“Let me see my mother.”
A man’s voice breaks the silence, shouting in slurred English, “Let me see my May May.” His cries echo faintly, like distant whispers on the BBC, or in the Irrawaddy news. He calls Daw Aung San Suu Kyi “May May( May May is the Burmese word for mother) ”
Yes, in truth, he’s her son, Kim Aris, raising his voice, pleading. Yet, only a few voices remain to echo Kim Aris’ calls.
Now, Aung San Suu Kyi, a 79-year-old woman, “his mother,” has nearly been forgotten by the world.
Don’t be angry at me, we tell ourselves—it’s just a practical fact.
Inside Nay Pyi Taw Prison, infamous for cruelty under Min Aung Hlaing, the burning heat is unbearable, even for the young. But it’s not the heat alone—Aung San Suu Kyi’s health is deteriorating day by day. She has spent more than three years unjustly imprisoned, fading, abandoned.
Kim Aris often wonders how much time his mother has left.
Recently, her comrade-in-arms, Dr. Zaw Myint Maung, collapsed in prison. The ruthless military regime grants “amnesty” so you may go where you wish—but for him, that path led only to death. U Win Khaing, another ally of hers, also stopped breathing not long ago, a final act of amnesty granted in a hospital.
Aung San Suu Kyi faces chronic pain, osteoporosis, heart issues. Kim Aris lives in constant fear of his mother’s tragic end. Yet the world seems to have no time to truly understand Kim Aris’ pain.
Sean Turnell, a former political prisoner released alongside Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, speaks of the prison’s rats, of relentless mosquitoes, and suffocating heat, a veritable hell.
In January, Kim Aris didn’t expect to hand over belongings to his mother—did she read the letter he sent her?
Once, international cries for her freedom were loud and clear. But today, they have fallen quiet.
The United Nations, world media, those close to her—Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, David Cameron, Nobel Laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Ban Ki-moon, Angela Merkel, Tony Blair—have all spoken for her in the past. But today, even those in Myanmar, her family and allies, have been silenced by the brutal hand of dictatorship.
To Kim Aris, being unable to see his mother due to a political game he has no part in is a form of torment.
I want you to understand: Kim Aris is living a tragic nightmare.
Daw Aung San Suu Kyi is our mother; Kim Aris is our brother. His pain is our pain.
There are countless ways we can help them reunite.
We can make our voices heard on social media. Human rights groups, local ethnic leaders, activists—we can all rally, speak out, launch petitions, and demand that the media not stay silent.
Shall a woman who dedicated her life to her people face a tragic end without even a farewell to her son? If we only cry after she is gone, what use is it?
It is time to amplify Kim Aris’ small voice. That time is now.
If the world has forgotten, it’s our responsibility to remind them.
Ma Shwe Moe - Korea
November 11, 2024.
#MaShweMoeKorea
“Let me see my May May.”
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