At night, the mountain air is not cold enough to silence the sounds of insects, so young people gather together to glow. The light that attracts them is not a phone screen, which attracts people almost anywhere, but a bonfire.
Around the fire, music emanated. Fingers strumming the guitar. The song's lyrics are layered with voices about love, democracy and most of all, revolution. The moths clung to the flames, glowed when they got too close, then fainted to death.
For months now, the hills of Karenni state in eastern Myanmar have been cut off from modern communications. That military government took power in a coup three years ago, plunged the country into civil war, which cut off the communities most strongly opposed to its brutal rule. In these resistance strongholds, where people from across the country gather, there is virtually no internet, cell service or even electricity.
Returning to the pre-modern era brings terrible consequences for human life. When a child has a high fever, there is no way to call a doctor. Rebel fighters, people attacked dozens of Myanmar military bases During recent attacks, it was impossible to contact combat commanders from outposts. Students cannot take online classes, which are the only educational option in some places in Myanmar.
News – survivors of an air strike, their village burned, their daughter has fled the country to work abroad – moving at a pedestrian's pace or, if found fuel is expensive, by motorbike running along forest roads.
However, losing contact brought an unexpected benefit. Without the distraction of handheld devices, people talk directly to each other using eye contact. They joke. They sing. They dance. They play guitar.
It seems that only war can break the commanding rush of a small screen.
In what people in Karenni call the BC years – that is, Before the coup – almost everyone was on Facebook. Then, in the early hours of February 1, 2021, authorities shut down telecommunications operations. That was the first sign of trouble. By morning, most of the nation's elected leaders had been arrested. Surname still imprisoned Today.
Since the coup, internet and mobile services have been restored in most other parts of the country, but Facebook and other social networks are banned. In areas where militias have pushed back government forces – such as areas of Karenni State (also known as Kayah State) in the east, Rakhine State in the west, Sagaing Region and Chin State in the west north – the entire town is still in darkness.
With no online games to play or videos to stream on phones, dark spaces at night are often filled with homegrown music.
On the front lines, as the sound of artillery subsided during the day or hour, resistance soldiers exchanged AK rifles for guitars. A rebel commander beats a beat on a cajon, an Afro-Peruvian musical instrument. At the hospital, emergency supplies are lined up along a wall made of leaves: bandages, rubber gloves, rubbing alcohol and a ukulele.
After serving rebel soldiers a meal of spicy noodles with foraged herbs, Emily Oo picked up a guitar lying on the dirt floor of a security outpost seized by opposition forces last year . A few years ago, she was a middle school student in Loikaw, the capital of Karenni state, learning English and TikTok dance moves.
Last year, she and her family had to flee their home when fighting between resistance fighters and government forces flooded her neighborhood. Most people in Karenni are now displaced, living with a few of their most prized possessions, including, surprisingly often, a guitar.
“History is written in our blood,” she sings. “Heroes died in the fight for democracy.”
The lyrics, part of the famous revolutionary anthem, were written by candlelight in 1988 as Myanmar was ravaged by another nationwide uprising against the previous military dictatorship. After that protest movement was brutally quelled, Myanmar seemed to slip further back in time, while much of Asia urbanized and prospered.
A decade ago, the ruling government in Myanmar set the price of SIM cards at about four times the country's average annual income, preventing even the richest people from connecting to the world.
So most people's source of news – or a combination of fact, rumor and rhetoric – is the local tea shop, as it has been for decades. People sat on plastic chairs around plastic tables, leaning closer to avoid military intelligence agents who might be listening. The tea, which was either sweet like milk or bitter, had cooled down. The rumors were hot.
When political reforms brought about semi-civilian government in 2016, internet access becomes cheaper. Facebook accounts are increasingly popular. The same goes for online misinformation. Mistakes about sexual violence fanned the flames of genocide against the Muslim minority.
Today, in Karenni, Myanmar's smallest state and one of its least developed even before the blackout, the allusion once again represents the truth. Conspiracy theories multiply. But amidst the insecurity and paranoia, music acts as a salve.
“Every day I hear bombs, planes and gunshots,” said Maw Hpray Myar, 23, who fled a government-controlled city and opened a music school in the Karenni forest. “When we hear the sound of music, our fear eases a little.”
When there are few opportunities to access the Internet, the lure of going online can pose its own dangers.
In January, members of the resistance gathered at a secret command post in Loikaw. They were there not for combat strategy but to access Wi-Fi courtesy of Starlink, a satellite internet service used in conflict zones around the world.
Resistance forces rave on Facebook. They were interested in photos of newborn babies and images of other rebel recruits posing, young and determined in camouflage uniforms. A soldier there recalled that some people were so engrossed in online attacks that they did not notice the noise nearby.
He and others escaped from an armed drone dispatched by government forces. But three people who were too connected to the internet failed to do so and were injured in the attack, one seriously.
On the night of the third anniversary of the coup, opposition soldiers gathered in the rebel-controlled town of Demoso to celebrate the wedding of Augustine and Josephine, whose names are inscribed on a plaque at the site. . Augustine would soon go to the front, and many other militia members were resting for a few days after the battle. Generators lit the tent and soldiers occasionally glanced at the sky to make sure no warplanes were targeting the dazzling festivities.
As partygoers downed glasses of whiskey before gathering on the dance floor, Ko Yan Naing Htoo sat on a plastic chair and smoked a cigarette. In the years BC, he worked as an accountant. He then joined a rebel army. A mine took his legs.
“I feel very sorry that I can't fight alongside my teammates anymore,” he said.
A commander booed towards Mr. Yan Naing Htoo and put his arm around his shoulder. They nodded to the music and lyrics about the nostalgia of those who had to leave their homeland. Then a wave of song brought the conductor back to the dance floor.
Sitting on a plastic chair, Mr. Yan Naing Htoo smoked a cigarette. His hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone, a relic from another era. He swiped the device. It's dead. He put it away and watched the men sway and sing, so close but yet so out of reach.
