Song Yamin

The night we fled will stay with me forever. We lost almost everything we had—our animals, our house, our orange trees. We could only take the bare essentials with us. As a member of the Rawang ethnic minority in Myanmar, I've grown up in an environment where tension and conflict have always loomed on the horizon. But nothing prepared me for that night.

We were shaken from our sleep in our home village when bullets hit our house. My parents, my younger sister, and I scrambled for shelter, the sounds of gunfire and screams filling the air. I was terrified, clutching my sister's hand so tightly I thought I might never let go.

At dawn, the fighting gradually subsided. We were unharmed, but when we ventured out, the sight was devastating. The village was completely destroyed and looted. Among the ruins, we saw the aftermath of the chaos—a two-year-old boy from our neighborhood had been killed, and five others were injured. The memory of that small lifeless body haunts me.

The military gathered 25 families, including ours, and took us to another town. Since then, we’ve been living in a refugee camp in a tent provided by an aid organization. They gave us cooking utensils, blankets, mosquito nets, and other basic supplies. I am 25 years old, and the uncertainty of our future weighs heavily on me.

Every day in the camp is a struggle against despair. We try to maintain some semblance of normalcy, but it's hard when you don't know how long you'll stay or if you'll ever return home. My sister asks me if we'll ever see our orange trees again, and I don't know what to tell her. All I can do is hold her close and hope for a better tomorrow.