Whenever someone asks me where “home” is, my mind runs in a circle — trying to figure out the best way to answer the question truthfully without confusing them or myself. How do I tell someone that my “home” is Kawthoolei, an almost mythical place? How do I explain to them that my idea of a homeland is largely aspirational, based on cultural memory rather than lived experience? 

There was a part of me that felt uncertain about my own sense of belonging in Kawthoolei. I was not born there, nor did I belong to a specific district, brigade or township.

I was born in a refugee camp in Thailand, and my fluency in the Karen language had been fractured by the distance of migration and the influence of Western tongues and culture. Yet, the people showed me that our identity is not confined to physical borders — it resides in the connection of our hearts and souls to the revolution. Although our life experiences and environments differ, our shared sense of identity and collective hopes for the future created a bond that transcends boundaries.

I have visited Kawthoolei and lived there briefly, but my experiences in my homeland are different from my people who have been rooted there their whole lives. I can decide to visit or leave whenever I please. They, however, are faced with only two options: to stay or to flee — not out of desire, but because these are the only paths available for survival. While I have the privilege of choice, for them, choice is a luxury they cannot afford. 

Kawthoolei is engulfed in turmoil: marked by violence, corruption and loss. While it holds deep cultural significance for my people, it is not recognized as its own nation and its volatile political landscape renders it more of a dream than a tangible homeland. 

Kawthoolei, meaning “Land without Darkness,” is the name used by us, the Karen people, to refer to our homeland, and our aspirations for self-determination and greater autonomy. The Karen (pronounced Kuh-Ren) people are an indigenous group to Burma (Myanmar), primarily residing along the Thailand-Burma border. We are one of the largest ethnic minorities in Burma—with unique cultural heritage and history—but have faced decades of conflict, persecution, and displacement due to political and ethnic tensions with the Burmese government and military.

While there is a Karen (Kayin) State, it is not Kawthoolei. It does not encompass all the regions that hold historical and cultural significance for the Karen people. Moreover, the area remains contested between the Karen National Union (KNU) — a political organization representing the Karen people’s fight for self-rule — and the Myanmar government, whose military junta (Tatmadaw) is the primary perpetrator of violence in the region. The Myanmar government’s actions have forced my people into a defensive struggle, subjecting them to violence, displacement and unimaginable suffering. 

For me and many in the Karen community, our identity is not just a label — it is an act of survival. Our ethnic and cultural identity becomes a powerful form of resistance in the face of efforts to erase our existence. Decades of conflict and displacement deeply etched the need to protect our heritage into our collective memory, transforming our shared identity into a symbol of resilience and solidarity. 

While I was studying abroad in Hong Kong, I met a Burmese student. When I spoke with her, I was struck by her revelation: For a part of her life, she had no idea she was of Karen descent because her parents had hidden it from her to protect their family. After others found out she had Karen in her blood, she began to experience discrimination. For many Karen people and other ethnic minorities in Burma, the truth of their identity often carries more risks than benefits.

In Burma, Karen people are often denied identification cards. By extension, my people are often denied freedom of movement and access to opportunities. Yet the card itself, which designates one as a minority, can subject them to systemic bias and social exclusion at the hands of the Burman majority, stripping them of the privileges others take for granted. This painful reality is a constant reminder of the challenges faced by those whose heritage is both their pride and their vulnerability.

In the last month of 2024, I had the privilege of returning back to Kawthoolei. A few months prior, I was connected with Naw Manger Baw, the founder of Knyaw Academy (KA) — an organization dedicated to supporting the development of the Karen community, and became an ambassador for KA. We bonded over our shared experiences of migration and aspirations to advocate for our people. When we realized that we would both be in Thailand at the same time, Naw Manger invited me to join her and Moo Hsa, another Karen youth, on a journey to visit different Karen schools and reconnect with my heritage. 

During this trip, I visited Kaw Moo Rah Junior College (KMRJC), where I witnessed the incredible passion of the students and teachers. Their commitment to education and motivation to help their people were truly inspiring. Through conversations and interactions, I learned of their dreams to become doctors, teachers and leaders in order to serve their communities and nation. Their continuous determination and strength amid adversity reaffirmed my commitment to advocating for my people’s voices, preserving our culture and supporting the fight for a better future for our people.

I was also able to see Ho Kay Karen Teacher Teaching College (North KTTC) again. It is a place close to my heart because I worked there in the summer of 2023. Seeing familiar faces and getting to reunite with the second-year students one last time before they graduate was very special to me as I had created close friendships with them. During my brief return to North KTTC, I taught for two days, driven by the desire to contribute to my community and not just occupy space. When I was there, I was able to reflect on my own positionality and reinforce my sense of responsibility to support my people and empower the dreams of Kawthoolei’s leaders and its future. 

Between my departure from KMRJC and journey to North KTTC, I also met with the School of Governance and Public Administration (SGPA) and the Karen Student Network Group (KSNG). There, I conversed with Saw Kapi, the founder of SGPA, and representatives of KSNG, gaining deeper insight into their efforts to foster unity among Karen people and other ethnic minorities. I learned more about the critical resources and support they provide to empower their communities, including leadership training and initiatives that promote collaboration and resilience.

During my visit, I participated in a brief interview conducted by a member of KSNG under the guidance of Saw Kapi. They asked me thought-provoking questions about why I decided to return to the motherland, my personal goals and my educational journey to Stanford. I explained that I wanted to return to see the situation for myself, as living abroad and hearing about what’s happening is vastly different from experiencing it firsthand. I felt it was important to return, reconnect with my people and gain a deeper understanding of the realities they face. This experience was deeply meaningful as it allowed me to connect with individuals who share a common vision for a stronger, united future for our people. 

Throughout my time at these different sites, I witnessed how resistance lives in the depth of my people’s hearts. Resistance is often imagined in its physical forms — protests, uprisings or violence — but it is so much more. Resistance is returning to homes that have been burned down or destroyed by airstrikes. It is planting seeds and nurturing life in spaces that have been repeatedly devastated, because why else would you continue to grow life in a place if you had truly lost all hope? Resistance is pursuing an education despite the constant threat of airstrikes and danger; it is running through the jungle and hiding in caves. Resistance is preserving our culture, heritage and language, holding onto these roots and refusing to let them wither. Resistance is choosing to live, to endure, and to thrive despite these harsh realities — because they cannot kill us all, and they will not silence our voices.  

To me, Kawthoolei is more than a geographic location. It represents my people’s resilience, purpose and enduring spirit. Even though I am physically distant from it, Kawthoolei remains an integral part of my identity, bridging the gap between where I live and where I feel I truly belong. It is a cultural and emotional space that embodies our shared heritage and reminds me that belonging is not defined by proximity but by the depth of one’s connection to their people and their fight for freedom. Each time I return to Kawthoolei, I leave pieces of my heart and soul there. It is truly an honor and privilege to know my nation and my people — one that strengthens my understanding of my identity and purpose. 

The recapturing of Manerplaw — Kawthoolei’s proposed capital and the KNU’s former headquarters — by KNU on Dec. 16, 2024, is a continued fight towards liberation. Their victory serves as a symbol of resilience and courage, reigniting hope for autonomy and self-determination. 

To my home: မ်တၫ်ပၫၫ်ဆၫအသးသဟီၣ်ကမူဝဲလၫပပူၤတုၤပန့ၫ်က့ၤတၫ်သဘျ့တက့ၫ်

May the people’s revolution live and may we survive in the name of liberation.