Coming back home to loved ones can be joyful and exciting, at the same time, one can also feel vulnerable and anxious! Myanmar was my first mission country, and I call it my second home because I devoted my young missionary life to its people with passion and zeal. They taught me what it means to be a missionary religious woman. Knowing that they are now suffering and fighting for survival each day is heartbreaking and painful. Yet, I feel privileged and honoured to be with them once again. At this particular time in my pilgrim journey, I ask myself: For whom and for what have I returned? Why have I been sent here? What hope remains for me and for the people, who seem so desperate?
During the past number of years that I was away, the people endured the dreadful COVID-19 pandemic alongside the rest of the world. To make it worse, Military Martial Law was declared in 2021, leading to a brutal civil war that has ravaged almost every part of the country. Severe earthquakes have shaken the ancient cities of Sagaing and Mandalay, while floods continue to wreak havoc in the northern regions. Countless lives have been lost or injured, and those who survived have no space to grieve or find healing because gunfire and bombings are a daily occurrence. I cannot fathom how the people continue to live their lives with such kindness and generosity. I deeply admire their faith and resilience.
While visiting Yangon, I found that life is not much different from other cities around the world – there are beautiful houses nestled among large old trees, shopping malls with familiar brands, European restaurants and coffee shops, and hidden poverty behind newly built skyscrapers. However, a significant difference is the presence of many young people. Again I quickly learned that these young people have had to flee their homes in villages, and towns due to unavoidable military conscription, as well as the destruction of their homes. They hope to find safety and new jobs in other countries. Internally Displaced Peoples (IDP) camps are currently unavailable, forcing many displaced people to seek refuge with relatives or friends in towns and cities. In many cases, parents have moved deep into the jungle or mountains, sending their children to cities for safety and education.
On a recent flight from Myitkyina to Yangon, I met a young woman travelling with her baby. As soon as she sat down, she closed her eyes, exhausted. Her baby was sitting uncomfortably on her lap, yet she seemed too weary to change his position. After she had had a long rest, I asked her the name of her beautiful baby. She told me his name was Ma Gam and that he was five months old. She then began telling me her story, revealing the hardships she had faced in recent months.
“My husband died tragically in Pagan two months ago. We had to flee every time we received warnings of impending battles. That day was also supposed to be an ordinary one, but despite hearing news of the fighting, my husband thought it was more important to mine for gold for our livelihood. Many people went to the mining site with him, and there, the fighting suddenly broke out, and almost everyone was killed, including my husband. I buried him alone. At that time, my baby was only 3 months old. The area was a restricted, so we couldn’t escape, but I was allowed to leave because I had a young baby. When I went to inform my mother-in-law in Myitkyina about my husband’s death, an earthquake occurred in Mandalay, where my father was. Now, after visiting my father, I am on my way with my baby to a state that I have never been to before, hoping to find work and begin anew.” I have no way of knowing how she continues to live after such pain. I also realize that her story is just one among millions of untold stories. 
Recently, I met some friends from the early days of my mission in Myanmar. They expressed how happy they were to have me back, saying that my return has given them strength and hope. I also remember that in 2003, when we first returned to Myanmar following the expulsion of our Sisters in 1966, the people told us that God had heard their prayers and sent us back to them as we were their hope. I often pondered, “What does it mean to be their hope?” I came to understand that our presence serves as a bridge, connecting them to the Universal Church, allowing them to feel that they are not forgotten by God. Since the expulsion of all the missionaries in the 60’s they had carried painful memories of being isolated and disconnected from the wider Church and the world.
Living amidst war and natural tragedies here in Myanmar, wondering ‘I am their strength and hope,’ I ask myself: What is hope for me? Where do I see hope? The words of St. Paul come to mind: “Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ, even in trouble or worry, persecution or famine, nakedness or danger, or sword” (Romans 8:35). As the situation grows more oppressive and traumatic, I seek the Lord more intensely. It is a mystery that I feel God, who is tender and compassionate love, is very close to me and to the people in their pain, suffering, and anguish amidst this raging war and natural disasters. I cry with the people and embrace their pain and suffering. In this way, I meet the Lord, who is my hope. This is my personal journey of transformation: to recognizing more and more that “it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:20). On this pilgrim journey of hope, my deep desire is to embody Christ, becoming a consoling, healing and compassionate presence among the wounded and suffering people of Myanmar.
“May no trial, no trouble, no oppression, no hunger, no poverty, no death, nothing sad, nothing joyful, nothing just or unjust separate us from Christ so that he may dwell within us here, and we may abide with him forever and ever, Amen.”
St. Columban, Sermon IV