You'll Never Walk Alone
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“Being together is very important during this revolution. We fight together, we stay together, we serve together, and we work together. That kind of togetherness is very important!”
Being Bamar herself, Sandar’s lifelong, active curiosity about her country’s diverse cultures is quite unusual, given the military’s relentless pro-Bamar “brainwashing” and the historical divide that has existed between Burma’s majority Bamar population and its many ethnic communities. As a student, she was drawn to research and writing, which led her to study anthropology and ethnography. Over the years, she traveled extensively throughout Myanmar, visiting remote villages and ethnic territories, immersing herself in different communities, collecting their stories, and documenting their traditions. In particular, she spent a lot of time in Kachin state, where she studied local histories and developed close and trusting relationships. Through those experiences, she gained firsthand insight into their culture and how they maintained their dignity amid the struggle to survive against a brutal and oppressive military regime.
Although Sandar’s primary focus was research-based writing, she also learned photography as a tool for ethnographic study. To her, the camera is a complementary medium for storytelling, allowing her to capture details that written words might miss. But photography remained secondary for her—that is, until the coup changed everything.
When the military seized control in 2021, Sandar’s world was thrown into turmoil. Movement became restricted, intellectual freedom was suppressed, and the possibility of continuing fieldwork was shattered. When protests began erupting in Yangon, she decided to turn to photography more seriously, now as a tool to document the growing resistance movement. She joined mass protests, capturing the determination of those taking to the streets against the military regime. The experience was harrowing! She and her fellow activists were chased and surrounded—and at times nearly shot—by the regime’s forces. When protests could no longer be organized on a large scale, they became short, hit-and-run demonstrations. More concerning still, the military began to increasingly target photographers, which made just holding a camera a life-threatening proposition. When continuing to document the resistance in Yangon was finally no longer tenable, she sought another way to contribute.
At that time, many young people were either going to remote areas for military training or fleeing abroad for safety. Sandar originally planned to go to Kachin, as she was familiar with the region based on her previous time there. However, when she heard that Karenni had become one of the first states to organize to resist the coup, she decided to go there instead.
She connected with a friend who had already established a presence there. She arranged for Sandar’s safe passage to an IDP camp, where she was issued a bed. From the camp, Sandar saw firsthand the destruction caused by military offensives: burned homes, displaced families, and the scars of relentless attacks. Wanting to be useful, she joined a group of medical students who had fled Yangon and were providing healthcare services to IDPs. She lived with them, documenting their work and learning about their struggles. “This is the situation that I have to face in a war zone. This is the situation that I have to embrace. That's it! I need to continue!” she exclaims, describing the attitude she came to adopt. “This is our real situation: ‘Okay, we got destroyed. Start again, continue. Got destroyed. Start again, continue.’ This is the situation we are embracing.”
Later, Sandar made her way to a Karenni military training camp, where she stayed for three months. Though she did not train as a soldier, she immersed herself in their world, closely observing how ordinary individuals were transformed into resistance fighters. She documented every aspect of the training: physical drills, military lessons, social activities, and even the psychological and philosophical aspects of soldiering. She was fascinated by the internal narratives that shaped these young men and women—their personal histories, motivations, and the deep-rooted history of Karenni resistance. She studied their slogans, anthems, and training routines, seeking to understand what made someone a true Karenni soldier beyond just physical endurance.
Living in close quarters with the trainees, Sandar participated in morning exercises, helped cook for large groups using limited resources, and adapted to the harsh realities of jungle life. She slept under makeshift shelters, relying on foraged food and limited supplies, and learned survival techniques from local villagers and resistance fighters, such as identifying edible plants, navigating dense forests, and staying concealed from aerial surveillance. She wrote daily diary entries about everything she witnessed. Sandar also learned to read and write in the Karenni and Karen languages.
Over time, Sandar’s stay at the training camp fundamentally changed her understanding of Myanmar’s ethnic struggles. The constant threat of attack forced her to develop a sense of fortitude, deepening her connection to the people living in these conditions daily. She no longer saw resistance as just an act of defiance, but a deeply ingrained part of identity and survival. The experience also shifted her perspective from that of an external observer documenting the resistance to a participant embedded in the very fabric of the struggle.
Another issue that became clear to Sandar was the lack of educational opportunity for young IDPs. Many were displaced multiple times and had no access to formal schooling. To help remedy the situation, she volunteered to teach children in a small village, where families made a vow to her that they would stay on despite the risk, so long as their children had continued access to learning. And so, with no formal classroom or books, and only a marker, Sandar used fences as chalkboards and taught basic literacy and numeracy through creative methods. This initiative grew into an alternative school within an IDP camp.
Initially, this “school” was simply a bamboo tent, with two teachers on staff, and 54 students ready to study. It was funded by friends and former teachers, along with some small grants. Drawing from her background in alternative education, Sandar developed a creative curriculum based on available resources. She integrated environmental science, psychosocial support, organic farming, and mother-tongue language instruction. Classes focused not only on formal education but also on skills that would help the students survive and contribute meaningfully to their communities. The need for higher education soon became apparent, so in 2023, she launched a diploma program in social studies, targeting adolescent IDPs. The coursework emphasized research, anthropology, and social sciences, providing students with the critical thinking tools necessary to navigate their circumstances.
Despite these successes, the school faced constant disruptions due to the conflict. The area where it was first established was eventually hit by an airstrike, forcing the entire community to relocate. This cycle repeated multiple times, with the school being displaced and rebuilt in different locations. The challenges of running an educational institution in a war zone were immense: lack of reliable funding, security concerns, and psychological trauma among students.
Yet Sandar remains deeply committed to her documentary work. Besides bringing an authentic, informative picture of the Karenni culture and people, she presents her work as a critique of top-down peace-building efforts, which she sees as disconnected from the lived realities of ethnic groups. By portraying Karenni civilians, medics, and soldiers not as victims, but as individuals embodying resilience and defiance amid relentless military assaults, she presents a counter-narrative to the prevailing perspective of the Karenni as just a suffering people who need outside help. She highlights how policymakers, often distant from the ground, fail to grasp the historical depth of these struggles before entering negotiations. Over the years, as Sandar immersed herself in Karenni communities, she has witnessed firsthand how villages devastated by military raids have been reconstructed with salvaged materials, how education has persisted under trees, and how medical care has continued in makeshift field clinics despite scarce resources. For many, survival itself is an act of defiance, and rather than viewing war as a disruption, they see it as an unavoidable battle to protect their people and land. Resistance, she observes, is not solely about armed struggle—it is about refusing to surrender their way of life.
Finally, Sandar addresses the issue of privilege. She stresses that being a Bamar from the mainland has afforded her access to education and opportunities that many Karenni youth never enjoyed. This awareness has fueled her determination to use whatever skills and knowledge she has for the benefit of those who have been systematically marginalized. She rejects the predominant, cultural narrative that portrays Bamar people as superior and ethnic groups as separatists. Instead, just as she immerses herself in these different communities, learning their languages, cultures, and histories, she encourages others to do the same.
Ultimately, Sandar believes that genuine solidarity cannot come from neither superficial events, performative gestures, nor top-down initiatives; instead, it must be built through deep, meaningful engagement. She has seen firsthand how young people from different backgrounds have come together during the revolution, breaking the old barriers that once divided Myanmar’s ethnic communities. For her, the revolution is not just about toppling the military but about fundamentally reconstructing the country’s social fabric. As she continues to document, teach, and support the Karenni community, Sandar remains committed to the belief that real change comes from the ground up. Whether through photography, education, or simply sharing meals and stories, she embodies a vision of revolution that is deeply personal, pragmatic, and hopeful.
“As far as we embrace, we can resist. We can keep our resistance. But if we run away from that, then we cannot fight against the military. So that kind of embracing things, even sad things, are also fighting against the military.”
If you enjoyed this episode, we suggest listening to the following previous shows from our archive, which touch upon similar themes:
· Lartar describes growing up in a remote village near the Thai border; constantly fleeing from military attacks defined her early childhood, which pushed her family into hiding in the jungle and later turned her into a refugee. Her experiences reflect the deep scars of a nation where displacement and survival become generational struggles, where children must decide between education and security, and where even the act of acquiring an ID card to which one is entitled is fraught with obstacles.
· Nyein’s journey into photojournalism defied societal and familial expectations, and she then further had to face gender discrimination while bearing professional risks. Her strength of character in carving out a path against cultural pressures, along with the urge to document the military’s atrocities despite the risks, echo a broader fight for visibility and truth in a land where personal aspiration and national struggle are deeply intertwined.
· Moe abandoned his original career path to pursue photojournalism, seeking to capture Myanmar’s reality through the lens of those living at the margins, often immersing himself in their communities so he could tell their stories with greater depth. His commitment to chronicling injustice and human resilience reflects his unyielding efforts to ensure that even in these times of crisis, the lived experiences of those suffering do not remain unseen.
· Tu Lor was born in a small Karen village, and grew up without schools, electricity, or security, until her family made the difficult decision to flee to a refugee camp in Thailand, and later resettle in the United States. The constant instability of displacement, the struggle for education, and the ever-present fear of violence highlight the reality of a people who have been forced to run for generations, where leaving home is not an escape but a necessity for survival.
· Susan Zaw initially viewed the coup and protests with detachment, neither strongly supporting the NLD nor the military, until the brutal killing of her neighbor—a volunteer taxi driver aiding protesters—shattered her neutrality. The realization that even those offering basic help could be ruthlessly targeted by the military transformed her perspective, illustrating how personal loss can ignite a deeper understanding of injustice and turn passive bystanders into active participants in the fight for freedom.