The Space Between
Coming Soon…
The second episode in a five-part series, this set of interviews was recorded at the 16th International Burma Studies Conference, held recently at Northern Illinois University (NIU). Long recognized as the institutional anchor for Burma Studies in North America—and a global center for research on the country’s history, language, art, and society—NIU once again hosted a gathering that drew scholars, students, researchers, and practitioners from around the world. The conference featured research presentations, forums, roundtables, and cultural exhibitions that balanced academic rigor with a shared concern for Burma’s uncertain future. Organized around the theme “Dealing with Legacies in Burma,” participants explored the layered memories, histories, and interactions that continue to shape the region. Against the backdrop of ongoing political repression and humanitarian crisis, the conversations carried particular weight. Anthropologists, historians, linguists, artists, political scientists, and religious scholars came together to exchange findings and reflect on how academic work can document, preserve, and deepen understanding of Burma’s social and cultural realities in this difficult moment. It was also a rare space of connection and care—an opportunity for open dialogue at a time when such spaces within the country have become painfully limited. Throughout the gathering, Insight Myanmar recorded a range of interviews with diverse attendees, each offering their own perspective on Burma’s past, present, and future. Produced in collaboration with NIU’s Center for Southeast Asian Studies, these conversations invite listeners into the atmosphere of the conference, introducing the people who continue to shape and sustain the field of Burma Studies today.
This episode features Thuta, Alicia Turner, and Kathryn.
First up is Thuta, a Burmese educator, poet, and lover of language who traces the roots of his literary passion to his childhood in Lashio, in northern Shan State. Moving to the United States in 2021 on a scholarship, he pursued studies in Education Policy and Leadership at the University of Oregon, building upon earlier academic work in English literature. Choosing to study in Oregon—far from established Burmese communities—was part of a desire to challenge himself, experience life as a minority, and build friendships across differences.
Thuta’s earliest encounters with poetry came from listening to his father recite classical Burmese verses, and over time he connected with how poetry portrays a shifting emotional landscape. Depending on where he finds himself physically or emotionally, he may turn to Pablo Neruda, Rabindranath Tagore, or classical Burmese poets, drawing comfort or expression from different voices as situations demand. Poetry is inseparable from experience for him. He describes it as a constant companion that appears during moments of joy—such as receiving a scholarship or completing his master’s degree—as well as during periods of frustration, loss, and national crisis.
He often writes or translates poetry during emotionally intense periods, including when his sister was detained in 2023. When he translates, for him, it is more an emotional than technical act; he believes poetry cannot be faked and must arise from genuine feeling. Machines may generate language, he notes, but they cannot produce the authenticity that comes from the deepest layers of the heart. This belief extends to his understanding of poetic universality: poetry crosses linguistic boundaries and even physical ones, allowing him to recall classical Burmese poems while standing in snowy Oregon or imagine Robert Frost’s world from far away in Shan State.
His fascination with language goes beyond poetry to encompass identity, cultural blending, and creative wordplay. Seeing himself not as a linguist but as a “word player,” Thuta experiments with merging languages and symbols to express complex personal identities. For example, to express his own hybrid identity, he coined the term “Oregon Padauk,” combining his American home with Myanmar’s national flower. This became both the title of a poem and the name of an educational organization he founded. Through Oregon Padauk, he hopes to promote trauma-informed practices in classrooms affected by conflict, drawing on fifteen years of teaching experience in Myanmar and the United States.
Thuta also reflects on the emotional complexities of code-switching. He acknowledges the privileges and hierarchies tied to being a native speaker—although is speaks excellent English, he feels most poetic and emotionally authentic in Burmese. He prefers to use Burmese when discussing challenging topics, like trauma.
Turning to his adoptive home, he says Oregon has left a lasting mark on him, from its natural beauty to the generosity of its people. He especially values the courage and engagement of senior citizens, whom he sees as living history and vital contributors to democratic and social justice efforts. As he prepares for the next chapter of his life, he carries these lessons with him and expresses a belief that individuals should not wait for the light at the end of the tunnel but instead become sources of light for others during dark times.
Alicia Turner, a leading scholar of Burmese Buddhism and colonial history, touches upon on the evolution of Burma Studies, the responsibilities of scholars during Myanmar’s present crisis, and the ethical complexities surrounding knowledge production.
When Turner first entered Burma Studies twenty-five years ago, she approached it through the study of religion—particularly the social and political power of Theravāda Buddhism. At that time, Myanmar was extremely difficult for foreign researchers to access, and only a small cohort of scholars, especially Americans, were able to conduct meaningful work inside the country. In those years, she says research tended to focus on language mastery, deep cultural immersion (attending festivals, visiting monasteries, living in major cities, etc.), and humanistic methods, since ethnographic and social-scientific approaches that required in-depth interviews were largely impossible; Myanmar’s authoritarian system restricted access, endangered participants, and blocked the openness required for such methods.
With the political transitions of the 2010s, a rapid influx of new scholars emerged—both foreign and Myanmar-born. Yet Turner says challenges the outsider perception that after the 1962, research about Burma essentially stopped for decades. She argues that important work was taking place, even if mainstream narratives often ignore those contributions. The most transformative development today, she argues, is the rise of young Myanmar scholars who are now pursuing advanced degrees worldwide after being displaced by conflict. Their participation brings critical perspectives that challenge longstanding assumptions in the field, offering “useful correctives and pushback” that only insiders can provide.
One vivid example is a recent special issue of the Journal of Burma Studies—the first bilingual edition in English and Burmese. Turner describes how this was driven by a collective insistence, especially from younger colleagues, that scholarly knowledge must be accessible to those inside Myanmar. The project required extensive labor and revision, but it modeled a form of decolonial practice: not simply producing research about Myanmar, but ensuring that it circulates within Myanmar’s linguistic and intellectual worlds. True decolonization, she emphasizes, goes far beyond adding Myanmar scholars into Western academic structures. It requires taking Myanmar epistemologies seriously—not merely inserting Burmese content into Western methods, but recognizing the diverse ways people in Myanmar create, validate, and transmit knowledge.
Turner has not returned to Myanmar since before COVID-19 and feels that doing so now would be ethically fraught. Even ostensibly “neutral” research—such as archaeology or the study of material culture—depends on networks of local assistance, transportation, and institutional support, all of which carry political implications in an authoritarian environment. She also critiques the notion of “objective neutrality,” noting that claims to detached scholarship are historically rooted in colonial modes of studying the non-Western world. While acknowledging that scholars who strive for objectivity often hold sincere intentions, the reality, Turner argues, is that no research is free from ethical entanglements. Every choice—from fieldwork to translation—has consequences.
In discussing decolonization, Turner argues that it requires Burmese scholars to examine their own positionality, privileges, and blind spots—confronting Myanmar’s own internal hierarchies—just as it demands that foreign scholars question theirs. For example, in Canada, where she lives, public recognition of multiple languages shapes everyday life in positive ways. While English is the predominant language, French is everywhere. In contrast, a Bamar person might live their entire life without seeing Shan, Chin, or Mon scripts, despite living in a multiethnic state. In Canada, the French-speaking minority is “seen”; in Myanmar, minorities are often invisible.
The conversation comes to a close with a discussion of Burmese Buddhism, colonial legacies, and the modern mindfulness movement. Turner acknowledges that Western practitioners often derive great personal benefit from meditation traditions that emerged in Myanmar. Yet the transmission of these practices has also involved selective appropriation, decontextualization, and the erasure of Burmese historical complexity. She has observed encouraging signs of greater introspection within Western Buddhist communities—particularly around race, power, and historical lineage—but emphasizes that genuine progress depends on humility: recognizing limits, remaining open to change, and acknowledging the imperfect histories of one’s teachers and traditions.
Turner concludes by praising the podcast’s commitment to long-form, nuanced conversations, which she sees as crucial for sustaining ethical and reflective public engagement on Myanmar’s future.
Kathryn, a student researching political violence, discusses her work on the concept of “extra-lethal violence.” She takes this term from a scholar who coined it to describe violence that not only kills a person but destroys their dignity, legacy, and place in the community. She connects this idea to events in Myanmar, including recent atrocities where the military displayed victims’ heads—acts she sees as fundamentally inhumane. Kathryn worries that such brutality, committed by any side, reinforces an unending cycle of violence that the revolution itself seeks to escape. For her, the goal is not just overthrowing the military, but breaking away from the punitive logic that has long shaped Myanmar’s political culture.
When asked about areas where the resistance has succeeded, Kathryn highlights ongoing initiatives like the Joint Coordination Body bringing ethnic minority leaders together. She is also encouraged by everyday acts of resistance—boycotts, speaking out, mutual aid—illustrating that people across Myanmar are doing whatever they can, with whatever tools they have. These forms of participation, she argues, show the evolution of civic resistance in. Myanmar since the 1988 uprising.
Where she sees shortcomings, Kathryn mainly points to some in the resistance leadership. She admires protest leaders who remain embedded with ordinary people despite the risks involved, but contrasts this with NUG leadership that she feels should be more present inside the country. She views grassroots leaders as essential figures who bring the struggle “home” through their closeness to the public.
Kathryn addresses the issue about speaking critically about the resistance without falling into false equivalence with the military, whose violence is systematic and unprovoked. But she argues that holding the resistance to higher standards is precisely what could make the revolution transformative. She references Gandhi as an example of achieving the seemingly impossible through moral discipline. Victory, in her view, requires not mirroring the military’s methods.
A key theme for Kathryn is the rejection of rigid divides between “us” and “them.” She stresses the importance of reaching out even to ordinary soldiers within the junta who joined for economic survival. Treating all individuals as irredeemably tied to the military, she argues, only worsens the divide and undermines national healing. She offers historical examples, such as former president Thein Sein, to show that individuals linked to the military can still contribute positively to reform.
As a member of Gen Z, Kathryn describes a shared longing among youth for the relative freedoms experienced during 2010–2020—nightlife, safe travel, creative opportunities, and civic energy. While recognizing that not all groups shared equally in those improvements, she believes those years provided a glimpse of what Myanmar could become. This memory fuels youth determination to pursue a future not defined by fear and division.
On the proliferation of arms, Kathryn expresses concern that while weapons do protect, they also create an illusion of immunity from the consequences of violence; that illusion, she warns, collapses in the long term when society has to rebuild. She reflects on global patterns where victims can become oppressors, noting that ethical restraint must be continually practiced rather than assumed.
In closing, Kathryn emphasizes her deep love for her country and her belief that unity is a choice Myanmar’s people have made before and must make again. She sees agency, solidarity, and commitment to a shared future as essential foundations for moving forward as a nation.