In a moment of tears, I thought I wouldn’t move from my room, filled with loneliness, hopelessness, exhaustion, and fear. I wanted to cancel all my plans. But then, a small spark from my conscious mind whispered, "You should go. You should continue."
Like a traveler who had packed the bag a week in advance yet ended up packing again at midnight for a sudden trip, I, too, made my decision with uncertainty. That morning, I didn’t sleep in the taxi, unlike someone who falls asleep every time while riding in a car, even on a motorbike during a long trip. My mind was restless, wondering what lay ahead in the coming two weeks. The taxi driver, in a friendly tone, reassured me, "You can sleep peacefully with no worries; the journey is long." But I couldn’t rest. My thoughts were consumed by heartbreak and the looming deadlines of my studies.
About thirty minutes before reaching my destination, exhaustion finally took over, and I fell asleep forgetting to message my friend who was supposed to pick me up. As soon as I arrived at the gate, memories of the past flooded my mind. Standing before the canal, where I had to cross by a rope-pulled boat, I found myself lost in thought. Instead of figuring out how to get across with my luggage, I reflected on the times I had spent there. I used to cross this canal with friends, laugh and cry beside its waters, and sit alone, gazing at the moon for hours at midnight.
Just then, my friend waved at me from the other side and took me across in the boat. Even as I arrived, I kept reminiscing about my past rather than thanking him. When I reached the place, my friend from India and another lady, who also seemed Indian, greeted me warmly. "Why didn’t you contact me to pick you up from the port?" she asked. At that moment, I became fully present and explained that I had fallen asleep in the taxi. She then took me to the dining hall for breakfast, where some people greeted me while others looked at me like a stranger.
Before class started, I hesitated about where to sit, feeling anxious about how others might perceive me. I considered sitting outside the circle, but a friend gently reassured me, "This is your place. We planned this seat for you as a participant." I avoided making eye contact, instead staring at the wall and ceiling, secretly searching for my childhood friend, who I knew would be joining the class. She arrived just before the session began. The moment I saw her, I felt a rush of happiness and called out to her excitedly, letting her know I was there. With her presence, I felt more at ease.
When the class started, the teacher invited me to the front to introduce myself alongside another new friend. Part of me felt confident in my English, but another part was shy and nervous under the gaze of my classmates. After that, class began with a poem, which made me delighted because I love poetry. The teacher instructed us to read it, try to understand its meaning, and then discuss our interpretations. The poem was The Guest House by Rumi. After finishing the morning class, feeling both new and unsettled, I sat where the sunlight filtered through the leaves, writing in my tiny notebook about the feelings in my heart, mostly about missing someone.
That evening, during dinner, my friends were discussing fortune-telling. Curious, I read the lines on their palms, making guesses about their lives. Surprisingly, some of my predictions aligned with their current situations. I realized that people are always eager to know their future, just as I am. I, too, wondered what lay ahead for me, yet I knew I could not predict it.
On the second day, I attended a mindful consumption class led by another trainer, which made me reflect on what I had learned about consumption seven years ago. Back then, I promised myself to be a minimalist, but I am still far from it, as I love wearing colorful accessories to feel beautiful and stylish. However, I became more conscious about microplastics and microbeads, which I am currently studying at my university. While my academic learning sometimes disappoints me, at that moment, it made me happy. During the session, when everyone had to make a promise, I pledged to express gratitude before eating. Yet, I still forget every time and instead prefer to say 'Itadakimasu' in Japanese; a phrase that has been ingrained in my mind ever since I started learning Japanese eight years ago.
Next day, before class began, I was writing in my notebook when a classmate approached me and said, "You are so cute." That small compliment lifted my spirits, making me feel positive about the day ahead. But unexpectedly, that day was a counseling session. People opened up about their struggles, revealing raw emotions; pain, fear, anger, sorrow. It felt intense and overwhelmingly real, unlike the daily life I’m used to, where people often pretend to be okay.
I was caught off guard, wide-eyed, wondering, "What is wrong with these people?" as I was unaware of the class agenda. One of my friends was shrinking into herself, crying. The teacher then instructed us to pair up for a co-counseling session, where we would talk and listen to each other. I paired up with my childhood friend, who shared how she felt about the class. At that moment, I finally understood the purpose of the session. I began to grasp the deeper currents of this environment, the way emotions flowed freely, the way people connected. It was then that I started to trust them, feeling more comfortable among them.
Later, during lunch, I sat with a friend from Korea, whom I had met in India. We reminisced about the conference we attended together. He then asked me about the situation in Myanmar and my family. The mention of my country made me miss my parents and little sister. The anxieties and guilt that had weighed on me for days resurfaced. But at the same time, I appreciated that someone from another part of the world recognized the struggles we were going through.
That afternoon, the emotional intensity did not fade. A Myanmar friend presented a song titled 'Kyal', a tribute to the heroes who had died in the coup. As the music video played showing scenes of protests, gunfire, and grieving families, I could not contain my emotions. The moment I saw the image of three raised fingers on the screen, a symbol of our unwavering resistance against the military coup, my heart pounded, my body trembled with fear, and memories of the past came rushing back.
I remembered protesting with my friends, running when the police chased us. I remembered my ex-boyfriend leaving for another town to join the larger movement. I remembered the night I received a call saying he had been arrested. I remembered another call telling me he had been beaten in prison. I remembered the threats from the prison officer. The nights I sobbed in my dark room after hearing that two of my friends had been taken. That evening, I left the house while my friends were being arrested on the way. The moment my parents called, begging me not to return home. The time the police came searching for me. The amulet my mother gave me, hoping it would keep me safe from arrest.
Overwhelmed, I covered my face with my hands and sobbed uncontrollably. I forgot that I was surrounded by people who didn’t know me deeply. But after the song ended, I realized I wasn’t crying alone. Many others were in tears, moved by our pain as Myanmar participants. At that moment, I felt something shift within me. I felt a warmth, a sense of shared humanity, of people standing together against injustice and cruelty.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt safe again.
Another day passed as we watched a movie about racial segregation in America, The Freedom Writers. The senseless violence and discrimination created by people in this world reminded me of how chaotic and unjust things are everywhere. During the movie reflection session, I shared my experiences of discrimination as a Muslim-Buddhist hybrid when I applied for a national identity card in middle school. I was eager to share, but the time limit was only three minutes.
After that session, we participated in an activity where we had to rank how useful our mother language is in the world. To my surprise, I noticed that we, the Myanmar participants including myself, instantly chose the lowest rank without thinking twice. We even laughed and made jokes about how useless our mother language is globally. Yet, despite everything, I felt proud of us. We are resilient people in this vast world filled with oppression.
A productive week of making connections with new friends quickly passed, and the weekend arrived, bringing more memorable moments. I spent time playing guitar with a friend who was deeply passionate about music. At first, I thought it would be difficult to connect with her, I wasn’t sure how to approach her because of her teenage energy, which made it seem like she didn’t care much about others. I saw her as a free spirit. But as we played guitar together, I discovered her warmth and thoughtfulness. It felt like I was seeing beyond the walls she had built around herself. That night, as we danced in a moment of healing, I felt our bond deepen like sinking into the vast ocean of closeness.
That afternoon, a Japanese friend made a heartfelt wish for the people of Myanmar, marking four years since the coup. Even though I didn’t fully understand his chant in Japanese, I could feel the warmth and sacredness of the moment. It was as if our wishes were soaring through the air, spreading positive energy to the people of Myanmar. Although I am someone who believes in action more than wishes, at that moment, I truly believed in the power of the positive energy we created together in the universe. I felt deeply grateful to my Japanese friends, their constant softness, calmness, and kindness touched me profoundly.
What a productive weekend! On Sunday morning, I participated in a library makeover, arranging books and cleaning the space. It made me so happy and nostalgic, reminding me of the library activities I used to join with my friends in my hometown. I felt energized through action rather than sitting in a classroom reading academic books in one place. In that moment, I realized that Asherm is a truly special place with so many good books, and I wondered how many other places like this exist in the world. I would love to visit and explore them. Unfortunately, that day, I had an allergic reaction to cat fur and dust, one of my eyes became swollen and red. I felt embarrassed because I aspire to be an environmental activist, yet here I was, allergic to nature itself! How ironic!
One of the funniest moments of the weekend happened in the evening. The cook from the dining hall had gone home for the weekend, so we had to eat outside at a restaurant. While there, I noticed a young guy who immediately caught my attention. He reminded me of someone who had once secretly loved me and confessed his feelings just once. This boy at the restaurant was my type; tall, wearing glasses, and looking like a nerd. But then I started wondering about his age. Something told me he was much younger than me, so I was eager to find out. On Sunday, one of my friends told me he was just fourteen. I was shocked, he was literally half my age! He could be my son! I wanted to laugh at myself. At that moment, I truly felt old. But I still joked about my little "interest" in him with my friends, and we had so much fun laughing about it.
Playing volleyball with my two Vietnamese friends was also an unforgettable moment in the first week. Meanwhile, other friends were playing badminton nearby. One of the Vietnamese friends was very outgoing, while the other was a quiet and reserved girl. Suddenly, the outgoing one shouted 'Oppa' at our Korean friend, making all of us burst into laughter. At that moment, I whispered to her to call him 'Ajeossi' instead, and we laughed even harder like we didn't have a care in the world. I always wish I could play volleyball freely without worrying about time, place, or restrictions unlike at university, where we have to register first, consider the hostel's closing time, and don’t even own a volleyball. But this time, I had the volleyball in my hands, and I realized I could play anytime, even in the morning, even if I were alone. Playing volleyball made me feel youthful and refreshed, even though my hands turned red and bruised. It reminded me of my university days when I spent almost every evening in the recreation center. I also wondered why weren’t there badminton and volleyball games when I was in Asherm two years ago?
By doing so, my weekend was once again filled with laughter, heart-fluttering moments, and unforgettable experiences, one of the most beautiful weekends of my life.
To be continued...
Shwe Thinn
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