Episode #324: The Ninth Circle of Hell
"I want to go in. A lot of us want to go back and help. But we can’t,” says a visibly anguished Thiri. “We are watching our country fall apart, and we can’t even hold our people. It’s unbearable."
Thiri, a Burmese media worker, joins the podcast to discuss the aftermath of the recent 7.7 magnitude earthquake that has devastated the country. She begins by describing the overwhelming physical and logistical obstacles preventing accurate, timely coverage of the disaster. Communication lines and transportation routes were destroyed by the quake, cutting off access to affected regions. Even now, three days later, reliable communication remains difficult and sporadic. This delay in information not only hinders international reporting but prevents local journalists and volunteers from coordinating rescue and relief efforts.
With the state offering virtually no help, community members are left to conduct rescue operations themselves, often using rudimentary tools and risking their lives to retrieve loved ones from rubble. The earthquake is not just a physical calamity, Thiri explains—it's layered atop the psychological trauma of living in a collapsed state where the only reliable support has long come from one’s neighbors, not from any government institution.
Media coverage has not been able to keep up with the scale of the disaster, either. This is in large part the result of the targeted repression of journalists by the junta; since the 2021 coup, many Burmese journalists have fled the country or gone into hiding. Local reporting now largely depends on a scattered network of fixers, volunteers, and citizen journalists. The difficulty of getting accurate information, even for someone as connected as Thiri, highlights the deeper issue: media in Myanmar is operating in near-total darkness. And with U.S. funding cuts to outlets like Radio Free Asia (RFA) and Voice of America (VOA), the burden of documentation has shifted to informal networks that are poorly resourced and increasingly under threat. “It’s not that we’re slow to report,” she says. “It’s that we can’t even get the information.” So while some coverage is trickling out, the level of destruction is still woefully underreported.
Although time is of the essence in the aftermath of such devastating natural disasters, the military is playing its old propaganda game, like it did after Cyclone Nargis in 2008: it has responded with a mixture of denial, obfuscation, and propaganda. “They always lie,” Thiri states bluntly, “even for natural disasters.” This leads to grossly underestimating the number of casualties, which Thiri believes is likely two to three times higher than official death count. She reports that in some areas, local charity groups are burying one body every three minutes, around the clock! Moreover, rather than mobilizing resources to help, the military is using the disaster as a photo opportunity. Carefully staged images of top generals visiting sanitized clinics are shared for international consumption, painting a false picture of order and aid. Meanwhile, actual rescue operations are being carried out by civilians using their bare hands.
One twist in the junta’s usual modus operandi is its swift, very public welcome of international aid. Thiri interprets this as a multi-pronged strategy. First, by appearing to cooperate and request aid, the military aims to present themselves as a responsible and legitimate governing body and persuade the country that they care. Connected to this, she believes it’s also an attempt to mask the real devastation in cities like Naypyidaw by controlling the narrative, manipulating the media through staged photo ops and a projection of competence. She also feels that the junta may be seeking international legitimacy through the guise of humanitarian openness.
Thiri warns international donors to be very wary, and that they should try to engage with multi-layered, local networks, exercising “conflict sensitivity,” meaning the responsibility to understand the broader political and social context of a crisis, such as who holds power, who is being oppressed, and how well-intentioned actions might unintentionally worsen the situation. This is a principle well-known in aid circles but often forgotten in moments of urgency. The willingness to engage, she argues, should involve clear conditions: that the military cease offensives during the crisis, that it ensures the safety of volunteers and journalists, and that it depoliticizes humanitarian aid. Otherwise, donors may simply end up unwittingly complicit in the junta’s repression, such as if aid is repurposed for military gain. This is not just an irrational concern: Myanmar’s military has a long history of diverting humanitarian supplies for warfare or patronage. “You cannot just give and leave!” she stresses. Aid must be distributed in partnership with local NGOs, civil society groups, and ethnic organizations—not the military.
While the country clearly does need massive international support, it needs it so much more beyond this as well, because the junta has systematically dismantled traditional networks of community-based support. Volunteers have been arrested or forced underground. Community doctors who joined the Civil Disobedience Movement (CDM) risk arrest simply for treating the injured. “Even giving food or medicine could get you jailed,” Thiri explains. In this context, humanitarian work is not just difficult—it’s dangerous.
Thiri reflects on the personal toll of the information vacuum. With so many Burmese now living in exile, the lack of communication means thousands are left in emotional limbo, not knowing whether their loved ones are alive or dead. Misinformation and panic are spreading on Burmese social media, compounding the psychological toll, and families are pleading for help on Facebook. The scale of the destruction is overwhelming, with many bodies still buried under rubble, and survivors trying to dig them out with their hands; in some areas, cremations are taking place every few minutes. She mentions Muslim worshippers crushed during Friday prayers at the mosque and Buddhist monks dying mid-exam at their monasteries. In some places, entire neighborhoods are gone. Even Burmese migrant workers in Thailand perished when buildings collapsed in Bangkok. And amid all this, military airstrikes continue, to try and exploit the chaos to their advantage. “We say we are in the ‘ninth floor of Hell,’” she notes grimly.
Finally, Thiri addresses how people can help: connect with Burmese communities wherever you live, support local fundraising efforts, donate through trusted organizations like Mutual Aid Myanmar or Better Burma. She ends by again stressing that humanitarian support must not be used to legitimize the junta. The people of Myanmar have sacrificed too much; they deserve help, but not at the cost of their struggle for freedom. “We just want to live in peace,” Thiri says. “We’ve never asked for much. But even that… feels like too much right now.”
This is Thiri’s seventh appearance on the podcast. We encourage you to check out her past episodes:
Why Has Myanmar’s Democracy Movement Been Ignored?”: Thiri recounts how, despite previously stepping away from her decade-long work in human rights and avoiding political engagement, the 2021 coup compelled her to reenter activism and eventually flee the country, becoming part of a new generation of Burmese who were forced into exile by the regime's violence and instability
Hope from the Heartland: Thiri shares how speaking out publicly—both during the Rohingya crisis and again after the coup—became a way to break through the hopelessness she and others were experiencing, describing how deeply moved she was to learn that someone she had never met, thousands of miles away, had been so affected by her words that he chose to support her work and stand in solidarity with the Burmese people.
Yearning For Home: Thiri reflects on how her understanding of home transformed from an abstract idea to a visceral sense of loss after being displaced by the coup, explaining that while she had once seen “home” as a fluid concept, she now shares the deep, aching longing for return that defines the emotional landscape of so many Burmese people forced to live in exile, far from the places they still dream of reclaiming
Overcoming the Nightmare: Thiri shares the emotional and psychological unraveling she endured while living under Myanmar’s military regime, explaining how the constant fear, insecurity, and loss of autonomy ultimately led her to make the painful decision to leave her home—despite immense guilt and uncertainty—on the exact anniversary of the coup, a departure that marked not just physical relocation but a permanent rupture in her sense of place, safety, and belonging.
Myanmar’s Voices for Freedom: Thiri introduces herself as someone who spent a year in Myanmar after the coup documenting human rights abuses and reporting for international media, and she reflects on the power of sharing personal stories as a means of raising awareness and sustaining global attention on the ongoing suffering in her country.
Literally a Nightmare Scenario: Thiri recounts her journey from a shy English student in Yangon to becoming a human rights researcher and fixer for international media, describing the ethical challenges of ensuring respectful reporting about Myanmar’s complex realities, and highlighting the limitations and power imbalances she faces when trying to represent her people’s stories in a media system not built to fully capture their nuance or humanity.
Photo credit: Myanmar Now