After writing the book review for the ‘Lwanthusa’ by Amay Ludu Daw Ama, a name ‘Lwanbwe Oh, Mandalay’ gently landed in my heart.
Mandalay stands at the very top of one’s heart whenever they hear the names of cities and regions. Just hearing the name Mandalay brings a gentle warmth and calm to the heart, thanks to its rich cultural heritage and unforgettable, glorious history. King Mindon, Son of King Thayawady, founded the new Mandalay in 1857, 1221 ME. At that time, the Mandalay residents named the city in various forms like Oak Kyit Kyaw Aye Mandalay, Aung Kyaw Chan Aye Mandalay and Ingyin Kya Oun Yadanabon.
Shwe Mandalay has gradually transformed due to the influences of changing eras and circumstances, and on 28 March, it fell significantly into a state of decline. The emotional connection with Mandalay now feels distant, leaving a sense of longing. Therefore, I might say ‘Lwanbwe Oh, Mandalay’.
The book we bring this week is the ‘Alal Kyawyoe Ga Kala Nagagyi Noe Hta Chin’. The writer is Saya Sue Nget from Mandalay.
As the writer says, the huge Naga, a powerful earthquake, which lay dormant for over 70 years, suddenly awakened, destroying Mandalay’s landmarks, symbols, businesses, lives and properties.
Mandalay and Ludu Daw Ama are unusually inseparable. Ludu Daw Ama once said to the writer in the 1990s, “What you all call our Mandalay these days is just about street numbers, house numbers, which street lies between which, or which corner meets which road. In the past, people could instantly recognize a place by saying it was near so-and-so’s building, or to the east or west of a well-known house. Those direction points were almost always iconic living structures in Mandalay.
Some were well-known because they belonged to brokers, factory owners, or businesspeople. At the same time, many others stood out for their significance in political, religious, and historical value. There were plenty of such notable structures scattered throughout the city. You all should record as much as you can.”
That is why the writer started writing the data of damaged Mandalay buildings as much as he could after the earthquake, starting from 2 April to 6 May, on his social network. He wrote the famous sites in Mandalay, in addition to Mandalay University, a school established by King Mindon, edifices related to the Maha Muni Buddha Image, Mandalay Palace, the wall and moat. Therefore, it brings a great deal of knowledge to the readers.
It is only the right thing to acknowledge and praise the writer’s dedication in managing to deliver this book into the hands of readers exactly four months after the earthquake. The book is said to have been published in an attempt to preserve the records and memories of the damaged buildings, ensuring that the sorrow and trauma experienced by the victims are not forgotten, and keeping alive the remembrance of the days marked by the earthquake through written documentation.
The book features 22 different chapters: a memorable date, an earthquake that one hasn’t experienced before, the entire street in ruins, the entrance to the house, the entire people of the ward on the road, trapped inside a collapsed hotel, collapse of the Inwa Bridge, premature notification of earthquake, damage to houses, the main building of the university that caught fire, the Maha Muni Buddha Image and disaster, the quake-hit Maha Muni Shwekyaungtaw, Maha Muni Buddha Image Temple, passing through Amarapura to the sick elderly person, 48th multitiered roof and earthquake, quake-hit Martyrs’ Mausoleum, Pariyatti Sasana Beikman and its three-storey extension, Thayetkin stairways and monasteries, the Elephant Bridge and lion images, pagodas, temples and religious edifices and sites, don’t want to sing in tears and may all be successful in rehabilitation.

GNLM

Well-known and respected writer Lu Du Daw Ama used to put tribute articles in magazines to honour and remember loved ones. This is a collection of those heartfelt pieces written in loving memory of the loved ones’ legacy. This is the third edition, published in May 2025, followed by the second edition in 2020 and the first edition in 2003.
The book contains a collection of 61 articles about notable figures, religious figures, performing arts legends and literary figures including Salay U Ponnya, Hteiksu Myat Phayagyi, Supreme Royal Chief Queen, Sayagyi Thakin Kodaw Hmaing, prominent monks such as Shwe Kaing Thar Sayadaw, Sayadaw Ashin Janaka Bhivamsa and Shwehintha Sayadaw, Theikpan Maung Wa, Popa U Kyaw Yin, Kyauksa Wun U Mya, Sayagyi Mya Myo Lwin, Mandalay Thuriya U Tun Yin, A-1 Saya Hnya, Myanmar traditional orchestra musician Ywazagyi U Ba Maung, theatrical icon Shwe Mann Tin Maung, actress Sein Hla Kyi, pianist Mandalay U Ohn Maung, comedian U Ohn Thee, one of greatest writers (Journal Kyaw Daw Ma Ma Lay), U Ba Gyan, U Nyo Mya, Sayar Zeya, Sayar Zawgyi, Sayagyi Shwe U Daung, Zawana, Ko Win Oo, Moe Moe (Inya), Paw Oo Thet, and prominent foreign figures.
The book starts with a legacy of the writer and poet Salay U Ponnya. He was a natural-born talent in the arts. For instance, he has an aptitude for playing musical instruments. He played drums and ploong so well when he was two, and just played along. A six-year-old U Ponnya learnt the multiplication chart, and he has multiple talents and skills, noted his childhood event.
Mandalay’s popular artiste Shweman Tin Maung was devoted to theatrical performance even though he was in poor health. Doctors would have told him to rest for a moment if he had undertaken a medical checkup. Even Shwe Mann, Zat players and the team were aware of him having hypertension. His blood pressure elevated too high four to five times a month. Furthermore, Shwe Mann Tin Maung’s funeral mourning was marked by profound loneliness and longing as if the writer attended the funeral to send condolences to the bereaved family. Following his passing, his wife Daw Thein Nyunt and the Shwe Mann Thabin troupe were in disorder, so the writer started his story. Readers can step into the lives of characters, experiencing their sorrows, struggles and fostering empathy.
Lu Du Daw Ama stated that the leading actor of the play and his wife are like a lion king. Yet, social realities were arduous. The fellow troupe might suffer a lot, and the writer portrayed how she could comprehend the struggles. It was a longevity of Myanmar traditional theatrical art (Zat Thabin).
Later, the writer expressed her grief at the passing of painter Maung Paw Oo. You should have been the one who would paint my portrait. In contrast, I was the one who wrote a piece of writing to pay tribute to you. I thought I would be the one who would have died first with my poor health. When you leave the world, the lives you have impacted, the memories you have created, and the positive changes you have made are still in living memory.
“Anon, it is running out of time,
Thou embracing the fragility to be alive,
Befriending with deity to define …”
No one else could escape to stay hale and hearty for life”, reciting a poem for a memorial of the loved one.

GNLM

The old usage, “Out of sight, out of mind”, never rang true for me. I am not the kind of person who forgets those I hold dear, no matter how much time or distance separates us. My heart clings tightly to my loved ones – my family, my pets, and, most of all, my elder sister, Magyi Moe. She was my rock, my confidante, and my greatest ally in a world that often felt too big and too chaotic. But life, as it so often does, had other plans for us, plans that would test the limits of love, loss, and regret.
Magyi Moe was five years older than me, a gap just wide enough to make her seem infinitely wiser yet close enough for us to share secrets and dreams. Growing up in our cosy little home in a bustling town, we were inseparable despite our differences. I was the wild one – impulsive, carefree, and always teetering on the edge of mischief. Magyi Moe, on the other hand, was the steady hand, the one who kept our family grounded. Her patience was a marvel, especially when it came to me. I’d wheedle and whine, pushing her buttons with a grin, knowing she’d forgive me every time. But when I crossed the line, suppose I say, “borrowing” her favourite scarf without asking, her gaze would turn sharp, her voice firm but never cruel. She’d scold me, sometimes with a raised voice that echoed through our small house, other times with a quiet disappointment that cut deeper than any shout.
I’d roll my eyes, pretending her words were just noise, but deep down, I knew she was right. Magyi Moe was the reliable one, the one who helped Mom with dinner, who made sure Dad’s coffee was ready before his early shifts, who always had a plan when I had none. I was the fair-weather sister, flitting through life with little regard for consequences, trusting Magyi Moe to pick up the pieces. Despite our differences, her love for classical music versus my obsession with loud pop tunes, her neat braid versus my messy curls, we loved each other fiercely. Our bond was a tapestry woven with laughter, shared secrets, and the kind of loyalty that only sisters understand.
It’s a strange quirk of human nature that we often fail to see the worth of those closest to us until they’re gone. When Magyi Moe was by my side, I took her for granted, assuming she’d always be there to nag me about my messy room or to sneak me an extra cookie when Mom wasn’t looking. But life has a way of teaching lessons in the cruellest ways. The saying goes that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I learned this truth in the hardest way possible.
Absence comes in two forms: the temporary kind, where you part ways for a while but know you’ll reunite, and the permanent kind, where the goodbye is final. I’d experienced the first kind plenty of times when Magyi Moe went off to college for a semester or when I spent a summer at Grandma’s village. Those separations were filled with phone calls and late-night texts, her voice a comforting anchor across the miles. But nothing could have prepared me for the second kind, the one that steals breath and shatters dreams.
It was a crisp winter day when the world tilted. Magyi Moe had been feeling off for months – tired, a little pale, her usual energy dimmed. She brushed it off, blaming long hours at her job as a librarian and her love for greasy takeout. “I just need to eat better,” she’d say with a laugh, popping another fry into her mouth. But when the doctor’s call came, the word “cancer” sliced through our lives like a blade. Breast cancer, aggressive and unyielding, had taken root in my sister’s body.
The months that followed were a blur of hospital visits, chemotherapy sessions, and whispered prayers. Magyi Moe faced it all with her trademark courage, her smile never quite fading even as her hair thinned and her strength waned. I tried to be there for her, but I was a storm of emotions — angry at the universe, terrified of losing her, and guilty for every time I’d ignored her advice to eat healthier or take life more seriously. She’d always warned me about my junk food binges, but I’d laughed it off, saying, “Live a little, Magyi Moe!” Now, those words haunted me.
Despite the best efforts of her doctors, the cancer was relentless. Magyi Moe, once so vibrant, grew frail, her laughter replaced by quiet moments of reflection. In her final weeks, she’d sit by the window, watching the leaves fall, and talk about the life she’d wanted – travelling to PyinOoLwin, adopting a dog, maybe even writing a book. I’d listen, my heart breaking, promising we’d do it all together someday. But “someday” never came.
She passed away on a summer morning, just shy of her 31st birthday. I was holding her hand, the hospital room silent except for the soft beeping of machines. She looked at me, her eyes still bright despite the pain, and whispered, “Be good, okay?” I nodded, unable to speak, as she slipped away.
Her death left a void that no amount of tears could fill. I’d always dreamed we’d grow old together, two spinster sisters looking after our parents, bickering over who made better pancakes. But Magyi Moe had left me behind, and I was drowning in regret. I replayed every moment I’d dismissed her; every time I’d snapped back at her gentle scolding, every chore I’d dodged, every time I’d chosen my own fun over helping her. She’d been more than a sister; she’d been a second mother, always there to solve my problems, to guide me when I was lost. And I’d taken it all for granted.
One memory stung the most. A year before her diagnosis, we’d fought over something trivial, borrowing her tablet without asking. She’d lectured me about responsibility, and I’d stormed out, shouting, “You’re not my mom!” Now, those words were a knife in my heart. If I could go back, I’d listen to every word, do every chore, and tell her every day how much I loved her. But time doesn’t offer do-overs.
In the months after Magyi Moe’s death, I wandered through life like a ghost, haunted by her absence. I kept her scarf on my bedside table, her favourite book on my shelf, as if keeping her things close could keep her with me. But slowly, I began to understand the lesson she’d left behind: love your family while they’re here. Cherish the moments – the mundane, the messy, the beautiful – because they’re fleeting.
I started small. I helped Mom with the dishes, listening to her stories about Magyi Moe as a child. I took Dad for walks, letting him ramble about his old fishing trips. I even adopted a scruffy little dog, naming her ‘Rain’ in honour of the pet my sister never got to have. Each act was a way to honour her, to live the way she’d always encouraged me to.
My story isn’t unique, but it’s one I share with a purpose. To my readers, I urge you: don’t wait for loss to teach you the value of love. Hug your parents, call your siblings, and laugh with your friends. Say the words you might regret leaving unsaid. Life is unpredictable, and the people we love are not promised to us forever.
Magyi Moe’s memory lives in me, not just in sorrow but in the way I choose to live now. I strive to be a little more patient, a little more kind, a little more like her. And though I’ll never stop missing her, I carry her love with me, a light to guide me through the darkness of regret. So, while alive, love fiercely, forgive freely, and hold your family close. You never know when the chance might slip away.

(To a friend who has lost her dearest elder sister recently…)

‘Anger’ is sometimes a virtue. Our people in our country generally blame ‘anger’ as a fault. But, sometimes, it is right to be angry, and there is such a thing as holy anger.
In the past 80 years, a year before we gained our Independence Day, Our State’s Leader, General Aung San, delivered an unforgettable speech, we should say with a holy anger. For instance, for the rehabilitation of our country, we must work much harder than any other country. If they walk four or five steps forward, we must walk out 10-15 steps forcefully (Do or Die), moreover, we all must not be out of discipline in everything. Otherwise, we gained our Independent State today, and would be lost tomorrow to the other’s hands. We have to bow down to whoever comes, we shall surely be as a life of … (a sex worker). Well, I should say like that for us not to be forgetful. Our people never blame this kind of ‘anger’ or scolding of our leader as a fault.
And, it is right to be angry. When is ‘anger’ right, and when may we be angry? We may and we ought to be angry when we see the weak unjustly treated by the strong. When a great wrong is done to an innocent man. When the rich oppress the poor. When animals are tortured by brutal men. When little children are beaten and starved by drunk parents.
These things should fill us with ‘anger’, and drive us to do all we can to protect the weak and help the suffering.
Such ‘anger’ has driven good men to come out as reformers, to right public wrongs and put down bad customers.
This kind of ‘anger’ is always unselfish.
It comes from sympathy and a sense of justice, and men who feel it are angry at wrongdoings to others, but not at wrongdoings to themselves.
However, ‘anger’ that rises from selfishness, conceit, and hatred is always wrong. To be angry with a man because he has hurt you, mocked at you or insulted you may be natural, but it is nonetheless wrong.
It is wrong because it is selfish. The wise say, “Love your enemies.”
But anger leads to hatred, and hatred often leads to murder and crimes. “Let not the sun go down on your wrath.”
Much anger is simply bad temper, and this is due to a lack of self-control. Some people get in dreadful passions about nothing, and while they are in a rage, they are like madmen, and will do and say unjust and unkind things for which they will be sorry all their lives; such are to be pitied and despised. For they are the slaves and not themselves masters of their passions.

GNLM

Honest to say, I had always been unfamiliar with the term `literary talking ceremony´ in my childhood. But unexpectedly, when I heard this term from my elder brother one day, I strangely felt my heart pounding with curiosity, for the simple reason that I enjoy reading. Books are written by authors, yet who in the world will give literary talks? At that time, I did not honestly know that most writers tend to deliver literary talks to literature-lovers. And how on earth is `literary talking ceremony’? I want to mean that I would like to know whether musical instruments are included in the ceremony. Then, I had a chance of seeing a literary talking ceremony on the DVD player thanks to my elder brother.
As far as I can remember, the first literary talking ceremony I have ever seen on TV was `Commemorative Ceremony of 100-year Ketumadi (Taunggoo)´. Many famous Myanmar writers came to the ceremony and gave literary talks. From that ceremony, I started to get what a literary talking ceremony is as well as began to know several famous Myanmar writers, especially Jack (Khungyangon), Chit Oo Nyo, Nay Win Myint, Ledwinthar Saw Chit and A Kyi Taw, if memory serves me correctly. Most of all, writers turned orators like to talk about literature and many others freely at random in a literary talking ceremony for one or two hours, one after another. Not all writers are excellent orators, especially female writers. Few female writers in Myanmar excel at literary talks. I have seen that only Saya U Thukha gave literary talks with the background help of the Myanmar orchestra `Hsaing´. In the main, orators are given to trying to draw the audience’s attention with great literary talks.
Of course, there are no two ceremonies all over the world except for Myanmar. They are nothing but `paying homage ceremony ´ and literary talking ceremony´. As a late literatus once stated, literary talking ceremonies commenced to take place in Yangon, Myanmar, by the year 1944 during the reign of Dr Ba Maw in the Japanese Colonial Era. On the other hand, Saya Chit Oo Nyo said that the first step towards holding literary talking ceremonies was declaring Laureates’ Day in Myanmar (Sarsodaw Nay) on the first day of Natdaw month in the Myanmar calendar, which often coincides with November in the Gregorian calendar. Paying homage ceremonies to Maha Pane-ne Nat, a kind of Hindu deity, were largely celebrated in Natdaw in Myanmar many moons ago. But later, firm believers of Myanmar in these dieties drove out the ceremonies and then literary talking ceremonies have become popular among young and old to this day.  Besides, literary talking ceremonies are held here and there around the country in all weathers.
Among the Myanmar writer orators, I love the above-mentioned five authors most. Firstly, a late literatus once was a university teacher of the Myanmar language, and he could explain what he wanted to say with a great many varieties of examples. Most apparently, while delivering literary talks, he was able to use gestures appropriate to what he meant so as to make his audience understand and follow him better. I began to know him with the pseudonym of Jack (Khungyangone) from the commemoration ceremony of Taunggoo shown above. But sad to say, I have never read his satire or his works of writing. Secondly, Saya Chit Oo Nyo is an expert at reciting classical Myanmar poems, particularly `Lay-cho´, a type of Myanmar poem in rhyme and rhythm, composed by Thakin Kodaw Mie. That may simply be why he is an artiste turned writer, I believe. Next, Saya Nay Win Myint has a good command of singing classical Myanmar songs in that he has got a beautiful singing voice and learnt how to sing those songs systematically from great teachers before, as far as I know. Fourthly, Saya Ledwintha Saw Chit has a good sense of humour and, more surprisingly, he can tell humours in such a gentle voice that he does not laugh at his own jokes at all. Finally, it was Saya A Kyi Taw who thought it best to humour his incoherent life rather than get into an argument, smiling as a humorist.
After all, most writers are included in literary talking ceremonies, but some are celebrities and public speakers. Rarely are persons who are both great writers and nice orators seen in the world of Myanmar literature, for instance, Nay Win Myint. Strangely enough, some writers expertly perform literary talking but are not very good at composition, while some authors, female writers in particular, excel at works of literature but have little command of public conversation. And literary talks are not only informal speaking but also a type of informal education in which people are educated freely without costing a lot. Sometimes one word of literary talk looks like reading the whole book, that is, a host of knowledge and wisdom can be acquired from literary talks in a while. I am strongly of the opinion that literary talking ceremonies will become the national culture of our country, Myanmar some day.

GNLM

Since the late 20th century, advancements in technology have contributed a great deal to improving the socioeconomic conditions of the global population. As a result, food production has increased substantially. However, despite this progress, some countries are still facing food insecurity as a critical issue in the 21st century. In this context, the United Nations has reported that around 850 million people worldwide are suffering from insufficient daily nutritional intake.
Malnutrition resulting from starvation is one of the leading causes of death and disability worldwide. While starvation can arise from various factors, its root causes on a global scale include conflicts and wars, climate change, reduced purchasing power due to high food prices of commodities, declining employment opportunities for the people, and inadequate education.
Malnutrition affects children by hindering their development and leading to a thinner body structure. Some South Asian countries are facing food insecurity due to rapid population growth, poverty, and natural disasters. Additionally, people living in conflict- and war-stricken areas are experiencing severe food crises.

Hunger and malnutrition stem from a range of fundamental causes and remain a deeply troubling issue. While such occurrences are very rare in developed countries, they are still prevalent in underdeveloped and poor nations, leading to reduced life expectancy and lower levels of education and healthcare. Effectively addressing this problem relies heavily on strong international cooperation and the committed efforts of the respective countries. Therefore, it is essential that each concerned nation prioritizes ensuring food security within its borders and takes serious action to prevent hunger and malnutrition among its population.

According to United Nations data on hunger and nutrition, global starvation has risen significantly from 2019 to 2021. The data indicated that one in every 11 people worldwide is suffering from hunger, while in some African countries, the figure is one in five. Although all countries are working to implement the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals to eradicate hunger by 2030, they continue to face numerous challenges.
To overcome the challenges of starvation, experts recommend six key approaches: addressing the cycle of conflict, building long-term resilience to climate change, resolving issues of poverty and inequality, creating better market access to improve the socioeconomic conditions of farmers, reducing food waste and loss, and taking action to combat maternal and child malnutrition. Hunger and malnutrition are not issues confined to a single country. There are problems that all nations must work together to address. Only through such collective effort can a peaceful and prosperous society be established.
Hunger and malnutrition stem from a range of fundamental causes and remain a deeply troubling issue. While such occurrences are very rare in developed countries, they are still prevalent in underdeveloped and poor nations, leading to reduced life expectancy and lower levels of education and healthcare. Effectively addressing this problem relies heavily on strong international cooperation and the committed efforts of the respective countries. Therefore, it is essential that each concerned nation prioritizes ensuring food security within its borders and takes serious action to prevent hunger and malnutrition among its population.

Breastfeeding is one of the most effective ways to ensure child health and survival, and yet, currently, fewer than half of infants under 6 months old are exclusively breastfed. Moreover, breast milk is the best medicine and therapy as well as nutritious food to reduce health disparities.
Although health staff and medical surgeons can help pregnant mothers give birth to their babies, those mothers are the very first medical practitioners to nurture and care for their babies. Moreover, those mothers contribute a great deal to human society with the capacity to ensure the existence of mankind. As such, those mothers can be dubbed as the benefactors of mankind as well as the world.
Breastfeeding is based on the breast milk of mothers. Such milk is transformed from the blood of those mothers. It can be said that mothers let their infants ensure a safe living with the prevention of different dangers. That is why mothers should be honoured for their excellent performances in society.

Everyone has to join hands with health officials and staff members in launching the World Breastfeeding Week in the first week of August. Awareness campaign must be staged for people, especially women, to breastfeed their babies as a great chance given by nature to know dos and don’ts for nurturing their babies carefully. Thanks to such a campaign, their children will become physically and mentally developed people who will be reliable for the country to shape the future of the State.

In 2018, a World Health Assembly resolution endorsed World Breastfeeding Week as an important health promotion strategy. With a different theme each year, it aims to promote the enabling environments that help women to breastfeed, including support in the community and the workplace, with adequate protections in government policies and laws, as well as sharing information on breastfeeding benefits and strategies.
The World Breastfeeding Week 2025 theme is “Prioritize Breastfeeding: Create Sustainable Support Systems”. This theme emphasizes the need to establish long-term, equitable support structures to empower breastfeeding mothers. It highlights the importance of collaborative support from various sectors to create a breastfeeding-friendly environment.
Breastfeeding is associated with a lower risk of conditions such as childhood obesity, type 2 diabetes, asthma, and some types of childhood leukaemia. These protective effects can extend into adolescence and adulthood. Moreover, breastfeeding promotes healthy growth and development, reduces infant mortality, and protects against infectious diseases, contributing to overall health and well-being.
Everyone has to join hands with health officials and staff members in launching the World Breastfeeding Week in the first week of August. Awareness campaign must be staged for people, especially women, to breastfeed their babies as a great chance given by nature to know dos and don’ts for nurturing their babies carefully. Thanks to such a campaign, their children will become physically and mentally developed people who will be reliable for the country to shape the future of the State.

GNLM

Photo - Vector Stock

A quiet question slipped into my mind one day and refused to leave. Have I become someone who’s too considerate? Too kind-hearted? The kind of person who worries endlessly about hurting others’ feelings, says “yes” far too often, and tucks away her own emotions just to make sure everyone else is okay?
I sat with that question for a long time. It didn’t accuse me or speak with anger, but it unsettled me because deep down, I already knew the answer. Yes. I had become that person. The one who says, “It’s fine,” even when it’s not. The one who bends over backwards to make sure everyone else is comfortable, even if it means quietly carrying her own pain. The kind of person who smiles while quietly swallowing her own needs, hoping that being agreeable will earn her peace, love or at least a sense of belonging.
And the truth? I didn’t become that person overnight. I was raised on politeness and apology, taught to be nice, to not rock the boat, and to always consider how others might feel. Somewhere along the way, I came to believe: My needs don’t matter as much as theirs. My discomfort is less important than their happiness. Be good. Be quiet. Be liked. So, I became that girl.
I apologized even when things weren’t my fault. I said “yes” when I wanted to scream “no”. I ignored the tightness in my chest and the lump in my throat. I told myself I was strong because I could endure. I told myself I was kind because I could give, give, and give some more.
But what I didn’t realize was that I was slowly disappearing. Piece by piece, I traded my authenticity for approval. I thought being easy to get along with would keep people close, but instead, it only pushed me further away from myself.
I used to think I was doing the right thing – being generous, being helpful, being the person everyone could count on. But then I started noticing something that broke my heart a little: the more I said yes, the more people expected me to say yes. The more I gave, the less they asked if I even wanted to. The more I sacrificed, the less they saw me.
People stopped asking how I felt. They stopped checking in. They assumed I was okay because I never complained. They assumed I didn’t mind because I never objected. In their eyes, I became safe, soft, and unthreatening like a harmless pet snake. Predictable. Non-confrontational. Easy.
And then the real test came – the first time I said no.
It wasn’t even a loud no. It was a gentle one. A no with context, with kindness, with honesty. But the reaction I got was like I had betrayed them. Suddenly, I wasn’t the easy, agreeable girl they knew. Suddenly, I was selfish, difficult, “not the same anymore.”
I started asking myself, How did I get here? How did I become the person who feels guilty for simply being honest? And most importantly, why do I feel like I owe everyone so much of myself?
The answer wasn’t easy to accept: I was afraid. I was afraid of being disliked. Afraid of disappointing people. Afraid that if I stopped giving so much, I’d be left behind. I confused love with approval. I confused self-worth with how useful I could be to others.
But here’s the truth: love that asks us to abandon ourselves isn’t love. Approval that disappears the moment we say no isn’t worth chasing. And being useful is not the same as being valued. So, I made a decision – not a loud, dramatic one, but a quiet, steady choice. I decided to stop being overly kind at the expense of my own peace.
I started listening to my emotions. I gave myself permission to say, “This doesn’t feel right.” I allowed myself to leave uncomfortable situations without guilt. I stopped overexplaining every “no” as if I had to defend myself in a courtroom. I reminded myself that boundaries are not walls – they are bridges to healthy connection. And slowly, something amazing happened.
The people who only loved the agreeable version of me began to fade away. And yes, that hurt at first. But in their place, something better came — people who didn’t flinch when I said no. People who respected my time and didn’t see my silence as an invitation to take advantage. People who stayed, even when I wasn’t bending.
My relationships didn’t break – they grew stronger. My communication didn’t grow cold – it became clearer. And the biggest change? I finally began to feel whole. Not perfect. Not endlessly selfless. Just whole. And that was what I had been missing all along.
I realized that someone who truly cares for us won’t be angry every time we say no. They won’t punish us with distance. They won’t call us selfish. They won’t use guilt as a leash. Instead, they’ll listen. They’ll ask questions. They’ll make space for us to be human, to feel tired, to choose differently.
And if they don’t? That’s not our fault. That’s not our burden to carry. Their disappointment does not mean we did something wrong. It simply means they weren’t ready to meet us at our worth.
We’re not here to make everyone happy. That’s an impossible task. It’s exhausting, it’s endless, and worst of all – it’s a losing game. No matter how much we give, it will never be enough for the wrong people. And for the right ones? We don’t have to perform. We just have to show up, honestly.
I used to apologize for setting boundaries. Now, I simply state them. I used to feel guilty for choosing rest. Now, I protect my energy like a sacred resource. I used to think self-respect meant being distant or unkind. But it doesn’t. Self-respect is choosing honesty over comfort, clarity over avoidance, and truth over approval. Now, I’m not afraid to say, “I can’t.” Or “I don’t want to.” Or simply, “No.” Not with anger. Not with resentment. But with calm, firm self-trust.
And the beauty of it all? The right people stay. The wrong ones make space for better ones. And I no longer feel like I have to lose myself just to be accepted. I’m not here to be a people pleaser. I’m not here to be soft enough for others to shape. I’m not here to dim my light so others can feel more comfortable in the dark. I am here to be fully myself – honest, kind, and imperfect. Because the people who truly see me? They love me for the “no” just as much as the “yes”.
And most importantly, I love myself enough to know that my worth isn’t defined by how easy I am to love, but by how deeply I’m willing to love myself, even when that makes others uncomfortable.
So, here’s the message I want to leave: A gentle “no” is not a rejection – it’s a revelation. It tells the world, “I see myself. I value myself. I choose myself.” It doesn’t burn bridges; it builds better ones – with stronger foundations, with mutual respect, and with truth at the core. Saying “no” doesn’t make us difficult – it makes us honest. And honesty is a gift, not just to others, but to ourselves.
Because, at the end of the day, the softest kind of courage is this: choosing our peace over pleasing, our truth over tolerance, and our souls over silence. Everything changes gently, but powerfully. Just like us.

GNLM

Some homes have clocks that mark time — we had a dining table that marked life. More than just wood, it held our stories, our meals, and the unspoken rhythm of our days. It stood in the centre of the room, a round, sturdy wooden relic with a deep, mahogany hue that seemed to glow under the soft light of the hanging bulb. Passed down from my grandparents, it carried the weight of generations, its surface etched with the subtle scars of time: faint scratches from my brother’s toy cars, a small burn mark from a careless moment with a hot pan, and countless rings from water glasses left unattended. Each mark was a chapter in our family’s story, a silent witness to the laughter, arguments, and quiet moments that defined us.
“Children, let’s have our dinner,” Mom’s voice would call, cutting through the hum of our studies. It was a summons we couldn’t resist. Dropping our schoolbooks, we’d race to the kitchen, drawn by the promise of her cooking. The air was thick with the scent of spices — turmeric, cumin, and the faint sweetness of coconut milk, mingling with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the hiss of steam. Mom stood at the stove, a tall figure of grace even in the chaos of meal preparation. Her hair, often dusted with flour or streaked with lamp-black from the woodfire, framed a face that time had only softened, not diminished. Sweat beaded on her brow, yet she moved with a quiet elegance, her hands deftly shaping each dish into an offering of love.
 

She was a master in the kitchen, her talent turning even the simplest ingredients into something extraordinary. A pot of rice became a fluffy, fragrant bed for her curries, and even a watery vegetable stew carried the warmth of her care. “It’s all in the timing,” she’d say with a smile when I’d ask her a secret, her voice as soothing as the meals she prepared. I can still see her ladling out portions, her eyes scanning the table to ensure everyone had enough, her presence a steady anchor in our daily lives.
 

Dad was her counterpoint, a man carved from the earth itself. A farmer, his days were spent knee-deep in the rice fields, his skin darkened to a rich brown by the relentless sun. But beneath his calloused hands and stern demeanour lay a mind sharp with unfulfilled promise. The political unrest of 1988 had stolen his chance at a full education, cutting short his time as a Grade X student. Yet he never let that define him. Instead, he poured his intellect into us, teaching us math, science, and literature with a rigour that left no room for laziness. We never needed tutors — Dad was our guide, his strictness — a scaffold for our futures. “Books before play,” he’d say, his voice firm as he handed us our texts after our post-school baths.
 

Dinner was our sacred hour. The table, set with Mom’s meticulous care — plates aligned, glasses filled, a small vase of marigolds at its centre — became our gathering place. We each had our spot: Dad at the head, Mom to his right, and my siblings and I fanned out around the circle. The kitchen buzzed with life — the ceiling fan whirring overhead, the clink of spoons against plates, the chatter of our voices. My sister, ever the storyteller, would launch into tales of schoolyard triumphs, her hands waving dangerously close to her glass. “And then I scored the winning goal!” she’d exclaim, while my brother, quieter and more reserved, would nod along, his face lighting up only when Mom slid a bowl of her fish curry his way.
 

“Mom, this is amazing,” I said one night, my mouth full of her spicy chicken stew. She laughed, reaching over to pat my head. “Slow down, my dear. There’s plenty more where that came from.” Dad, chewing thoughtfully, would add, “Good food fuels good minds. Eat up, then back to your books.” It was a routine as comforting as the meal itself, a thread that wove us together.
But time, relentless as it is, began to unravel that thread. I was the first to leave, sent to a boarding school to finish high school. The day I packed my bags, the dining table stood behind me like a sentinel, laden with Mom’s farewell feast — sticky rice, grilled fish, and a bowl of her mango dessert. Her eyes glistened as she hugged me. “Don’t skip meals,” she whispered, her voice trembling. At school, the dining hall was a cold contrast: long, sterile tables, lukewarm food, and the clamour of unfamiliar voices.
I’d sit there, pushing soggy vegetables around my plate, dreaming of home. Holidays brought me back, and the table welcomed me like an old friend, its familiar scratches a balm to my homesickness.
 

My sister left next, her ambition pulling her to the city with a scholarship in hand. We gathered for her send-off, the table groaning under the weight of Mom’s cooking. “You’ll do great things,” Mom said, forcing a smile as she passed the rice. But her hands lingered on the bowl, as if reluctant to let go. My brother followed years later, the baby of the family chasing his own path. His departure broke something in Mom. I found her one weekend, sitting alone at the table, her gaze fixed on the empty places. “It’s too quiet now,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the burn mark from years ago. I sat beside her, our silence heavy with shared understanding.
 

Last month, I turned thirty. My siblings are scattered, chasing lives of their own, and the dining table now holds only two regular occupants: Mom and Dad. Its legs, once sturdy, wobble under the slightest pressure, a mirror to Mom’s frail health. Dad offered to fix it once his tools were ready, but Mom stopped him. “No,” she said, her voice resolute. “This table stays as it is. It’s where my children grew up, where we were a family. When they come back, I want them to see it just as they left it.” Her words hung in the air, a testament to her unwavering hope.
 

Sometimes, I visit. Mom still cooks, though her meals are simpler now — just enough for two, with leftovers saved for me. The table creaks as we sit, but it holds. “Why not get a new one?” I asked once, eyeing its unsteady frame. She shook her head, smiling faintly. “This table’s seen us through everything. It’s old, but it’s ours.”

GNLM

Yunnan Province, the closest Chinese territory to Myanmar geographically and ethnically, is rich in cultural heritage with natural resources. Stretching approximately 2,000 kilometres in borderline, Myanmar and China’s Yunnan Province have been standing together and sharing common values and cultures through all ups and downs, tied to history.
Eight-day visit that shaped regional integrity
China hosted the 9th China-South Asia Exposition and the 29th China Kunming Import and Export Fair in Kunming, Yunnan Province, from 19 to 24 June. As a sideline event, Yunnan International Television Station organized the 4th Generation Z Lancang-Mekong Audio Visual Week 2025 from 20 to 25 June, which invited young diplomats from China’s neighbouring countries, aiming to strengthen regional integrity by reciprocal learning.
The eight-day programme brought together a total of 15 young diplomats from Mekong Region countries, as well as from maritime Southeast Asian nations like Malaysia and Indonesia, and South Asian countries such as Pakistan and Nepal, to participate in the project of creation camp project, aiming to expand cultural integrity among Asian civilizations. I was one of the participants to join it as a Myanmar media representative.
From my perspective, the whole program was designed to share knowledge of or exchange traditions, cultures and histories that have been upheld by Yunnan people up to these days since prehistoric time with Yunnan’s neighbouring Asian friends. Hence, it was fostering the comprehensive principles of the Chinese proposed Global Civilization Initiatives (GCI).
Essential means of the GCI can be interpreted as upholding humanity, respecting diversity of civilizations and inheritances, which in turn, promotes robust international people-to-people exchange. Understanding the versatile attitudes of different communities encourages harmonious cooperation while seeking a peaceful global order. Rejecting coercively exporting the phenomenon of ‘globalization’ with main adverse products: ‘Clash of Civilizations’ or ‘Cultural Shock’, the GCI emphasizes mutually exchanging social norms and common values under mutual learning. In these ways, the GCI aims to shape a global, peaceful environment with mutual respect.
Bound by nature to be the Lancang-Mekong Cooperation
Sightseeing picturesque natural landscapes and learning about the cultural diversity in Yunnan during the trip gave me of Asian countries, especially southern China, Myanmar, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and Vietnam, sharing the same origins of continental resources with mountains, hills and rivers. Consequently, common cultural habits, ancestral rituals and social norms are being shared particularly within their closely related ethnical tribes of mainland Southeast Asia.
These shared cultural and geographical heritages reflect core values of the Lancang-Mekong Cooperation and the unity of the region.
Learning hotspots in the 4th Generation Z Lancang-Mekong Audio Visual Week 2025 were Chinese tea culture and tea history, and Yunnan’s Dai ethnic heritage, specifically in Pu’er and Xishuangbanna cities. In addition to them, the young Asian diplomats also partially studied the culturally related economic development of the province, and the fruitful hub in trade and transport of the China-Laos Railway.
Myanmar-Yunnan’s shared history from the Tea Horse Road to the CMEC
Pu’er City, the hidden paradise in Yunnan Province and is renowned as China’s tea capital, and has extensive tea plantations in both traditional and modern technologies. It could be learned that the city contributes a significant effort in China’s securing UNESCO heritage recognition of tea by advancing in research and development.
In 2022, UNESCO inscribed Chinese tea, its associated cultural practices like traditional tea processing techniques, China’s historical significance of tea, and its social importance in the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. China’s achievement of the intangible cultural heritage of tea at UNESCO is an earnest worthy.
Pu’er played a key role in tea trading back in many centuries ago as part of the ancient Chinese Silk Road to the west. To my knowledge, Myanmar was observed as one of Pu’er’s destinations in the Ancient Tea Horse Road, which started in the Tang Dynasty; then, flourished in the Ming Dynasty and Qing Dynasty.
Not only in the ancient Chinese Silk Road, Myanmar and China’s Yunnan Province also play key roles as the ‘China-Myanmar Economic Corridor (CMEC)’ in part of the modern-day Belt and Road Initiative. The project includes high-speed railways and highways by connecting Myanmar’s Kyaukphyu in Rakhine State through Mandalay, Lashio and Muse to Kunming in Yunnan. Extending to Yangon, the strategically proposed project is envisioned to promote regional economic integration and development. By these means, the regional GDP Index is expected to experience a big jump.
Pu’er’s educational support for Myanmar
Bound by history, China’s Yunnan Province and Myanmar have shared mutual coexistence in successive eras. Education is another key sector that fosters strong ties between the two countries.
I had the opportunity to visit Pu’er University during the programme, where approximately 20 Myanmar students are studying different subjects with Chinese scholarships.
“Every year, we have several Myanmar students. They are very good at Chinese and hardworking in their studies. All Myanmar students in Pu’er University are studying with different ranks of scholarships. Computer Science, Chinese Education, Mathematics and Management are the most favourite majors chosen by the Myanmar students,” said Director of the Office of International Cooperation and Exchange at Pu’er University, Mr Bai Leigang, adding that Pu’er University has a strong tie with Myanmar’s University of Yangon and the Yangon University of Foreign Languages. Both sides engage in annual student exchange programs and hold online meetings to strengthen their academic cooperation.
At present, China offers a range of government scholarships for Myanmar students, including the Chinese Government Scholarship (CSC), ASEAN-China Young Leaders Scholarship, Confucius Institute Scholarship/ Chinese Language Study Scholarships, Yunnan Provincial Government Scholarships, University-Specific Scholarships, and Silk Road Scholarship Program.
Furthermore, during the official visit of Senior General Min Aung Hlaing, Prime Minister and State Administration Council Chairman of Myanmar, to China last year in November, China pledged to provide more scholarship programs for Myanmar students shortly.
Myanmar, Yunnan stand together through all ups and downs
Last but not least, in the recent earthquake which hit Myanmar on 28 March 2025, China was the country that arrived in Myanmar the very first among international rescue operations. Sharing the borderline, the first Chinese rescue team with 32 members with rescue equipment from Yunnan Province arrived in Myanmar within 17 hours after the quake. It evidenced the strong solidarity existing between Myanmar and China, sharing weal and woe, particularly in the hardship times.

GNLM