The Prodigal Sons

The weather is a bit chilly and windy as I reminisce about memories tucked away in my brain’s hippocampus, while working at San Jose's Fairground with people from diverse backgrounds and nationalities that aren’t my own. These memories are somewhat dusty—deliberately so—because vivid recollections can sometimes bring pain. A bit of dust makes them less hurtful. I realize this introduction may seem melancholic, but it’s important to convey that none of us wanted to feel homesick; most of us never intended to leave our homeland. I’m referring to that specific demographic from Burma.

The Myanmar we left behind is a far cry from the one we knew just a few years before our freedoms and benefits were stripped away before our very eyes. Life was good back then. Major cities like Yangon, Mandalay, and Taunggyi were no New York, LA, Paris, Munich, London, or even Bangkok, but they were more than enough for us. Why? Because we had never known democracy before. The introduction of freedom and opportunity was a revelation for Burma’s youth, showing us what was possible. Even Burmese graduates from abroad were returning to contribute to this newly opened Burma. It wasn’t completely 'free,' but it was something.

At that time, we could go out alone or with friends, intoxicated or sober, at any hour of the day or night, and we felt safe and at home. For once, we were happy and optimistic about our future. Reflecting on those moments can bring a tear to the eye and a smile to the face. I recall driving through the streets near the palace, the windows down, radio on, admiring Mandalay Hill past midnight, thinking to myself, "Wow, this is what living feels like." Many of my compatriots had similar experiences during our civilian government, feeling truly alive. Then, COVID-19 struck. We fought back valiantly, more effectively than many, but while the pandemic was a global challenge, a uniquely national crisis emerged. The military seized control.

Why am I revisiting all these memories? Perhaps it is nostalgia or a desperate attempt to reconcile past and present. I guess I just miss home. I'm sure you do too, my friend. We had everything our predecessors lacked and everything we hoped to pass on to future generations. Now, it feels like we have nothing. The Myanmar we left bears little resemblance to the country we once knew, but it was still home. We left in search of a better, more secure future. We were fortunate to have that option; many did not. As fortunate exiles, our hearts remain tethered to a troubled homeland. Yet, we are the ones who left—the prodigal sons.

It’s been nearly five months since I departed. It hasn’t been a honeymoon. I’ve set foot in four countries across two continents during this time, which has been exhausting. I long to return to how things were before. Yet, I remind myself, "It is what it is, and this is what you always wanted." It’s true—I’m living my younger self’s dream. But why don’t I feel accomplished? It might be personal. Perhaps, just when I think I’m moving past the tough years, life forces me to relive them. It may also stem from the shared sentiment of the prodigal sons: “We didn’t ask for this.” Many didn’t ask for a lot of things, but they happen.

Routine and connections are fundamental to the human psyche. Regardless of our personality traits, we all crave some form of human interaction. Primates are inherently social, and isolation in any form can be detrimental. Sometimes isolation is unintentional; at other times, it’s a consequence of becoming so absorbed in ourselves that we struggle to forge meaningful connections, particularly in foreign lands. Having a routine is also crucial for emotional stability. Even the most adventurous among us benefit from a familiar schedule. When forced to leave our country abruptly, the life we knew ends dramatically. To regain balance, we must create new routines and connections, ensuring they are both meaningful and fresh.

The best we can do is move forward. Some things may be lost along the way, but I hope our identity and essential elements remain intact. I hope I can rediscover myself and my sense of belonging when I return to familiar settings. The truth is, I don’t know if things will ever be the same. I don’t know if I’ll breathe the same air again or if my homeland will be as welcoming. But I hope it will be, along with my brothers and sisters.

Recently, I saw a comment that asked, “Why do we miss the country we’re currently in?” If those who remain miss their country, it’s even more profound for those far from their homeland. The triggers of nostalgia—be it music, language, or food—transport us to familiar settings and bonds. This unique feeling of nostalgia is different from that of others in similar situations from different countries. It’s like waking up from a dream where you’re back in your city, feeling a mixture of helplessness and longing. Each day presents the same dilemma: whether to keep going or surrender. Both options are equally challenging. Yet, here we are, still breathing and hoping for improvement, yearning to return home someday.

This essay isn’t meant to offer advice or solutions. It’s not a guidebook, and I’m confident you don’t need advice on this topic. You’ve already made a significant leap by crossing miles or oceans. We can reminisce about the past endlessly, but that won’t resolve current issues. Endless nostalgia won’t hasten our return. We have plenty of time for that when the land becomes peaceful and the quality of life improves. For now, the pragmatic approach is to keep moving forward, one step at a time, hoping for a day when our nation heals. It’s easier said than done, but it’s necessary. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?