For the people of Karen State
M. Dahgaypaw, aka Jungle Woman
Three hours on the river, then the rough road home,
A few decades I’ve been away—but I was born here, in these hills,
Born in jungle, fleeing bombs, while silver planes passed overhead—
More than forty years ago, I learned to sleep with dread.
Now I return to find the children living what I fled—
The seven-year-old who shows me bunkers where he hides,
The little girl beneath the tarp, too weak to lift her head,
The students ask “what’s the point?” with anger in their eyes.
Forty years have passed, and still the silver planes fly over,
Still the children sleep in trenches, not in homes but hills,
Still the families harvest rice at night, not day, for cover,
Still the fighter jets pass overhead with their cargo of kills.
I walked through buildings built for healing, strong and clean,
The finest operation rooms I’d ever seen.
“Where are the patients?” I asked, already knowing why—
He pointed to the mountain: “There—too dangerous inside.”
Under plastic tarps they lie, just as we once did,
Except we had no hospitals, no doctors, no supplies—
At least they have that much, I thought, before I had to turn,
Before they saw the tears I fought to hide behind my eyes.
My heart was breaking, breaking—not just for their pain,
But for the bitter truth that nothing’s changed in all these years.
I survived this childhood terror, fled to build a different life,
And now I’ve come back home to find the same old fears.
The pastor guards an empty church, then disappears at dark,
The children sing their Christmas carols not at night but day—
When I was young, at least we had the darkness as our friend,
Now even at night it is dangerous—the drones can see your way.
It’s worse now. Forty years, and somehow it’s gotten worse.
We had no phones to warn us, but at least we had no drones,
We ran from fighter jets, but now surveillance hunts them down,
The military’s cruelty has found new ways to crush their bones.
I sat outside that morning when we heard the silver hum,
The sound that haunts my childhood dreams, that makes my body freeze—
I looked up at the sky and saw that glint I know too well,
And watched the students barely flinch—they know this more than me.
Fifteen minutes later came the bombing, someone died,
The students said his name—another number, another loss.
I had a choice to come here; I had a choice to leave.
These children have no choice at all—they’re paying freedom’s cost.
But here’s what breaks and makes me in this bleeding place:
They have the same resilience that my people always had.
They cannot work by day, they harvest rice at night,
Yet still they sing, they study—they refuse to just be sad.
They ask for one thing only, one thing I never had:
An early warning system so they know when planes arrive,
Ten minutes’ notice, twenty—just time enough to run—
A simple thing that forty years ago might have saved more lives.
So hear me now: I lived this hell, I know what terror means,
I fled these very mountains as a child who feared each day.
I got out, got educated, built a life of relative peace—
But forty years later, nothing’s changed—they still can’t get away.
This is not just history, not just someone else’s pain,
This is my childhood, still unfolding, still destroying lives.
I will not slow down, will not give up, will not delay—
The girl I was deserves to know her suffering led to change that thrives.
But vows alone won’t stop the bombs, won’t feed the hungry child,
Won’t give the doctors medicine, won’t make the terror mild.
So I call on you—yes, you who read these words tonight—
I fled this hell four decades past—don’t let it stay this way.
Forty years I’ve waited for the world to see, to care,
Forty years of advocacy, of speaking out, of pain.
The people of Karen State are asking: Will you hear our call?
Or will children forty years from now still hide from bombs and rain?
They’ve shown the grace and courage that I learned in childhood too,
But grace and courage shouldn’t be what children need to survive.
It’s time for us to be not just moved observers from afar,
But partners in the fight to keep these children alive.
I was that child. Now I’m that witness. Soon I’ll be gone too.
Who will tell their stories when my generation fades?
Don’t let another forty years pass by without real change—
Stand with us in action, not just sympathy’s charades.
Myra Dahgaypaw is a former refugee from Karen State, who has dedicated the past two decades to advocating for various human rights and political issues in Burma while serving her community and the Burmese diaspora in the United States.
Previously, she worked as a human rights advocate at the Burma Fund United Nations Office. She later worked with the U.S. Campaign for Burma for 12 years as Campaign Coordinator, Policy Advisor, and Managing Director, focusing on the United States Burma policy, the promotion of human rights, and an inclusive democracy that includes all ethnic and religious minorities.
She is currently Senior Partnership Officer for International Justice and Accountability at UUSC. She is also a board member of Communities of Rooted Brilliance (CRB) and is a Virginia delegate for the Refugee Congress.
