A photo of 18-year-old Burmese student Aye Phyu Phyu Thant holding a bouquet of flowers. — 18-year-old Burmese student Aye Phyu Phyu Thant writes about her feelings of confusion, yearning and sadness as she observes the conflict in Myanmar from afar.

18-year-old Burmese student Aye Phyu Phyu Thant writes about her feelings of confusion, yearning and sadness as she observes the conflict in Myanmar from afar.

မြန်မာ. Myanmar. The home country of my parents; a place I wasn’t born in but the origin of my confusion. I recall asking myself, “Was I worthy to call it mine? Was it ever mine?” It’s hard to define a sense of belonging when distance prevents that; a place I never was able to venture to and personally leave my mark without having to carry the name of my parents because I knew I would be lost without them. “Will it be a place I could ever want to return to on my own?” I wondered. A sense of direction was what I always will be lacking in finding my place in this country that was never mine to call.

Beside my confusion, there is a yearning that exists as I identify as a Burmese student in Singapore. The yearning identifies as the second-born following confusion as I unconsciously seek some resolution to how lost I felt within my own identity. The yearning joins the confusion for a meal, mixing together and roping me in for a conversation. I have had the same meal and conversation each time I returned, which was less frequent than I would like to admit. But the aftertaste lingers long after my last bite. Long enough to remain imprinted in the back of my head, even months and kilometres away.

But now, crisis has evicted any thoughts of returning even if we wanted to.

Another military coup. History has repeated itself, upturning lives of those actually residing in the country once again; those that can call the country rightfully their own, with no trace of confusion. Worry occupies the house confusion used to live within, but my yearning remains close, maybe even closer than ever. These emotions are all under one roof now, but that roof is on the brink of giving out as I hear about another clampdown on Myanmar’s peace and freedom.

These parts of me remain there, but they remain detached like the unfortunate few puzzle pieces of a child’s jigsaw puzzle; lost under home furniture, to stay perpetually missing. But the child tries silently, reaching under the legs of the tables and chairs, diving between the difficult nooks of the sofa. What was once in my hands could not have so easily slipped through my fingers and remain out of reach forever, could it now?

Over time, the home that was never fully mine to begin with still resides in my mind and heart. While I may have grown up here and away, I gradually discover my roots growing deeper and reaching outwards from this island; how my lineage connects with me, the distant descendant. To appreciate them to the best that I can, what better way is there than to return? Anticipation grows for the feeling of another soil under my bare soles, in my reach once again. The missing puzzle pieces may finally be recovered.

A picture of Shwedagon Pagoda in Yangon, Myanmar Aye Phyu Phyu Thant took a few years back. — “Over time, the home that was never fully mine to begin with still resides in my mind and heart,” Aye Phyu Phyu Thant shares. (Courtesy of Aye Phyu Phyu Thant)

But the anxious state of the country and the untouched borders sharply reminds me time and time again that a return trip is in my peripheral vision when my sight is set on numbers of deaths and villages assaulted. In the meantime, I redirect myself to social media accounts that are fighting their battle in achieving exposure for the war on a platform where many can access easily; they fight for the war that is at risk of being forgotten and the country at the epicentre of it all. They pry open the borders and construct a bridge founded on a land falling apart. Visually aesthetic and eye-catching Instagram infographics are cries to catch the attention of anyone to take notice of the crisis that seems so far away when mainstream media strays away. But what gives when individuals powering local media based in the country find their occupations to be their source of terror instead. Bravery is stored in having the agency to press “Post” and not having that agency being taken away violently overnight.

It’s up to everyone else, anyone else, to get the message out.

Would the puzzle pieces, parts of my identity only found in Myanmar, have stayed intact? Or would they have been trampled under far too many hard, cruel military boots and be shoved deeper into the soil alongside the lives of citizens? A new set of questions emerge as now I shift my attention from myself to the people who need more attention from the world. My helplessness grows with my awareness.

In my prayers, the people I pray for are beyond the familiar faces of my extended family that have gradually reduced to pixels on a screen or choppy voices through infrequent outgoing calls courtesy of my parents’ efforts when time favours. The people I pray for are individuals spanning from the seaside villages to crowded cityscapes to hilly mountains, many having never interacted with one another but are all met with the same fate of the coup. The people are united in their wish for a return to normalcy and a break from the unforgiving pattern. As I repeat the same verses as they do, a small part of me hopes that I echo the same wishes far from another home when I do.

But just for now, I return to it in my head, because the climate is peaceful there. Just as it was, as it should be. Everything looks to be as good as I remember. Even so, I can never help but always go back to wonder:

When we go back, will it still be ours?

Phyu recommends these accounts reporting information on Myanmar and the military coup: