Before the world she knew fell apart, Mya* lived a simple life in Yangon, Myanmar. She taught children, wrote articles, and dreamed of opening a small school.
“I was just a teacher,” she recalls. “We lived in our own house. Life was normal.”
When her family visited her mother—who lived in a rural area—they felt drawn to the mountains and quiet living. They decided to stay and build a small house.
“We liked the nature, the trees, the mountains,” Mya remembers. “I started teaching children in my mother’s house, and I was very happy.”
But when COVID-19 struck, everything stopped. Then in 2021, the military coup changed life in Myanmar forever.
Mya’s mother and elderly relative fell sick with COVID during the height of restrictions. As the family cared for them, political tension escalated.
Mya had been a journalist before becoming a teacher, and after the coup, her editor encouraged her to write again—particularly about students affected by the unrest.
“I didn’t think my writing was biased,” she says. “I felt I was doing the right thing.”
But journalism in Myanmar had become dangerous. Her father, also a well-known journalist, was placed on a wanted list. Soldiers raided communities, arresting writers, and activists.
“Then I got a call—my father had been arrested,” she says. “Everyone told me to leave. I was at risk because of my writing and because I was his daughter.”
Unsure where to go, the family made a choice: escape the country before they too were captured.
Crossing the Border in the Dark
Before dawn, they drove toward the border with Thailand, carefully avoiding military checkpoints.
“They had my name and my father’s name on a list,” Mya explains. “I was sure they would arrest me if they found me.”
Guided by a driver familiar with the soldiers, they pretended to sleep as they passed through a guarded gate. From there, brokers led them through cornfields at night.
“I carried my daughter, who was four,” Mya recalls. “My husband carried our son. We couldn’t see anything—only the back of the broker. We just ran and ran.”
They hid in bushes while patrols passed, then finally crossed the river into Thailand by boat.
The following day, Mya saw something that shook her to her core: her father appeared on state television, labeled a criminal.
“He managed to call me once from a police officer’s phone,” she says softly. “He whispered that he was safe, but I could hear screaming in the background. That was the last time I talked to him.”
The Waiting
In Thailand, journalists advised Mya to apply for asylum. She and her family were placed under the care of resettlement agencies. But because refugees in Thailand lack legal status, they were confined to a small hotel room for years.
“We stayed in a two-star hotel for three years,” Mya says. “No freedom. No life. Some people became mentally unstable. One asylum-seeker even took her own life.”
Her children grew up indoors, homeschooled, and unable to visit doctors.
“We were lucky they stayed healthy,” she says. “If they got sick, we had nowhere to take them.”
After years of interviews, screenings, and uncertainty, the family finally received approval to resettle in the United States. But with Thai authorities slow to issue exit permission, they made a risky but necessary journey to Bangkok, living in hiding until they were finally cleared to fly.
Arriving in the United States
In August 2024, they arrived in the United States—exhausted, anxious but hopeful. Her encounter with U.S. immigration officials at the airport was unexpectedly hostile.
“I didn’t understand. We didn’t have a choice [to flee].”
But soon after, a case manager from Lutheran Social Services of the National Capital Area (LSSNCA) greeted them with warmth and compassion.
“She encouraged us,” Mya remembers. “That was what we needed.”
The family moved into temporary housing and then an apartment. They began searching for jobs, navigating a new culture, and trying to build a fresh start.
When U.S. policy changes reduced refugee support, Mya suddenly had to cover rent earlier than expected. With limited savings, they purchased a used car at a high interest rate—only for it to be stolen weeks later.
“Life is like that,” she sighs. “You do what you have to do to be safe.”
Insurance allowed them to recover, and slowly, things began to improve.
Building a New Life
The family eventually found a more affordable apartment. The children started school and made friends. Mya found part-time teaching work, and her husband began culinary training.
“I feel secure now,” she says. “He is training, and I know he will find a job.”
Her children, though still adjusting, show strength.
“They never ask for things,” Mya says. “But they understand our situation. We had to leave our simple, once comfortable life, our house, our car, our family—everything.”
Mya strongly believes in their future.
“In the beginning, everyone struggles,” she reflects. “But I believe soon we will be stable. We will be happy.”
Mya is grateful for the support she received in the United States before the funding cuts.
“Everyone needs help when they start over,” she says. “We received that help, and it allowed us to begin our life again.”
Though she still feels the loss of her homeland and the life she once knew, she knows one thing to be true:
“Wherever I am with my family, that is our home.”
*Name changed for privacy purposes.
For more than a century, LSSNCA has been a steadfast force for welcome and compassion—supporting neighbors across the DMV through war, hardship, and change. With your partnership, we continue offering vital legal, housing, education, mentorship, and wellness services that help neighbors like Mya rebuild and thrive. Help us carry this legacy forward for 100 years more. Donate Today.
