🇲🇲 Aung San Suu Kyi heads to court

Mr. Hla Min, the farmer, was diagnosed with bladder cancer at Mandalay General in January. He underwent surgery and began radiation therapy, said his widow, Daw Khin Myat, 42. She said his prognosis was good. But in February, after the doctors walked out, the hospital closed and his treatment stopped.

The couple returned in March to see if he could resume radiation therapy, only to find soldiers with rifles posted at the entrances, where they were checking the identification papers of those who entered. Most departments and clinics were closed, including the cancer ward.

One doctor suggested that the couple go to Yangon, Myanmar’s largest city, for treatment at a military hospital. But the couple wanted nothing to do with the junta or its leader, Senior Gen. Min Aung Hlaing.

“Even if we could afford it, we wouldn’t go to a military hospital,” Ms. Khin Myat said. “We all expected that he would survive and the regime would surrender before he died. But he died before Min Aung Hlaing, who is dragging the country into hell.”

U Aung Myo Min, the NUG’s minister for human rights, said the military was “pushing the youth to take up arms” through its violence. “The military has used weapons to crackdown on peaceful protests. So, the young people have made a choice and they are going to fight back,” he said. 

These attacks are usually carried out by secretive groups that sometimes label themselves as “UG”, an abbreviation for “underground”. In one such incident, three members of the hardline pro-military group known as Pyusawhti were killed in a shootout in Sagaing Region’s Mingin Township on June 3 with members of Nalseemachar Moegyo Mhone Tine, or Thunderstorms-Without-Borders, a protection force established by township residents that is allied with but not under the direction of the Mingin branch of the People’s Defence Force.

In desperation, I threw a handful of the greasy crispy things into a bowl -- and had to abandon it after two bites. I was devastated. My inedible laphet thote felt like a metaphor for the country and the food I love slipping away from me. It is a privilege to be safe at a time when millions of my citizens live in fear, but safety comes with a gut-wrenching feeling of impotence and survivor's guilt.

Very often, food has served as a salve for bruises to my soul. Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around eating with family and friends, particularly the ceremonies at home where preparations started a day or two in advance, and guests turned up throughout the day to eat and catch up.

Now, I don't know when -- or if -- I will see those people again, let alone share a plate of laphet thote. When will I again enjoy food from the Myanmar street carts and hole-in-the-wall restaurants that have nourished both my body and spirit through the years? When will I experience again that familiar sense of community that turns roads and buildings into friendly faces, delicious aromas and heartening tastes?