Young displaced people are trying to finish their studies. Their way of working for peace.
They haven’t taken up arms. They haven’t climbed the mountains with armed groups or crossed the border to work illegally. Instead, they’re working hard at makeshift schools, where they share books and notebooks to prepare for the university entrance exams that will determine their futures.
They are Burmese boys and girls barely over 18, who fled conflict zones after the 2021 military coup and are now refugees in various cities. It is to their care that the local communities, particularly religious communities of all faiths, and not least the Church of Myanmar, have dedicated themselves in these painful years: various experiences in different areas of the country have attempted, through informal educational structures, to prevent them from being abandoned.
These students primarily belong to some of the 135 recognised ethnic minorities in Myanmar. Many of them come from now-deserted villages surrounded by forest, where families seek shelter far from the front lines and where people primarily devote themselves to farming. Over the past year, however, rains have destroyed crops, and the constant influx of displaced people has made survival and coexistence increasingly difficult.
A 19-year-old girl, who prefers not to reveal her name, arrived in the city alone from the northern areas, exploiting contacts in various religious organisations. Her family is still in their home village. Her father died after fleeing into the forest at the end of 2021.
At that point, her mother and her other children also decided to flee because the conflict was intensifying. “I can hear from them once or twice a month,” she says. But she experienced the greatest pain immediately after her father’s death “because the family couldn’t reunite for the funeral.”
Young Burmese who drop out of school and flee conflict zones sometimes do not receive government approval to move, and thus often lose their right to an education. “At first, I tried to continue my classes in the village, but then it became too dangerous,” the young woman continues.
And when she heard about the opening of a new educational facility, she didn’t hesitate: “Here I feel safe, not just protected, but welcomed.” A younger sister now lives with her: “We give each other strength. Without this place, I don’t know where I’d be.” Another girl, who has just turned 18, knows that her future will depend on an exam: “If I do well, I’ll try to get a scholarship abroad, perhaps in England.”
Other displaced students look to the United States, Singapore, Vietnam, and Japan. But Plan B is already clear: “If I don’t get through, I’ll return to the village. I’ll help my parents. And I’ll teach the children.” Not as a sacrifice, but to give others a chance to continue their studies. Around them, many male friends have made different choices.
“Some have joined the resistance,” some girls explain. “Others have fled abroad to work.” Many female students have chosen to stay away from the armed struggle so as not to cause further pain to their parents. Despite the increasingly widespread use of Starlink connections among the displaced, contact with some family members has been cut off. A 17-year-old boy, for example, communicates only with his father and 13-year-old sister, while his mother has disappeared.
Some live with an even more fragile family history. An 18-year-old boy lost his mother as a child and grew up with an aunt, now a teacher at one of these schools. The father remained in the village, where he coordinates aid for the many displaced people and tries to maintain bonds between those who have been separated for years. He also teaches the children who remain in the village. “He does what he can,” he says. “Studying has become impossible for them. That’s why my father decided to teach, even without books.”
The rest of the time is spent cultivating the fields: “This year, however, it rained too much. The rice isn’t growing. The harvest is almost lost. He recently returned to monitor the situation. “I wanted to see it with my own eyes.” Then he returned to the city. “At least I can study here.” If he were to stop, he wouldn’t help anyone. The leader of a Christian community we met in the capital informs us: “We divide the classes into different places, between tents and huts.
The children have learned to look up to see if danger is approaching. If they see a jet, they know they have to run for cover.” Even in the schools sponsored by the Church in Myanmar, older children had to grapple with the issue of voting in the recent disputed elections ordered by the military junta between December and January. Adults received voter cards: formally, voting wasn’t mandatory, but in practice, everyone is monitored. “If you don’t go, they know, but even if you go, the opposition takes notice,” explains another 19-year-old girl. “I don’t want to vote.” But she hesitates: “And yet I would also like to exercise my right as a citizen.”
Doing so in a free Myanmar seems like a thing of the past for now. The displaced girls and boys were just children at the time of the 2012 democratic elections. But they experienced firsthand the subsequent period of economic and democratic openings. Despite all the difficulties, they study English, computer science, and video editing.
Others envision a future in a private university or work in an international organisation, while the younger ones would like to become influencers. Thanks to their studies, they have regained hope after the coup had dashed all ambition and every possibility of growth other than violence. But no one talks about weapons.
“Deciding to study today is already a political choice,” comments one of the educators who accompanies them on their journey. These young Burmese continue to fight for their country without firing a shot. “In a context that pushes people to flee or turn to violence, they have truly chosen to remain human.” (Ma Phyu Phyu/MM)
