Beneath a flimsy plastic tarp, a classroom flickers with a fragile hope. Here, in a camp for those displaced by conflict in Shan State, Burma, stories of shattered lives unfold. Students and teachers recount being driven from their homes by the army, bearing the weight of lost loved ones and futures put on hold, often displaced time and again.
The common thread binding these hundreds of residents is a haunting repetition of trauma. Many fled previous camps, only to see them reduced to rubble by airstrikes – even their places of worship destroyed. These IDP camps exist in a dangerous limbo, unprotected by international organizations, largely within areas controlled by resistance forces.
Across Burma, over four million people are internally displaced, facing a desperate lack of aid. Food and water are scarce, and temporary shelters of plastic have become long-term homes, erected five years ago as the military coup ignited a nationwide revolution. Families are fractured, marked by loss, with young men joining the resistance and others simply vanished by the war.
Saw Ayar Soe Htoo, a teacher, remembers the attack on his village. His family escaped to a camp, but their relief was short-lived. Months later, an airstrike claimed the lives of his wife and son. “I couldn’t teach for two months,” he confessed, his voice thick with grief, “seeing the students only reminded me of my boy.”
He found refuge in a hidden camp, nestled in a jungle valley, hoping its dense canopy would shield them from the air. But even here, learning is a struggle. The students are burdened by trauma, haunted by what they’ve witnessed, and living under the constant shadow of fear and deprivation.
Though most of Burma’s population is Buddhist, this region is predominantly Karenni and Christian. Saw Ayar Soe Htoo’s prayers are simple, yet profound: “I pray that I will see my daughter again.” She was at boarding school when the attack came, and he was forced to prioritize his wife and son, unable to reach her.
Now, his daughter is twelve, studying in a government-controlled area, while he remains in resistance territory. Returning to retrieve her carries the risk of arrest. She is too young to navigate the war zone alone, leaving father and daughter separated, their reunion dependent on a peace that seems distant.
Fifteen-year-old Angela’s story echoes this pain. When the military arrived, her family fled to the mountains, facing a relentless search for water and an inadequate jungle school. They moved to Bangkok IDP camp, only to have her home destroyed and her brother killed in an airstrike. She was also injured and hospitalized, and her oldest brother tragically drowned.
Angela, like so many others, prays for peace, for the safety of her camp, and for an end to the airstrikes. She clings to the hope of continuing her education, currently in grade eight, and dreams of working in Japan one day, believing she can earn a better life there. “I want the world to know how hard it is in Burma,” she pleaded. “We face difficulty daily. We have a shortage of supplies, especially food.”
Eighteen-year-old July recounted fleeing her village after the coup, moving from mountain camp to mountain camp, always one step ahead of the advancing army. The sound of heavy weapons and falling shells forced them to abandon their home, leaving behind everything but a bag of rice and a few clothes.
They witnessed homes burning and heard chilling reports of violence against women. The journey was arduous, especially for those without transportation. After a year, they learned their village had been razed, their belongings stolen. Life in the camps was brutal, sleeping on the ground under thin plastic tarps, battling sickness from the cold.
Another IDP camp offered little respite, struck by at least three government airstrikes. July lost her brother, sister-in-law, and niece in one devastating attack. She eventually arrived at her current camp, grateful for its relatively good school, even if classes are held under a plastic tarp.
July’s parents now work as migrant agricultural laborers, constantly fearing discovery by the government due to her attendance at a resistance-controlled school. They traded a life of ownership for one of precarious labor, driven by the hope of keeping their daughter safe and educated. “I always pray to overcome the obstacles the war has created,” she said, “for peace, and for the safety of those fighting for democracy.”
She offered a final, heartfelt plea: “I thank God for keeping my parents alive. I do not want anyone to experience these kinds of problems.” The school, a beacon of normalcy, stands as a testament to the resilience of a community determined to rebuild, even amidst the ruins of war.
