In Myanmar’s eastern Karenni State, the once quiet jungle town of Demoso has become a hotbed of revolutionary fervor. Along the town’s main road, lined with burnt-red soil, newly built bamboo-and-wood shops and cafes have sprung up, and the buzz in all of them is singular: resistance.
For decades, ethnic groups in this region have fought the military leadership that has ruled the Southeast Asian nation. The country's brief transition to democracy was abruptly halted by a military coup three years ago, transforming Demoso into a magnet for young fighters and activists.
Robbed of their first taste of democratic freedom, these young people took to the streets, participating in acts of civil disobedience. They were met with violence and arrests. Many left Yangon and other major cities for this remote jungle outpost to join the insurgency sweeping the countryside.
At a new bar called Yangon Vibes, 33-year-old rapper Novem Thu sips his second cocktail. Though the bar specializes in electric blue margaritas, Novem prefers something darker. Around him, conversations hum with the insurgents’ victories. “There is only Plan A: destroying the military. There is no Plan B,” he tells Quentin Sommerville, a reporter from BBC. Novem isn’t a soldier, but he spends most of his time on the front lines, motivating the fighters with his blood-curdling music and videos, brandishing a toy gun given to him by his brother.
As night falls, Yangon Vibes pulls down blackout blinds to avoid detection by military drones and warplanes. This area has been bombed regularly. A revolutionary radio station, Federal FM, broadcasts from outside the town, using a mobile transmitter to evade airstrikes.
Most of Karenni lacks electricity, and the mobile network is barely functional, cut off by the military junta. Yet, the bar and cafes along the main road offer free internet, courtesy of Starlink. This generation stays connected, mounting a nimble and effective war of resistance from the jungle’s cover. Their insurgency poses the greatest threat to military rule in Myanmar in years.
This is an under-reported conflict. The military restricts press freedom and has jailed hundreds of journalists. There is no way to hear the resistance side through government-approved visits. Quentin and his team traveled into Myanmar and spent a month living alongside resistance groups fighting across Karenni State.
On a dirt road outside Demoso, they visited a hideout—a sanctuary for those fleeing the cities. In a small bamboo encampment, a group of eight young people, aged 15 to 23, have recently arrived. Many traveled from faraway Yangon, moving along country roads at night.
An “underground railroad” has been established from Myanmar’s main cities, helping those rebelling against the military’s new conscription law. It spirits them along clandestine routes, through safe houses and handlers, to Karenni and other resistance-held areas. Some traveled by car, others by motorbike or boat, spending nights outdoors to avoid military checkpoints. At one checkpoint, soldiers ordered everyone out of the car, checked their papers, and searched their phones. Anticipating this, the young people had cleared their phones of anything incriminating and were allowed to pass.
They almost seem out of place in this wilderness, dressed in fashionable gear as they check their phones. One says he disguised himself as a villager, hiding his city clothes to avoid detection at a checkpoint.
"The journey was hard," says Thura, one of the young rebels. “I had to spend that night sleeping with fear. It was a place I had never been or known. After that, they picked me up in the morning and brought me here safely.”
Many still fear for their families back in the cities. They feel a burning sense of betrayal, having grown up during Myanmar’s transition to democracy, which began in 2015 after over half a century of military rule. But the promise of freedom was snatched away with the military coup in 2021, which toppled the civilian government led by Aung San Suu Kyi.
Most of the group have completed the month-long basic military training offered by the Karenni Nationalities Defence Force (KNDF), established after the coup. The KNDF, leading a disparate grouping of Karenni resistance and ethnic groups, claims to have pushed the military junta out of 90% of the state.
A fighter, Thiha, was asked why he chose to take up arms. He replied, “I have only two choices: to fight for the military or to join the revolutionary forces. If I fight for the army, I will be tormenting my own people and killing them.”
Not everyone chooses to fight on the front lines. On a scorching day, Quentin's team traveled along a hillside track under the jungle canopy to a secret hospital treating both civilians and fighters. The hospital, disguised as a random collection of huts and shelters, has scanners, X-ray machines, and 60 beds. Subterfuge is essential; the previous hospital was bombed by the military.
Dr. Yori, 28, fled here a year ago. He showed the reporter an underground operating theatre, camouflaged to avoid airstrikes. Inside, men and women—many missing limbs—lie on beds on a dirt floor. The UN says Myanmar is one of the most heavily mined countries in the world, with injuries soaring since the coup. The war has killed tens of thousands, many of them children. The military targets both civilians and resistance fighters, labeling them terrorists.
“In a nearby village, a family of six, including two young children, were killed in an airstrike days before my hospital visit”, laments Quentin. Before the war, medical facilities were scarce in Karenni State. None of the medical staff here are local; they come from all over the country.
Yori’s fiancée Tracy, a former student leader, is in the operating theatre. Both were final-year medical students in Yangon when the coup happened, and the military issued arrest warrants for them. Initially, they considered taking up arms but realized their medical skills were more needed in Karenni. Their hospital, with 35 staff, almost all under 30, has been running for three months.
In the makeshift canteen, when asked how they cope with jungle hardships and the terrible injuries they treat. "The mentality of the patients is very strong," said Yori. "Even amputated soldiers are still fighting. Why should we quit?" Tracy agreed, adding, “We can cry all day, but we have to stand up again. If we are not here, who will treat these patients?”
Their wedding was postponed twice due to the conflict. "Maybe this December," Yori said with a hopeful smile. "I hope so," Tracy laughed.
Karenni’s official state capital, Loikaw,has almost been abandoned. Since November, KNDF and junta forces have been locked in street battles. On a hot April day, the boulevards and parks went silent, save for the sound of crows and occasional rifle fire. Whole neighborhoods had been destroyed by airstrikes, drones, and artillery fire. The city's main military base is still resupplied by helicopter, but opposition forces have them surrounded on the ground.
Sam and Cobra, in their early 20s, have known each other for 13 years. National karate champions who moved to Yangon, they now find themselves back in Loikaw, on the front lines. Their path to armed resistance is not uncommon among KNDF's young fighters. Before the coup, Cobra was making good money as a mixed martial arts trainer. "After the coup, we protested peacefully," he said. "Then the army started shooting and killing people." Sam, never political before, was inspired by overseas travels. “I was in Japan when I saw my country didn’t have to be the way it was.”
Cobra wears body armor, surprising in Myanmar where it is hard to find. Opening the plate carrier, he shows me a homemade steel plate inside. "It won’t stop a bullet, but most injuries here are from shrapnel." Every member of their squad has been injured, some multiple times.
Estimates suggest the military has lost control of half to two-thirds of the country as resistance and ethnic groups unite against it. Yet, much of the resistance in Karenni remains hidden along dark forest tracks and in deep jungle camps. Landmines are a constant threat, but along one remote pathway, the sound of Mozart on a violin emerges. The violinist, 26-year-old Maw Hpray Myar, fled her home and now leads the Golden Flower Music School. Her 35 students, ages 14 to 20, find safety and distraction in music amid the war’s din.
Quentin asked how she felt about students leaving for the front lines, she replies, "They sacrifice their bodies, their limbs, their lives. They have to leave their loved ones to fight. I respect and honor them." Tears fill her eyes as she acknowledges that some may never return.
At the end of the morning’s lesson, she leads the children in a song called "Nowhere To Go." They sing, “We need peace, we need justice like a river. The grief of this war must end.”
These are wilderness years. No one in Karenni expects the conflict to end soon. They do what they can, living undercover, tending the sick, caring for children, and joining the armed struggle. They have left lives and families behind, but they believe it is a worthwhile sacrifice to build the Myanmar they were promised.
BOB Post
