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"Home isn't a place. It's any place where the people you love are."

A Little Moe's Note | Oxford, Tuesday morning

Today, I want to introduce a little about myself. This might seem irrelevant, but I believe there are friends out there whose own experiences might connect with mine. And so, I write this.

I was born in Yangon, moving to a downtown neighborhood as a child. It was a small place near the riverbank, a couple of streets over from a main road. At the head of our street was a well-known community hall. A lot of things were nearby.

When we moved, I was just a toddler. My parents bought a first-floor apartment. How they managed to buy it, I don’t remember. What I know for sure is that we had a home of our own. In my generation, I was the firstborn among all my relatives.

Later, my cousins were born, and our generation began. As the only son, my family’s care for me was more than enough. My grandmother was especially close to me, so she eventually moved onto my street as well. We ended up with several family apartments all on the same street.

My relatives, well, they were relatives. My maternal grandmother’s family lived on an upper floor in a wide apartment. My paternal relatives lived on another floor. The point is, I could go and play in any house I wanted.

I used to play so much when I was little, but playing outside was never really an option. My parents had rules: don’t associate with this person, don’t play with that person. So, I played all sorts of games inside the house. I was still happy. I never had to worry about a roof over my head or food on the table.

But our family wasn't exactly well-off. You could tell just by looking at our apartment. We lived on the first floor of a six-story building. It had one kitchen, one toilet, one bathroom, and one bedroom. That was it. The apartment was tiny.

As you stepped inside, you’d find the family Buddhist shrine, with statues and flower vases that you almost had to duck to avoid. Then you were in the living room, where a sofa set took up about half the space. Inside the bedroom was a king-size iron bed with a hard mattress. In that room were my parents’ wardrobe and a pile of things cluttered up like a storeroom. You can imagine it: a very cramped and messy space.

My father’s work often took him away from home for long periods. It must have been very difficult for him. Most of the time, it was just my mother and me at home. And because I was a child, the house was, as you’d expect, always a mess.

As I grew older, my family's financial situation gradually improved. And through that, by attending an international school, I eventually ended up in this country. My family is very old-school, and their parenting style never quite fit with me. But I suppose it's to be expected for a firstborn son.

My Dream Home

I may have been born in Yangon, but the lifestyle I dream of is in a small town on the outskirts of a city, or in the countryside. A life with paddy fields, where I can plant things, cook, and raise animals. Living with the woman I love, my wife, and our family—whether that’s children, or dogs and cats, or even horses, cows, and goats. Not to raise them for business, but to care for them like my own children, to play with them and joke with them. It’s just a little dream.

The Reality of Leaving Home

Many of you are probably thinking of going abroad. But let me give you a warning: the dream of going abroad is expensive. It is difficult. You won't get the movie-like fantasy of arriving overseas and immediately wearing suits and sunglasses on a high-rise balcony. There will be days you spend crying alone in a tiny room. There will be hardships that make you want to die. This is how you get through life, especially when you can't yet earn your own income.

Why am I writing these things? I don't really know myself. Perhaps it’s just something I do because I am living far away from home. In the end, "home" was never just a place. Home is anywhere the people you love are.

Do I miss Myanmar? I miss it so much. I miss a favourite noodle shop downtown. I miss a small rice porridge stall in the heart of Chinatown. I miss the chicken over rice from a little Middle Eastern spot, made by a chef who knew just how we liked it. I miss the things my uncle used to cook for me. I miss playing with my little cousin. I miss working day and night on my front veranda, from when I was a tiny kid until just the other day. It’s not that I want it all back. I know I have to move forward. But still.

On the other hand, I still have a purpose. When I return one day, when everything is okay again, I want to see myself as someone who helps people with the knowledge and skills I have gained.

What am I doing right now? In a time when good and evil are in a tug-of-war, I am standing firmly on the side of good, still struggling through a difficult life. I want to build my dreams. I want to be reunited one day with the things and the people I love so dearly. The dreams are still far away. How am I striving? Just like this. I am still trying, always trying, to help build a better country for the people I love, for the land where I was born, for the country where my family lives. Even if my contribution is as small as a single sesame seed.

"...Who would want to go? Who would follow? Even without knowing what's ahead, I'm afraid to face it. No one can force it, no one can take you there. Sometimes I wonder, if it were truly my turn..."

It even reminds me of a song.