A deceptive calm has settled over Karenni State, Burma. It’s a silence that feels heavier than any bombardment, a stillness born not of peace, but of calculated waiting. While fierce fighting rages in neighboring Karen State, here, the air is eerily quiet – a lull many believe is a cynical ploy by the ruling military to lend a veneer of legitimacy to sham elections. Elections from which all opposition has been brutally excluded.
Just days ago, this region echoed with the constant thrum of explosions. Drones hunted from above, mortar shells crashed relentlessly, and the occasional roar of airstrikes shattered the fragile peace. Now, only two planes have broken the horizon, and the silence is almost unbearable, a prelude to the storm that is inevitably coming.
The resistance is focused on reclaiming Pasaung, a vital city within the state. Last August, I witnessed the initial, desperate assault – a coordinated effort by multiple ethnic armed groups united against the junta. It was a brutal clash, met with devastating drone strikes and a crippling shortage of ammunition, forcing a painful retreat. Another attempt is brewing, the timing shrouded in secrecy.
This young man was born into a country already scarred by decades of conflict. His eyes, though barely eighteen, hold a weariness that belies his age. He’s part of a generation for whom the sounds of war – the explosions, the gunfire, the screams – are the soundtrack to their lives. They’ve witnessed horrors no child should ever know, and some have been forced to become instruments of violence themselves.
Traveling through resistance-held territory is a grueling test of endurance. Roads have been pulverized by bombs, forcing journeys through dense jungle and treacherous rivers. Makeshift bridges, constructed from salvaged oil drums and bamboo, are the only way across. A five-hour drive just months ago now stretches into a twelve-hour ordeal, severely hindering the delivery of vital supplies and the evacuation of the wounded.
The disparity in resources is stark. The Burma army enjoys the luxury of airlifts and helicopter evacuations. Here, in the resistance zones, survival depends on solar power, generators, and the fragile lifeline of Starlink for communication. The government can procure arms from China, while the resistance relies on dwindling donations and a desperate scramble for black market supplies – a single bullet for an AK-47 now costs three dollars.
I saw a surreal moment of desperation recently. A soldier, lacking even basic equipment, playfully donned my helmet, pretending to be the warrior he so desperately needed to be. It’s a common sight – soldiers without vests, without plates, without the fundamental tools to protect themselves. The shortage is critical, a constant reminder of the sacrifices being made.
This isn’t a conflict where others are asked to fight. The people of Burma are facing this down with unwavering resolve, willing to fight with their bare hands if necessary. Their requests are simple: drone jammers, small arms, ammunition. Or, failing that, a halt to the flow of weapons and jet fuel from China, Russia, and India – the lifeblood of the junta.
I recently witnessed a harrowing attack on a heavily fortified government position in Karen State. The resistance forces, facing an uphill battle and exposed to relentless fire, pressed forward anyway. They advanced across open ground, a clear target for mortars and machine guns, driven by a force stronger than fear.
They employed a clever, desperate tactic – a homemade Bangalore torpedo, assembled piece by piece on the battlefield. Each soldier carried a section, pushing the explosive charge forward, knowing full well it could detonate at any moment. Some were forced to run ahead, dragging the torpedo through the kill zone, exposing themselves to certain danger.
They did it anyway. And they continue to fight, outgunned, outmatched, and desperately lacking in resources. They fight for freedom, for justice, for a federal republic – a dream passed down through generations, a struggle that began in 1948 and continues to this day. The weight of history, and the hope for a future, rests on their shoulders.
Before setting out, I joined Catholic resistance soldiers in prayer. It was a moment of quiet reflection, a plea for strength and guidance in the face of overwhelming odds. The journey to the battle will take two days, a slow march towards an uncertain future.
