sits inside a wider principle: Myanmar’s political order should be determined by its people rather than imposed by an authoritarian government.

That principle also governs his view of Thailand. Thai investment that benefits the junta should carry conditions supporting greater freedom and openness, and economic relations should serve ordinary people in both countries rather than privileged corporate or political interests. Thailand should engage political forces beyond the military regime, while people arriving from Myanmar should be treated according to humanitarian obligations.

Anusorn wants ASEAN to exert similar pressure, but he recognizes how slowly such mechanisms work. He does not answer that frustration by embracing political shortcuts, but instead advisesthat movements must be built over time, even when success may lie beyond a single lifetime. “You need to build up the movement. It’s a long march.”

His planned response is to keep organizing, including an ASEAN network supporting democracy, human rights, and peace in Myanmar. The urgency has not disappeared simply because the route is long: Myanmar’s people, as he repeatedly insists, have already suffered for too long.

Episode #605: Note: this podcast episode, as well as the following text describing it, includes frank language about sexuality, male sex work, and self-harm. Reader and listener discretion is advised.

The AAS Conference in Vancouver brought together thousands of scholars and practitioners working across Asia, creating a wide-ranging space for exchange, debate, and reflection. Within that broader setting, Burma emerged as one of several urgent areas of focus amid its ongoing crisis. Insight Myanmar Podcast was invited to record on site, setting up a small space to capture a series of short, real-time conversations with participants moving through the conference. These interviews were shaped by immediacy—thoughts shared in the moment, rather than after the fact—and are now being extended to a wider global audience. This episode is the final in a four-part series.

Amnuaypond Kidpromma, a lecturer at Chiang Mai University’s Faculty of Humanities, studies a rarely discussed dimension of Myanmar’s post-coup displacement into Thailand — the rise of Myanmar male sex workers who enter the trade not as a planned profession but as an extension of migrant labor that no longer pays enough to survive.

In her research, these men usually arrive from rural Myanmar as they flee conflict and conscription, and take whatever work they can find, often in construction or restaurants. When wages fail to cover daily life, visa costs, work permits, and remittances back home, sex work becomes another shift. What interests Kidpromma is not only the economic pressure but the language the men use to absorb it. “They just say, ‘I am a man who takes the job,’” she explains. The phrase turns sex work into temporary labor rather than a fixed identity, and links it to a masculine obligation to provide.

That Burmese masculine frame shapes everything. Most of the men she interviewed entered the work still understanding themselves as straight, still calling themselves “real men,” and not speaking of the job in the same moral register that female sex workers often do. Where women in her earlier research described guilt, bad karma, religious striving, and the need to make merit, the men more often treated the work as harsh necessity. Many had once been ordained as novices or monks, and Kidpromma argues that they seem to feel they retain a kind of religious legitimacy even after entering the trade, while women work much harder to repair spiritual damage.

The movement into sex work is often gradual. Friends introduce them. They begin by drinking with clients, then allowing touch, then accepting money that far exceeds anything available in ordinary migrant labor. One man told her that after being kissed and touched, he received 5,000 baht — “this is like the whole month I earned.” From there, the line moved quickly to sexual relations.

Kidpromma does not present these men as symbols or moral lessons. She presents them as people cornered by a border economy that keeps widening after the coup. What she hears most often is not self-expression but sacrifice — the insistence that whatever is happening to them is being endured so that someone else might eat, study, or survive a little more safely.

Episode #604: “I chose hip hop.”

Born in Yangon in 1979 to parents who were nationally known singers, Anegga grew up in a household where art was both celebrated and watched. His father had helped introduce rock music to Myanmar during an earlier era of military control, and supporting opposition politics carried real risk. He remembers military visits to the family home at night and his mother having to hide because of her involvement with the NLD. Music, in other words, was never insulated from power.

Hip hop entered his life through scarcity. Myanmar at the time was largely cut off from international media, English-language books, and commercial music distribution. He encountered rap through English-language radio broadcasts, especially VOA, and was drawn first to sound rather than meaning. He did not initially understand most of the lyrics he heard from artists like LL Cool J, Nas, or Biggie, but he studied cadence, breath control, rhyme structure, and delivery. Hip hop became a way of accessing a vocabulary of frustration that felt familiar even if the geography was different. He often explains that while Myanmar did not have American-style ghettos, it lived under a different form of systemic deprivation, one that shaped the whole country rather than particular neighborhoods.

In 2000, he co-founded ACID and released what is considered to be Myanmar’s first hip hop album. The impact was immediate among young people; at the same time, every release required navigating censorship committees, submitting written lyrics in advance, altering phrasing to avoid rejection, and sometimes facing arbitrary refusals from broadcast authorities even after formal approval. The system did not operate transparently; it operated through unpredictability.

Although he has consistently argued that ACID did not begin as an explicitly political group, interpretation often exceeded intention. Songs meant as expressions of loyalty or social observation were read by audiences as indirect political commentary. That ambiguity narrowed after 2007, when the Saffron Revolution led to arrests of band members, including Zayar Thaw. Over time, Anegga moved from coded expression to open political engagement, releasing explicitly political songs, supporting the NLD, and distributing banned political literature discreetly among students. His political involvement was also shaped by family history and long-standing loyalty to Aung San Suu Kyi.

After the 2021 coup, the separation between music and politics disappeared entirely. Zayar Thaw, who had moved from hip hop into parliament, joined the resistance and was executed by the military in 2022, an act that underscored how thoroughly the country had reversed course. Anegga left Myanmar soon after and now lives in Thailand as an urban refugee, separated from his family and uncertain about permanent resettlement.