At night, when the mountain air is not cold enough to quiet the bugs, young people gather in a glow. The light that attracts them is not the phone screen, that near-ubiquitous electronic temptation, but the campfire.
Music emanated from around the flames. Fingers playing the guitar. The voices in the lyrics are layered with stories of love, democracy and, most importantly, revolution. Moths woo the flames, creating sparks when they get too close, then faint and die.
For months, these hills in Myanmar’s eastern Karenni state have been cut off from modern communications.The military government believes coup to seize power Three years ago, the country descended into civil war, cutting off those most opposed to its brutal rule. In these resistance strongholds, where people from across the country gather, there is little internet, cell service or even electricity.
The return to pre-modern times has dire consequences for people’s lives. When a baby has a fever, there is no way to call a doctor.rebel fighter, who Seized dozens of Myanmar military bases During the latest offensive, combat commanders at forward outposts could not be contacted. Students are unable to take online classes, which in some parts of Myanmar are the only educational option.
The news – who survived the air raid, his village burned down and his daughter fleeing the country to work abroad – travels at the speed of a pedestrian, or, if expensive fuel can be found, on a motorbike along a jungle track bumpy.
However, the communication breakdown brought an unexpected benefit. Without the distraction of handheld devices, people can talk face-to-face through eye contact. They joke. They sing. They dance. They play guitar.
Only War, it seems, can break the small screen with riveting command.
In what the Karenni call the “BC years” (before the coup), almost everyone was on Facebook. Then, before dawn on February 1, 2021, the junta cut off telecommunications services. This was the first sign of trouble. By morning, most of the country’s elected leaders had been arrested.them remain incarcerated today.
Internet and cell phone service have been restored in much of the rest of the country since the coup, but Facebook and other social media are banned. Entire townships remain in darkness in areas where militias have fought off junta forces, such as parts of Karenni State (also known as Kayah) in the east, Rakhine State in the west, Sagaing region in the northwest and Chin State among.
With no online games to play or videos to stream on your phone, the shadowed spaces at night are often filled with indigenous music.
On the front lines, when the roar of artillery fire subsides for a day or an hour, resistance soldiers trade their AK rifles for guitars. A rebel commander plays a cajon, an Afro-Peruvian musical instrument. At one hospital, emergency supplies were lined up against a wall made of leaves: bandages, rubber gloves, rubbing alcohol and ukuleles.
After serving rebel soldiers a meal of spicy noodles with foraged herbs, Emily Oo picked up a guitar that lay on the dirt floor of a security post occupied by rebel forces last year. A few years ago, she was a middle school student in Loikaw, the capital of Karenni state, learning English and TikTok dance moves.
She and her family fled their hometown last year when fighting between resistance soldiers and junta forces engulfed her community. Most of the Karenni are now displaced and living with a few bundles of their most valuable possessions, often surprisingly a guitar.
“History is written in our blood,” she sang. “Heroes who gave their lives in the struggle for democracy.”
The lyrics, part of a famous revolutionary song, were written by candlelight in 1988, as Myanmar was undergoing another national uprising against an early military dictatorship. After that protest movement was violently suppressed, time seemed to have rolled back in Myanmar while much of Asia urbanized and prospered.
More than a decade ago, the military junta that ruled Myanmar priced SIM cards at about four times the country’s average annual income, blocking all but the wealthiest from access to the world.
As a result, most people’s source of news – or rather a combination of fact, rumor and rhetoric – is the local teahouse, and has been for decades. People sat on plastic stools around plastic tables, close together to avoid military intelligence spies who might eavesdrop. Tea, either milky sweet or refreshingly bitter, has gone cold. Gossip is hot.
With the advancement of political reform Quasi-civilian government in 2016, Internet access becomes cheaper. Facebook accounts proliferated. The same goes for online disinformation.Lies about sexual violence Fanning the flames of genocide Against Muslim minorities.
Today, in Karenni State, Myanmar’s smallest state and one of the least developed before the internet lockdown, innuendo once again stands in for truth. Conspiracy theories abound. But in the midst of uncertainty and paranoia, music served as a solace.
“I hear bombs, planes and gunfire every day,” said Maw Hpray Myar, 23, who fled the junta-controlled city to open a music school in the Karenni forest. “When we hear the music, our fear disappears a little bit.”
When access to the Internet is rare, the allure of being online can be dangerous.
In January, resistance members gathered at a secret command post in Loikaw. They’re not here to strategize a battle, but to use Wi-Fi (provided by Starlink), a satellite internet service used in conflict zones around the world.
The resistance was trumpeted on Facebook. They liked pictures of newborn babies and other rebel recruits in camouflage uniforms, young and determined. A soldier who was present recalled that some people were engrossed in surfing the Internet and did not notice the whirring nearby.
He and others fled armed drones sent by junta forces. But three people who were too reliant on the Internet failed to do so and were injured in the attack, one of them seriously.
On the evening of the third anniversary of the coup, opposition soldiers gathered in the rebel-held town of Demoso to celebrate the wedding of Augustine and Josephine, whose names were written on a sign at the venue. Augustine was about to leave for the front lines, and many other militia members were enjoying a few days’ rest from the fighting. Generators illuminated the tents, and soldiers occasionally looked at the sky to make sure no fighter jets were targeting the bright celebrations.
As partygoers drank their whiskey and crowded onto the dance floor, Ko Yan Naing Htoo sat on a plastic stool and smoked a cigarette. In BC, he worked as an accountant. Then he joined the rebels. A landmine took away his leg.
“I deeply regret that I can no longer fight alongside my comrades,” he said.
A commander rushed towards Mr. Yan Naing Htoo and put his arm around his shoulders. They nodded to the music, whose lyrics told the story of a displaced man missing his hometown. Then a burst of singing brought the commander back to the dance floor.
Mr Yan Naing Htoo was stuck on a plastic stool, smoking a cigarette. His hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone, a remnant of another era. He flashed the device. It’s dead. He put it away and watched the men sway and sing, so close yet so far away.
