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Episode #564: “We want to make federalism not just as a slogan, but also as an action. We want to turn it into action!”
Neineh Plo is secretary to the International Relations and Alliance committee of the Karenni National Progressive Party, and he has worked closely with the KNPP since the 2021 coup through international relations, humanitarian work, and headquarters administration. He describes Karenni State as a place where resistance actors are forced to do two things at once under war pressure: protect civilians at scale, and build an interim governing system credible enough to hold a diverse state together.
Neineh Plo argues that Karenni State’s diversity makes unilateral leadership both illegitimate and self-defeating. “KNPP cannot do it alone,” he asserts, “and should not also do it alone and impose its agenda on other people.” He describes the KNPP reaching out to other stakeholders and forming the Karenni State Consultative Council, then drafting interim arrangements meant to translate coordination into real authority. Those arrangements created interim executive, legislative, and judiciary bodies, with the interim executive council providing the most visible services. The list he gives is bluntly practical: humanitarian assistance, food and shelter, civilian protection, education, healthcare, and limited rehabilitation and livelihood support.
On the international side, Neineh Plo describes access as constrained by aid systems built to work through the junta’s capital. He says organizations willing to cooperate with non-state actors are limited, even as needs expand in displacement and war zones. Here he references cross-border assistance as a longstanding pathway, but argues for an added channel that can reach resistance-held areas directly, including a proposed inclusive humanitarian forum meant to bring donors and Myanmar stakeholders into a workable design.
Neineh Plo treats negotiation as a daily discipline inside the wider resistance ecosystem, including relationships with the National Unity Government. “We disagree,” he says simply, “but at least we are on the same side of the movement.” Federalism, in his framing, is the only model capable of accommodating Myanmar’s differences without returning to domination, and he insists that it has to be practiced now through structures and coalition governance rather than promised later.
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Episode #563: As president of the CCDK (Chin Community in Denmark), a non-profit organization established in 2003 by refugees from Myanmar, Van Neih Thang believes he has a duty to advocate for the people of his home country and state. This unwavering sense of purpose is tied to his experience as a refugee. “I feel like I have some duty to do something, even though I’m one thousand miles away.”
Van Neih Thang’s parents made the difficult decision to leave Myanmar when he was just thirteen years old. He describes his humble life in Chin State, one of Myanmar’s most beautiful yet most deprived regions, before being swept away at such a young age to a place where the people look and sound very different. Learning the Danish language was hard, he admits, but that was the only aspect of his new home that he found difficult. Amid the culture shocks, he made friends and developed a passion for education, eventually becoming an influential community leader within the Chin diaspora.
His connection to Chin State and its people never disappeared. He says that providing humanitarian assistance to the Chin people, as well as the wider population in Myanmar, is crucial. Since the coup in 2021, the military has devastated the region, destroying whole towns, while its people lack equipment and financial support. Van Neih Thang discusses the Chin groups that are fighting the junta, how these groups are divided by generations and language. When asked to consider what a post-military Myanmar might look like, it is clear he does not believe in easy answers.
Van Neih Thang reflects on how life could’ve been different, especially as a young Chin. He is conscious of his privileged position, calling that privilege a blessing. But, he says, “it is a blessing with a purpose.”
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Episode #562: “I thought there was something, but I didn't know there was a way to get there.”
That sense of longing has shaped Eion Meades’s spiritual life. His father abandoned the family when Meades was around ten years old, leaving his mother to raise six children while working long hours as a cleaner. He drifted toward crime and bad behavior before leaving home at fifteen. He hitchhiked across Australia and New Zealand, then traveled through Asia.
Not finding a clear spiritual path on his travels, be returned to Australia to join Chenrezig Institute, a fledgling Tibetan Buddhist community there. Meades became one of the earliest residents and builders of what later grew into a major Tibetan Buddhist center. The Buddhist community gave him structure, intellectual clarity, and a disciplined path toward awakening. “I felt, ‘Ah, this is it, I'm home!’” The commitment of the community to building the center inspired him.
Over time, however, he sought more meditative depth than he felt Chenrezig provided, and turned to Robert Hover, an American teacher from the U Ba Khin Vipassana lineage. Under Hover’s guidance, Meades’s practice became an intense confrontation with fear, emotion, and altered states of consciousness. He describes Hover as almost shamanic, representing a more personal and experimental form of Vipassana practice.
Another decisive influence came through Mary, an older psychic medium connected to the Tibetan Buddhist community. Through her, Meades encountered trance mediumship, spirit guides, visions, and other experiences that defied “rational” explanation. Mary eventually led him away from the security of institutional Buddhism and into a more uncertain but deeply personal spiritual path.
Later, another U Ba Khin lineage teacher, John Coleman, became important to Meades because he was willing to seriously discuss experiences that seemed to blur the boundary between deep meditation and psychic phenomena. Meades came away feeling that some advanced meditative states naturally opened unusual capacities, even if Buddhist traditions often hesitated to speak openly about them.
Through all his experiences, Meades never lost sight of awakening as the central aim of spiritual life. Looking back, he describes spiritual growth as a long process of integration and transformation. By the end of his reflections, he speaks less about institutions or psychic abilities than about what spiritual practice ultimately leaves behind. As he puts it, “the wisdom and love you gain in this life will never be lost.”
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Episode #561: The third episode in a three part series, this was recorded inside Malaysia’s Parliament during the final stretch of Malaysia’s ASEAN chairmanship. It sits where diplomacy meets consequence—non-interference, the limits of influence, and the reset button of rotating leadership. Beneath that is Malaysia’s lived reality: refugees arriving as people, not headlines, often in legal limbo and reliant on UNHCR papers. MPs speak of gaps in data, barriers to legal work and schooling, strained clinics, and the politics of backlash.
The first guest is Zahir Hassan, a first-term MP for Wangsa Maju in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia’s most densely populated constituency. An engineer and disaster-risk advocate, he treats displacement as a systems failure that has turned permanent. Refugees were meant to be part of “a few months transition,” yet some families are now third or fourth generation in Malaysia. With no legal status, “they technically cannot work. They cannot earn a living here, [so] for them to survive over the years, they have got to work illegally,” he says. Hassan also warns that Malaysia can’t drift year after year without proper data, planning, burden-sharing, and serious leadership at regional levels, and that stronger action needs to be taken towards the crisis.
Mohammed Suhaimi Abdullah, MP for Langkawi and a former two-term senator, describes Bukit Malut as a settlement that began in 1982 with about 12 Rohingya families, and has grown to nearly 15,000 today. Some residents, he says, “have got blue identity card,” adding, “when you have a blue card, you have to treat them like Malaysians;” despite this, he laments that much of the region is plagued by poor infrastructure and few schools. Abdullah rejects stereotypes, asserting that these Rohingya communities are “not poor people! They’re very hard-working,” and adds that this fact that has created resentment among local populations who are not willing to take on equally strenuous jobs.
Finally, Hassan Karim is a MP for Pasir Gudang and a lawyer shaped by civil-liberties fights. Referencing his youth, he says: “We fought any attempt by the [Malaysian] government tosuppress the space for democracy.” Karim’s actions aligned with his words then, as he notes that he was arrested on sedition charges for protesting authoritarian tendencies. Concerning thecurrent influx of refugees, he calls out Malaysian society for not extending sympathy to those fleeing conflict. “This kind of humanism must transcend religions and race,” he insists. If Malaysians can mobilize around Palestinians in Gaza as a matter of human rights, he argues, they cannot practice moral compartmentalization when the persecuted are nearer, poorer, and politically inconvenient. As Karim ask openly, if Muslim solidarity is invoked loudly elsewhere, why is it so thin here? His harshest criticism, however, is for Myanmar’s military, adding that currently, “I feel pessimistic. I never heard or saw any tangible effort [of progress.]”
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Episode #560: “We have to get rid of this military dictatorship. Otherwise the whole country and the coming generations will be in a really troubled situation.”
Mun Awng, born in 1960 in Myitkyina, Kachin State, is one of Myanmar’s most iconic protest singers and a lifelong advocate for democracy. Raised by a teacher father and nurse mother amid conflict between the Burma Army and the Kachin Independence Army, he learned early about danger and resilience. Music became his refuge — “We only had shortwave radio that I could listen to, so that was my main source of knowledge about music,” he recalls. The Beatles and Western pop inspired him, even as such influences were banned under General Ne Win’s regime.
By the 1980s, Mun Awng led the band The Rhythm, known for original songs that defied the trend of copying Western tunes. His 1984 debut album 8/82 Inya became a sensation among students and marked a new era in Burmese music. But as censorship tightened, he grew disillusioned and joined the 1988 pro-democracy uprising, where he witnessed deadly crackdowns before fleeing into exile.
At the Thai-Myanmar border, Mun Awng joined the All Burma Students’ Democratic Front (ABSDF) and began composing revolutionary songs. “We believe that armed struggle is the only way we can remove the military dictatorship,” he says. His revolutionary anthems — Battle for Peace, Tempest of Blood, and Moment of Truth — were smuggled into Burma, hidden under luggage and buried underground, eventually becoming rallying cries for generations.
Granted asylum in Norway in 1996, he has continued performing for the diaspora, reminding audiences that “music can do that” — bridge generations and renew hope. Today, Mun Awng remains devoted to his cause: “We have to unite… we have to give our life for the country… until we achieve the ultimate victory.”
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Episode #559: “Comrade,” Renata says, when asked how she would like to be remembered. A member of the People’s Defense Force and a former political prisoner, she uses the word to name what sustains her in Myanmar’s revolution: loyalty to those who have suffered, fought, been jailed, and died.
Before the 2021 coup, Renata was a law student who describes her life as centered on study and office work. Following the coup, she hesitated initially to take part in direct action, and instead chose to participate online, calling herself a “keyboard fighter” then. But as the crackdowns intensified, she joined street protests, and then learned to make Molotov cocktails and small bombs for her brother and his friends.
In June 2021, she was arrested with her mother and four-year-old sister, who became the country’s youngest political prisoner. Renata was sentenced to three years with hard labor but freed after four months upon signing a pledge not to participate in revolutionary activity. She describes prison as lasting trauma.
After her release, she joined the PDF in northern Shan State. Jungle life revolved around food and water scarcity, physical endurance, and evading airstrikes and landmines. For young people anxious to join the resistance, she says they must prepare physically and mentally for hunger, discrimination, sleeplessness, and trauma; women, she adds, will face additional burdens. Her own ability to sustain herself through these challenges is rooted in her relationships with her comrades and her dedication to defeating the junta.
Yet Renata still allows herself to imagine a peaceful future after this long struggle. “Please keep on watching our revolution!” she pleads to the international audience.
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Episode #558: “I've always had a certain resistance to the over-institutionalization of anything,” says renowned meditation teacher Delson Armstrong, who argues that one of the deepest obstacles on the spiritual path is attachment to the very systems intended to help people become free. Meditation methods, lineages, institutions, and teachers can all be valuable, yet they can become objects of clinging when practitioners mistake the tools for the goal. Throughout his reflections on meditation, tradition, and authority, Armstrong returns to two principles: liberation requires a willingness to continually examine and release attachment, and genuine understanding must be grounded in direct experience rather than inherited certainty.
Armstrong's perspective emerged through a long exploration of contemplative traditions. Raised in a Catholic environment, he later studied yoga, Vedanta, Sankhya, and a range of Buddhist systems, including Dzogchen, Mahamudra, and Theravada practices that emphasized deep concentration. Over time, however, he became dissatisfied with approaches that seemed more concerned with achieving meditative states than understanding the causes of suffering.
A turning point came when he encountered Brahma Vihara practice and later Tranquil Wisdom Insight Meditation (TWIM), associated with Bhante Vimalaramsi, which emphasizes relaxation, observation, and the gradual unraveling of mental conditioning. Armstrong argues that concentration can suppress disturbances without transforming the conditions that create suffering; relaxating into practice, by contrast, allows practitioners to directly see how craving, resistance, and identification operate.
Armstrong maintains that practice should be judged by how people respond to ordinary life rather than by what happens during retreats, even in very challenging situations. “Meditation is life; life is meditation,” he says.
He warns against turning traditions, attainment maps, teachers, or institutions into unquestionable authorities. Useful frameworks become dogma when they stop being questioned. Teachers can guide, but they cannot replace personal understanding: “The map is one thing, but your journey is your own.”
Ultimately, Armstrong presents spiritual development as an ongoing process of inquiry rather than certainty. His guiding principle remains simple: “Do not just take my word for it, do not take the word of the lineage for it, do not take the word of tradition for it. But see for yourself!”
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Episode #557: Born in Yangon, Aung Tun grew up listening to foreign news broadcasts, which provided an uncensored view of a world beyond Myanmar’s military control. Inspired by the 1988 uprising in which his brother was detained, he felt compelled to ensure the truth was documented.
So Aung Tun joined the Democratic Voice of Burma (DVB), an independent media organization. His work was clandestine and risky—using hidden cameras to document the regime's brutality and the resilience of the Burmese people. In 2007, Aung Tun played a vital role in filming large parts of the Saffron Revolution, an uprising led by monks. His footage became part of the documentary "Burma VJ," which garnered international acclaim for bringing Myanmar’s struggle to global attention.
Despite a temporary setback after being arrested during the revolution, Aung Tun returned to the streets to continue documenting the protests. He believes in the power of citizen journalism to transcend borders and inspire action.
In 2021, Myanmar once again faced a military coup, and while technology had evolved, the danger of speaking out remained the same. Aung Tun stresses the importance of learning from the past, being transparent, and fostering growth through self-critique. Now living in exile, he continues to train young Burmese journalists, ensuring that Myanmar’s fight for democracy is not forgotten. His dedication stands as a testament to the unyielding spirit of Myanmar's people.
"In Saffron, all I could do is to just to keep recording," he says. “So as long as you survive, you keep recording! Somebody will use your footage. Even though I am in exile, and I cannot film, I still keep telling the story, like I'm telling right now. So don't think too much! Sometimes you think too much, you'll be overwhelmed by what you have to do. Just look at the present moment."
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Episode #556: “I just find it so interesting that the Buddha actually talked about discussion as being a really important part of our Dhamma journey,” says Bruce Stewart, a longtime practitioner, former assistant teacher, and one of the early builders of the Goenka Vipassana meditation tradition in North America. In this second appearance on this platform, he addresses the concerns that caused him to question key aspects of the organization, which culminated in his being barred from even visiting centers in the tradition.
Drawing on decades of committed involvement, including being appointed a Senior Teacher (Achariya), Stewart reflects on the challenges that have emerged as the Goenka tradition became a large, global institution. He became particularly concerned with what he calls the tradition’s purity and prophecy narratives—beliefs about the unique authenticity and historical mission of the Goenka tradition that have become difficult to question now that they are embedded in organizational culture.
Over time, he also observed that some teachers and students alike privately expressed a variety of concerns while hesitating to raise them publicly, leading him to wonder whether, ironically, a culture that encourages self-observation was itself uncomfortable with institutional self-examination. Those concerns deepened through a project in which Stewart and others gathered feedback from seventy experienced practitioners, and conducted extensive video interviews with a small group of them. After nearly a year of preparation, the findings were presented to Senior Teachers, but the response was largely negative. For Stewart, this raised a broader question about whether institutions can remain open to information that challenges established assumptions. He also began questioning whether the tradition’s success in spreading meditation had outpaced the development of teacher training, individualized guidance, and mechanisms for learning from criticism.
At the same time, Stewart’s study of Early Buddhist Texts began to widen his understanding of Buddhism beyond the Goenka lineage, and raised some theoretical questions about the accuracy of some of Goenka’s interpretations concerning the technique itself. Although he remains grateful for the practice and the community he helped build, he ultimately stepped down from leadership and later found himself barred from centers in the tradition. Even so, he remains hopeful that future generations can preserve what is valuable while becoming more open to honest dialogue, historical inquiry, and critical reflection.
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Episode #555: Note: this podcast episode includes frank anatomical language and extended discussion of women’s bodies, including terms for female genitalia, in the context of human rights, state abuse, and activist movements. Reader and listener discretion is advised.
“[They say that] Thailand is the only country that has never been colonized. But it's not true!”
Kornkanok “Pup” Khumta, an activist from Isaan, argues that the myth of sovereignty hides a colonial order, where Bangkok defines language, history, development, and which bodies are allowed to exist. Isaan, she says, is Lao in language and culture, and the borders that separate people along the Mekong are still newer than the state admits. “People in Isaan, we have been brainwashed to be Thai people,” she says, adding that even the word “Thai” itself is a recent invention.
Pup describes Siam’s consolidation as violent, then sustained through schooling that punishes local speech and replaces regional memory with a Siam-centered story. The same center–periphery structure shapes “development” as extraction: resources flow to Bangkok while poverty in the northeast is treated as normal. Generations migrate to the capital for education and wages, leaving Isaan hollowed out, a place many return to only for Songkran or New Year.
At Thammasat University, Pup expected democratic critique but instead found classmates aiming for bureaucratic power. She pushed back, arguing provincial governors should be elected, not appointed from Bangkok. After the 2014 coup, she tested the regime’s limits with quiet protest and was arrested, learning that visibility alone can trigger punishment. Later, after refusing to sign a pledge to stop political activity, she was sent into prison, and processed through searches that turned discipline into bodily violation.
That experience sharpened her feminism. She framed organizing around bodily autonomy, using taboo-breaking protest—speaking openly about female body parts and insisting democracy includes control over one’s body. Pup then moved to extend her politics beyond borders, rejecting ASEAN’s “non-interference” policy as a cover for authoritarian cooperation, including support for Myanmar’s military. For her, constitutional change in Thailand is the hinge between refuge and repression—and survival requires joy: “I believe in fun,” she says, because despair is also a weapon.
“We are at the point that we don't have to belong to any state,” she says. “I mean, we can just treat each other as a humans and we can all come together against all forms of repression.”
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Episode #554: Bruce Stewart, an early Western student and teacher in the S.N. Goenka Vipassana tradition, reflects on a lifelong search for spiritual meaning driven by curiosity, wonder, and a desire to understand life more deeply. The sudden death of his younger sister prompted early questions about life’s meaning, while stories from traveling hippies kindled a desire to explore the wider world.
Leaving New Zealand, Stewart worked his passage to Europe on a cargo ship and spent several adventurous years traveling through Europe and Africa and immersing himself in the hippie counterculture. Eventually Stewart found his way to a Sivananda ashram in Canada, where his spiritual interests were given structure. There he met his future wife, Maureen. Together they returned to New Zealand and founded one of the country’s first yoga centers, creating a vibrant community centered on yoga, vegetarianism, retreats, and alternative culture.
Later, Stewart took a vipassana course with John Coleman, a student of U Ba Khin; the experience was life-changing. Soon after, he and Maureen dissolved their yoga center and traveled to India to became involved with the fledgling Vipassana center at Dhamma Giri in Igatpuri, where they worked closely with S.N. Goenka.
As the movement expanded, Stewart and Maureen were heavily involved in helping the tradition take root in the U.S. Yet over time, he became increasingly uneasy with organizational culture, leadership styles, and narratives of purity and authority. Historical study and deeper inquiry eventually led him to question long-held assumptions, and eventually his decision to broaden his practice and step down from his Senior Teacher responsibilities. Still, he remains grateful for the practice and its benefits, viewing his spiritual life as a series of valuable stages that collectively formed a rich, demanding, and deeply meaningful journey.
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Episode #553: Naw Moo Moo Paw grew up in a Karen village near Bago where conflict and landmines were part of everyday life. “I have seen a lot of people injured or die because of the war and intense conflict,” she says. “This is very normal for me.”
Today, she is a PhD candidate in Global Studies at the University of Massachusetts Lowell, where her research focuses on what happens to people, their bodies, livelihoods, and place in their communities affected by political violence.
She has interviewed civilians, injured soldiers, and active resistance fighters, gaining access to armed groups most outside researchers cannot reach.
Resistance groups in ethnic Karen communities have used landmines primarily as a defensive tactic, but the warnings offered to civilians are frequently imprecise. For many, the warning changes little. “Civilians, they have to work on a daily basis, so that they can survive, for their economy, to take care of their family.” People are warned, but they have to go on with their lives.
She finds that accountability is increasingly difficult to establish. Mines captured from military bases are reused by resistance groups, propaganda obscures who planted what, and records of mine locations can die with the soldier who laid them. “I think both sides are violating the law,” she says.
Civilians, she finds, rarely assign blame. They understand the nature of war, fear the land’s growing unpredictability, and keep moving because they have no choice. Those injured in warned areas often face community ostracism, and too many take their own lives.
As a Karen scholar, Naw Moo Moo Paw wants local knowledge, history, and experience placed at the center of any peace. “I want [Karen people’s] voices to be included in the future, too.”
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Episode #552: Mon Mon Myat, a journalist, filmmaker, and peace scholar, frames Myanmar’s political struggle as a long contest over power, moral discipline, and the possibility of change without domination. Her account begins with U Hpo Hlaing, the nineteenth-century thinker she calls “a kind of very early political theorist in Myanmar,” and moves toward Aung San Suu Kyi, whose politics she sees as part of the same search for accountable authority.
For Mon Mon Myat, U Hpo Hlaing matters because he complicates the idea that democracy arrived in Myanmar only through Western influence. He studied Western parliamentary systems, but tried to translate them into Burmese moral and Buddhist terms, creating what she calls “Burma-native democracy.” His work was not a full modern system, but it offered a principle: rulers must be bound by ethical restraint, not merely by power.
Aung San Suu Kyi, in Mon Mon Myat’s view, widened that principle. She did not speak only to rulers, but to citizens. Through speeches, radio broadcasts, and years of nonviolent resistance, she helped Mon Mon Myat understand politics as personal responsibility. “Politics had nothing to do with me,” she says of her younger self, before Aung San Suu Kyi’s example changed her sense of what citizenship required.
That is why nonviolence remains central to Mon Mon Myat’s reading. She knows it is slow and costly, but argues that armed struggle leaves wounds across society, while nonviolence risks the masses less than others. The post-coup conflict has only deepened her fear of trauma that may last for generations.
Her defense of Aung San Suu Kyi during the Rohingya crisis rests on a difficult distinction. Mon Mon Myat does not present her as flawless. She insists that Aung San Suu Kyi was a politician trying to hold together a fragile country, preserve civilian rule, and avoid further conflict under military pressure. Critics saw silence. Mon Mon Myat sees constraint, calculation, and a refusal to inflame communal violence.
The hope she still holds is narrow but persistent: that Myanmar’s future depends not only on removing military rule, but on whether power can be morally restrained before it consumes everything around it.
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Episode #551: Fred Stockwell arrived in Mae Sot by accident more than twenty years ago while traveling through Thailand to photograph temples, a wrong bus dropping him off in what was, at the time, a bustling border town filled with NGOs and young volunteers. Someone told him to visit the garbage dump, and a man drove him there by a route that felt deliberately hard to retrace. “It was like it was a secret where it was,” he recalls. At the dump, Burmese migrant families survived by salvaging and selling recyclables, building shelters from whatever they could pull from waste. “They were living on top of the garbage!” he says. “Everything they built was what they found in the garbage.”
Before Mae Sot, his life had already been shaped by self-taught risk and logistics—having introduced paragliding in the U.S. through early testing and instruction, and later becoming the first person to fly in and photograph the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina, doing so from the air, when ground access had largely collapsed. And now back in the United States after that first Mae Sot visit, the contrast stayed with him: a comfortable life at home, and a border world where small failures—transport, housing, medical access—could turn fatal. His mind now made up,he returned to Mae Sot, and the first step he points to is concrete: “You’ve got to start somewhere. I started with one kid,” he says, describing a girl “as close to death as you’re ever going to get” and taking her to the hospital, then building outward through routines that held children in school, kept housing standing, and kept people connected to services they otherwise could not reach.
The critique that follows stays procedural. People arrived wanting to help and then stalled, not from cruelty but because they lacked a method for what came next, and the same problem appeared in organizations that could arrive with structure and still fail to change the conditions at the dump, or elsewhere in the town. “I saw a lot of people here, no disrespect to them, that came in to help but didn’t have a clue what to do.”
He ties effectiveness to the pairing of resources and competence, and reduces the mismatch to a single blunt line. “There’s a very large gap between the people that want to help and the people that need help. That gap is huge.”
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Episode #550: “There was something inside of me that was calling me,” says Jerry Roy, a long-time Vipassana meditator and early student in the Goenka tradition. “Not a thought, but something pulling me.” He argues that liberation comes not from rigid adherence to technique or authority, but from direct understanding of the mind—especially craving and aversion.
Raised in a Jewish household, Roy felt pressure to conform to a shared identity he experienced as restrictive. He rejected its religious element early, identifying instead as a “cultural Jew,” and developed a lasting determination not to live “in a box.” That impulse aligned with the 1960s counterculture, where he immersed himself in experimentation and activism. Psychedelics presented a spiritual potentiality, yet, as he later reflects, “It opened a door, but it didn't show me how to walk through the door.” Disillusionment with activism, along with the suicide of a housemate, pushed him toward a deeper inquiry into suffering.
That search led him to India. He rejected both the hedonistic hippie scenes and guru-centered traditions he came across, but then discovered Vipassana meditation as taught by S.N. Goenka. “I realized that I had found what I was looking for,” he says. He became deeply involved in the tradition, valuing its discipline and accessibility.
Over time, however, he began to see increasing rigidity within the organization, especially after his divorce led to a feeling of being excluded from the community. His practice also continued to evolve beyond the strict technique of the Goenka tradition, towards more continuous awareness. “The practice is not a technique,” he explains. “The practice is being present in the moment.”
Today, Roy emphasizes direct experience over doctrine. “All you need to do is understand the root cause of suffering, which is craving and aversion.”
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Episode #549: Mohammad Siraj, a Rohingya researcher, political analyst, educator, and aspiring legal scholar living in a refugee camp in Bangladesh, studies citizenship, constitutional reform, education, and human rights. Drawing on his work with the Rohingya Academic Research Institute and his experience teaching in refugee settings, he argues that the Rohingya crisis is not simply a humanitarian emergency but a political and institutional crisis rooted in discriminatory law, particularly Myanmar’s citizenship framework and constitutional structure.
Siraj’s own life reflects the realities he studies. He once hoped to become a doctor, but military violence forced his family to flee Myanmar. In Bangladesh’s refugee camps, he continued studying through limited educational opportunities and later pursued research training. Statelessness created major barriers: even when he received university offers, he could not accept them because he lacked a passport or travel documents. He turned toward law because he believes legal systems have excluded Rohingya from citizenship, political participation, and protection.
He repeatedly highlights statelessness as one of the greatest obstacles Rohingya face. Without citizenship, movement, higher education, and professional opportunities remain difficult to access. His own studies through the online University of the People illustrate both determination and the limits of such alternatives.
Siraj’s research and teaching are rooted in these same conditions. At the Rohingya Academic Research Institute, a community-led organization in the camps, he helps Rohingya scholars document their history and rights. He also criticizes humanitarian education programs that prioritize administrative requirements over meaningful learning. In response, Rohingya teachers have created community schools using the Myanmar curriculum, though their certificates are rarely recognized by universities.
For Siraj, the deeper cause of the crisis lies in Myanmar’s 1982 citizenship law, which stripped Rohingya of citizenship and legal protection. He argues that lasting reform must restore equal citizenship and dismantle constitutional structures that entrench military power, while dialogue across communities remains essential for building a democratic Myanmar where all ethnic groups share citizenship, representation, and dignity.
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Episode #548: Sunda Khin shares a remarkable family journey through contemporary Burmese history. She starts with her father, U Chan Htoon, who suggested that a young Indian businessman named S.N. Goenka learn meditation from Sayagyi U Ba Khin to cure his migraines. Growing up as the daughter of the country's first Supreme Court Justice, she recalls spending time in General Ne Win's home during the "Caretaker Government" years. Ne Win's coup in 1962 marked a shift, leading to economic turmoil and loss of civil liberties, including the arrest of her father. As a means for explaining the many challenges that have befallen her country since 1958, she explains the Burmese Buddhist concept of "tha gyarr thar tha nar," which is a Burmese prophecy that signifies the end of the Buddha’s protective period after 2,500 years.
Sunda Khin shares several international situations that her father was involved with. The most complex of these was when South Vietnamese members of the World Fellowship of Buddhists (WFB) demanded the organization stand up against Ngo Dinh Diem's discrimination of the country's Buddhist minority. The US was concerned that this move could weaken their ally against rising Communist influence in the region, and indeed, that the influential WFB might be falling under Communist control. U Chan Htoon was making some headway is mediating this crisis, but unfortunately, before it could be resolved, Ne Win had him arrested, perhaps out of a political fear of his popularity and influence.
Sunda Khin also describes her father’s rather unexpected acquisition of a lakefront property, which was later inherited by Aung San Suu Kyi, and where she endured decades of house arrest.And she discusses her childhood friendship with Louisa Bensen, who transformed from a beauty queen to a Karen insurgent leader, and their involvement together in the democracy movement many years later.
“A lot of things have happened, but I have a lot of hope for things to change,” she says regarding the current resistance movement. “I might not see it right now, or before I die, but I'mhoping that it will change and that the people will be able to have their own government and their freedom. That is my hope.”
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Episode #547: Scott Leckie, an international human rights lawyer, and Jose Arraiza, a specialist in housing, land, and property rights and citizenship in conflict-affected settings, argue that land in Myanmar is not simply a resource but a central mechanism through which power is exercised, inequality is produced, and political authority is maintained. They emphasize that housing, land, and property (HLP) rights extend beyond formal ownership to include anyone whose ability to remain on land is vulnerable to arbitrary interference.
The roots of Myanmar’s current land system can be traced to colonial policies that classified inhabited land as “wasteland,” which enabled appropriation. This framework was later adopted by the country’s military regimes; as a result, this legacy persists in a system where land can be taken with minimal process and little recourse, allowing authorities to reallocate land and consolidate control.
The effects of this system are most visible in the interaction between conflict and land governance. While large-scale displacement is primarily driven by armed conflict, the land system determines what happens afterward. Displaced people frequently lose practical control over their land, as it is reclassified or repurposed, often for commercial activities such as mining or agriculture. In this way, temporary displacement is transformed into longer-term dispossession. The same system also shapes economic outcomes, directing the benefits of land use toward elites and those with political connections rather than affected communities.
These practices diverge from international legal standards, which require safeguards such as compensation and access to remedies. The situation is further complicated by citizenship and documentation issues, which weaken individuals’ ability to assert claims, particularly for marginalized groups such as the Rohingya.
Although reforms between 2011 and 2021 showed that alternative approaches were possible, the 2021 coup reversed these changes. Today, governance is fragmented between military authorities and ethnic resistance groups, with some efforts to develop alternative land systems. Civil society organizations continue to support affected populations but face reduced capacity due to declining international support. Despite these challenges, Leckie and Arraiza argue that any future transition must center land rights, restitution, and legal protection, and that meaningful change remains possible.
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Episode #546: Recorded in Kuala Lumpur during Malaysia’s final stretch as ASEAN chair, this is the second episode in a three part series which looks less at policy language and more at political consequence. Recorded inside Parliament, lawmakers grapple with what regional diplomacy can realistically achieve while communities across Malaysia absorb the human fallout of Myanmar’s implosion — refugees navigating precarious legal status, strained public systems, and a debate that grows sharper the longer the crisis drags on.
The first guest, Willie Mongin, is the Member of Parliament for Puncak Borneo in Sarawak and a former deputy minister who now serves as Deputy Chair of Malaysia’s parliamentary select committee on international trade and international relations. His engagement with Myanmar deepened after joining the committee three years ago, when he began closely monitoring ASEAN geopolitics. For Mongin, the logic is simple: regional peace underpins shared prosperity. “When we have a peaceful region, we can actually work together and work towards prosperity together,” he says. Instability in Myanmar, he argues, threatens ASEAN cohesion and fuels refugee pressures in Malaysia. While acknowledging Malaysia’s limits, he calls on the United Nations and major powers to press for a democratic resolution led ultimately by Myanmar’s own leadership.
The second guest, Ahmed Tarmizi, is the Member of Parliament for Sik in Kedah and Deputy Chairman of Malaysia’s All-Party Parliamentary Group on Refugee Policy. Before entering politics, he worked in humanitarian relief connected to Myanmar, traveling to Rakhine State and refugee camps in Cox’s Bazar. He describes Myanmar’s crisis as regional in impact, calling it “like a cancer for the Asian community.” In Malaysia, he highlights the presence of more than 180,000 refugees, mostly from Myanmar, and the country’s lack of a formal legal framework recognizing them. “We don't have any legal [act] to recognize the refugees,” he says, urging clearer policy and stronger ASEAN and UN action to stop the violence driving displacement.
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Episode #545: The promise of justice for war crimes in Myanmar is far from perfect, says Dr. Stuart Casey-Maslen, a leading legal expert on disarmament and international humanitarian law. The military regime’s alleged war crimes continue unchecked, with airstrikes against civilian targets, the destruction of homes, schools, and places of worship, and indiscriminate use of landmines exacting a cruel toll. On a different scale, some resistance armed groups have also been accused of war crimes.
“Justice can, and sometimes does, catch up with you even many years afterwards,” says Casey-Maslen, who is editor of the Mine Action Review and has written extensively on international law related to landmines. “If a member of the Tatmadaw, or a senior official in the Myanmar government, travels in years to come to one of many countries that have legislation for war crimes or crimes against humanity… that can also be a prosecution of the use of an anti-personnel mine.”
Anti-personnel landmines fall into a distinct class of “victim-activated” weapons, which are designed to be detonated by the victim. The deliberate delay between the deployment and detonation also distinguishes landmines from weapons such as firearms or artillery, in which a specific target is chosen and impact is relatively immediate. This delay makes accountability much more difficult, including identifying who laid the mine.
Prosecutions for crimes committed in Myanmar face considerable challenges, but the facts of the case remain. “The use by the Tatmadaw and by certain rebel groups, but particularly the use by the Myanmar military, has been indiscriminate,” Casey-Maslen says. “They have committed war crimes through their use of anti-personnel mines. In certain instances, they have forced people to walk through minefields. That is a war crime. That kind of conduct is beyond any rule of IHL, and hopefully one day those who are responsible will be brought to account.”
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