Before the coup, there was already a storm. In 2018, I was divorced — a word that carries more than just legal weight in Myanmar. It was a quiet kind of earthquake, one that left me alone with two small children and too many fears. But I didn’t let it bury me.
I rebuilt everything from scratch: our routines, our trust, our tiny world of three. I worked harder than I ever had — opened small businesses, climbed my way up to get promote my positions. For a moment, it felt like I had made it. I had survived the storm and found a new life on the other side.
But the peace didn’t last.
In February 2021, the military coup shattered everything — not just the system, but the air, the streets, the faces of people I loved. Suddenly, my job, my safety, my voice — none of them were mine anymore. I stood for justice. I stood with the people. That meant I couldn’t stay.
From March, I became a shadow in my own country. I hid for almost three months, far away from Yangon, always looking over my shoulder. But I couldn’t take my children with me. They were five and seven — already carrying the scars of their parents’ separation. I left them with my parents, my heart breaking each day I didn’t hear their voices.
This — this impossible goodbye — was the moment I knew I had to leave. Not just run. Not just hide. But truly leave. Not for months. Maybe forever.
I didn’t fly to freedom. I flew to Thailand, uncertain and frightened, not knowing what would come next. I had never dreamed of living in Germany. That was never the plan.
‘The decision to leave was not brave. It was necessary. It was not a step forward — it was a leap into the unknown, carried only by the love of a mother and the voice of something deeper than fear. Maybe that was destiny. Or maybe it was just survival.
A photo from my nest in Yangon ,Myanmar.The view of sunset.