Words may gather people, but structure defines their purpose.
Words are never just words. They carry structure, intention, and sometimes power. In our daily conversations, we casually use the terms group, association, and organization as if they were interchangeable. But are they truly the same?
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a group is defined as “a number of people or things that are located, gathered, or classed together”. The emphasis is on togetherness – not necessarily on structure. Meanwhile, Merriam-Webster describes a group as “two or more figures forming a complete unit in a composition”, again highlighting unity, but not hierarchy.
The word association, as defined by Oxford, refers to “a group of people organized for a joint purpose”. Here, the word organized quietly enters the scene. Merriam-Webster further defines it as “an organization of persons having a common interest”. A subtle shift appears from mere gathering to intentional connection.
Then comes organization. Oxford defines it as “an organized body of people with a particular purpose, especially a business, society, association, etc”. Merriam-Webster describes it as “a structured arrangement of relationships designed to achieve some purpose”. Structure, arrangement, purpose – these are no longer casual connections. They imply design and accountability.
Turning to an English-Myanmar Dictionary, group is translated as “အစု” or “အဖွဲ့”, association as “အသင်း” or “အသင်းအဖွဲ့”, and organization as “အဖွဲ့အစည်း”. In Myanmar usage, however, these terms often overlap in everyday speech. We may call a loose gathering “အဖွဲ့” and a formal institution by the same word. The linguistic boundary exists, yet in practice, it sometimes fades.
So I ask myself: when does an “အစု” become an “အသင်း”? When does an “အသင်း” evolve into an “အဖွဲ့အစည်း”? And more importantly, when does responsibility begin?
I say what I see: the difference may not lie in the number of people, but in the weight of structure they are willing to carry.
If definitions live in dictionaries, realities live in society.
In Myanmar, as in many countries around the world, we see countless groups, associations, and organizations formed with noble intentions. Some emerge from shared interests. Some arise from shared grievances. Others are established in response to national needs. On paper, their objectives are admirable. In meetings, their words are inspiring. In social media statements, unity is often declared.
Yet I say what I see: unity in language does not always translate into unity in labour.
A group may gather quickly. An association may register formally. An organization may even possess a logo, letterhead, and leadership structure. But structure alone does not guarantee solidarity. Titles do not automatically produce teamwork. Regulations do not automatically create responsibility.
In Myanmar’s social landscape, whether in civil institutions, professional bodies, community networks, or even informal collectives, fragmentation sometimes appears not because of a lack of intelligence, but because of a lack of coordinated effort. Individuals may be competent, even brilliant. Yet without discipline, shared accountability, and consistent action, the collective remains weaker than its potential.
This observation is not criticism; it is concern.
My true Cetana – goodwill – is simple. I wish to see any group, any association, any organization united not merely by declarations, but by dedication. Not only by resolutions, but by results. Not only by meetings, but by meaningful work.
I once had the responsibility of leading an organization based in Bangkok, Thailand. Leadership taught me something that no dictionary could fully explain: unity is not the absence of disagreement. It is the presence of shared commitment. Members may think differently, speak differently, or come from different backgrounds. But if they work in the same direction, the institution stands firm.
Without coordinated action, even a well-structured organization becomes a symbolic shell. With disciplined cooperation, even a small group can become a transformative force.
This is what I have seen both locally and internationally.
And this is why I reflect on the difference between gathering and governing, between association and organization, between intention and implementation.
If we look at Myanmar’s own social history, we do not need to search far for an example of what true organizational continuity means.
In Mandalay stands the Malun Rice Donation Association in Myanmar, known respectfully as မလွန် (စျေး) ဆန်လှူအသင်းတော်ကြီး. It is not a newly registered entity formed for publicity. It is not a seasonal association that appears and disappears with circumstances. It is an institution that has endured for more than a century.
Historical records show that the association was founded eleven years after King Thibaw was dethroned in 1885. It began its formation in the Myanmar Era 1258 and was granted its registration number 1253. In Mandalay, where history breathes through monasteries, markets, and memory, this rice donation association has quietly continued its philanthropic mission for over 120 years.
To survive for more than a century in Myanmar is not accidental. It requires more than noble intention. It demands structure. It demands discipline. It demands leadership succession. Most importantly, it demands collective commitment that transcends generations.
Many groups are born from enthusiasm. Few associations survive beyond their founders. Even fewer organizations remain active, adaptive, and relevant across political eras, economic transitions, and social change.
Yet this association continues its rice donation activities, not loudly, not theatrically, but steadily.
What sustains such longevity?
It is not merely shared sympathy. It is a shared system.
It is not merely goodwill. It is organized goodwill.
Here, the difference between “group” and “organization” becomes visible in real life. A group may gather around charity. An association may formalize that charity. But an organization institutionalizes it, ensuring that when one generation steps aside, another steps forward without breaking continuity.
This is what I observe in Mandalay. And this is why I believe unity must be measured not by slogans, but by sustainability.
In the end, the distinction between a group, an association, and an organization is not merely semantic. It is structural. It is moral. It is practical.
A group may gather.
An association may coordinate.
An organization must endure.
From Mandalay’s century-old rice donation association to institutions I have observed beyond our borders, one lesson remains constant: longevity is built on disciplined cooperation. Unity is not declared – it is demonstrated. It is measured not by how loudly we speak together, but by how consistently we work together.
My Cetana is simple and sincere. Whatever we call ourselves – group, association, or organization – may we be united not only in name, not only in meetings, not only in resolutions, but in responsibility. For when unity moves from words to work, institutions do not merely exist; they contribute. They do not merely assemble; they sustain.
I say what I see: structure gives direction, but shared commitment gives life. And in that life lies the true strength of any collective body.
Unity is not proclaimed in speech; it is proven in service.
It is my earnest hope that Myanmar’s associations and organizations grow stronger in unity and sustainability.
gnlm
Words may gather people, but structure defines their purpose.
Words are never just words. They carry structure, intention, and sometimes power. In our daily conversations, we casually use the terms group, association, and organization as if they were interchangeable. But are they truly the same?
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a group is defined as “a number of people or things that are located, gathered, or classed together”. The emphasis is on togetherness – not necessarily on structure. Meanwhile, Merriam-Webster describes a group as “two or more figures forming a complete unit in a composition”, again highlighting unity, but not hierarchy.
The word association, as defined by Oxford, refers to “a group of people organized for a joint purpose”. Here, the word organized quietly enters the scene. Merriam-Webster further defines it as “an organization of persons having a common interest”. A subtle shift appears from mere gathering to intentional connection.
Then comes organization. Oxford defines it as “an organized body of people with a particular purpose, especially a business, society, association, etc”. Merriam-Webster describes it as “a structured arrangement of relationships designed to achieve some purpose”. Structure, arrangement, purpose – these are no longer casual connections. They imply design and accountability.
Turning to an English-Myanmar Dictionary, group is translated as “အစု” or “အဖွဲ့”, association as “အသင်း” or “အသင်းအဖွဲ့”, and organization as “အဖွဲ့အစည်း”. In Myanmar usage, however, these terms often overlap in everyday speech. We may call a loose gathering “အဖွဲ့” and a formal institution by the same word. The linguistic boundary exists, yet in practice, it sometimes fades.
So I ask myself: when does an “အစု” become an “အသင်း”? When does an “အသင်း” evolve into an “အဖွဲ့အစည်း”? And more importantly, when does responsibility begin?
I say what I see: the difference may not lie in the number of people, but in the weight of structure they are willing to carry.
If definitions live in dictionaries, realities live in society.
In Myanmar, as in many countries around the world, we see countless groups, associations, and organizations formed with noble intentions. Some emerge from shared interests. Some arise from shared grievances. Others are established in response to national needs. On paper, their objectives are admirable. In meetings, their words are inspiring. In social media statements, unity is often declared.
Yet I say what I see: unity in language does not always translate into unity in labour.
A group may gather quickly. An association may register formally. An organization may even possess a logo, letterhead, and leadership structure. But structure alone does not guarantee solidarity. Titles do not automatically produce teamwork. Regulations do not automatically create responsibility.
In Myanmar’s social landscape, whether in civil institutions, professional bodies, community networks, or even informal collectives, fragmentation sometimes appears not because of a lack of intelligence, but because of a lack of coordinated effort. Individuals may be competent, even brilliant. Yet without discipline, shared accountability, and consistent action, the collective remains weaker than its potential.
This observation is not criticism; it is concern.
My true Cetana – goodwill – is simple. I wish to see any group, any association, any organization united not merely by declarations, but by dedication. Not only by resolutions, but by results. Not only by meetings, but by meaningful work.
I once had the responsibility of leading an organization based in Bangkok, Thailand. Leadership taught me something that no dictionary could fully explain: unity is not the absence of disagreement. It is the presence of shared commitment. Members may think differently, speak differently, or come from different backgrounds. But if they work in the same direction, the institution stands firm.
Without coordinated action, even a well-structured organization becomes a symbolic shell. With disciplined cooperation, even a small group can become a transformative force.
This is what I have seen both locally and internationally.
And this is why I reflect on the difference between gathering and governing, between association and organization, between intention and implementation.
If we look at Myanmar’s own social history, we do not need to search far for an example of what true organizational continuity means.
In Mandalay stands the Malun Rice Donation Association in Myanmar, known respectfully as မလွန် (စျေး) ဆန်လှူအသင်းတော်ကြီး. It is not a newly registered entity formed for publicity. It is not a seasonal association that appears and disappears with circumstances. It is an institution that has endured for more than a century.
Historical records show that the association was founded eleven years after King Thibaw was dethroned in 1885. It began its formation in the Myanmar Era 1258 and was granted its registration number 1253. In Mandalay, where history breathes through monasteries, markets, and memory, this rice donation association has quietly continued its philanthropic mission for over 120 years.
To survive for more than a century in Myanmar is not accidental. It requires more than noble intention. It demands structure. It demands discipline. It demands leadership succession. Most importantly, it demands collective commitment that transcends generations.
Many groups are born from enthusiasm. Few associations survive beyond their founders. Even fewer organizations remain active, adaptive, and relevant across political eras, economic transitions, and social change.
Yet this association continues its rice donation activities, not loudly, not theatrically, but steadily.
What sustains such longevity?
It is not merely shared sympathy. It is a shared system.
It is not merely goodwill. It is organized goodwill.
Here, the difference between “group” and “organization” becomes visible in real life. A group may gather around charity. An association may formalize that charity. But an organization institutionalizes it, ensuring that when one generation steps aside, another steps forward without breaking continuity.
This is what I observe in Mandalay. And this is why I believe unity must be measured not by slogans, but by sustainability.
In the end, the distinction between a group, an association, and an organization is not merely semantic. It is structural. It is moral. It is practical.
A group may gather.
An association may coordinate.
An organization must endure.
From Mandalay’s century-old rice donation association to institutions I have observed beyond our borders, one lesson remains constant: longevity is built on disciplined cooperation. Unity is not declared – it is demonstrated. It is measured not by how loudly we speak together, but by how consistently we work together.
My Cetana is simple and sincere. Whatever we call ourselves – group, association, or organization – may we be united not only in name, not only in meetings, not only in resolutions, but in responsibility. For when unity moves from words to work, institutions do not merely exist; they contribute. They do not merely assemble; they sustain.
I say what I see: structure gives direction, but shared commitment gives life. And in that life lies the true strength of any collective body.
Unity is not proclaimed in speech; it is proven in service.
It is my earnest hope that Myanmar’s associations and organizations grow stronger in unity and sustainability.
gnlm
Fanaticism is a powerful emotion that often begins with simple admiration. Many young people admire singers, actors, athletes, or other public figures, finding inspiration in their talent and personality. For example, fans of some pop stars may collect albums, decorate their rooms with pictures, or eagerly wait for each new release. Such enthusiasm is natural, especially during youth, when emotions are strong, and identity is still developing. However, admiration can sometimes grow into obsession if it is not balanced with self-control. When passion begins to affect family relationships, social behaviour, or personal responsibilities, it may become harmful. Therefore, it is important to understand the difference between healthy interest and extreme fanaticism. By examining the causes and effects of intense devotion, we can learn why self-control and moderation are essential for a balanced and meaningful life.
I once heard about a young man from Myanmar who was crazy about the heavy rock singer Bon Jovi. He was in his teens, and Bon Jovi was his idol. How much did he admire him? He even tried to carve a statue of Bon Jovi and keep it in his house. When the adults in his family found out, they told him he must leave the house if he insisted on keeping it. The young man felt troubled. Afterwards, he replaced what he really wanted to do with something else. Instead of making a statue, he painted a picture of Bon Jovi and hung it on the wall. That much, it seemed, his parents allowed.
Then there was another young man who was also a great fan of Bon Jovi. He and his friends were devoted only to him. Their craze was of a different kind. Whenever a new Bon Jovi album was released, they bought it immediately. They also bought the songbooks. If someone did not listen to the new album right away, they called him outdated. They persuaded teashops to play the album again and again, almost like free advertising. Listening to them talk, I could only sit there with my mouth open in amazement.
I myself have liked Bon Jovi since he first appeared. Even now, I listen to every album he releases. I buy and keep his albums. I used to think I was already a big fan. But when I met the young people mentioned above, I realized that my “fanaticism” was not real fanaticism. Theirs was the real thing.
Why Fanaticism Happens
Why do music-loving young people feel so intensely about a singer? It is because they deeply admire his music, his art, and his voice. From there, their admiration grows until it enters their whole being. They want to see him, hear his voice, and praise his talent. This is natural. Ordinary human beings cannot avoid such feelings. Not only here, but in foreign countries as well, people become fanatical about music. Some listen to Michael Jackson and shout wildly with excitement. Some cry when they hear Bon Jovi’s ballads.
Being crazy about music has both good and bad effects. Music only becomes truly effective if it is appreciated as music. When my heart is full of sorrow, I cannot listen to soft songs. But when I listen to heavy rock, the feelings in my heart burst out, and I feel relieved. Still, expressing feelings should not mean disturbing others. We must control ourselves with awareness.
The Role of Parents and Society
Parents often forbid extremes not because they dislike music, but because they fear obsession. Hanging a painting was acceptable; a statue was too much. This shows that young people should reflect: freedom must be balanced with respect for others. Playing music loudly near sick or elderly people is not appropriate. Passion must be tempered with consideration.
Sayagyi P Moe Nin wrote: “Human beings want to follow their desires. When they cannot do what they want, they suffer. When they follow their desires too much, they suffer even more. When they do not follow their desires at all, they also suffer. Therefore, they should follow their desires only to a proper extent.”
This is true. Satisfaction comes not from excess, but from moderation. The Buddha’s Middle Path teaches the same lesson: extremes bring suffering, balance brings peace.
Fanaticism Beyond Music
Fanaticism is not limited to music. Students obsessed with studying neglect their health. Business people obsessed with money lose their strength. Even good things, when taken to extremes, become harmful. And harmful things like gambling or drugs, when pursued fanatically, destroy lives even faster.
Therefore, young people should not feel backward if they do not follow every craze. True strength lies in self-control. If one can analyze and understand one’s own strong attachment, one will be able to control oneself. Then, in the future, beneficial results will certainly increase.
The Broader Lesson
Fanaticism is a fire. It can warm, inspire, and energize, but if uncontrolled, it burns and destroys. Admiration for the popular artistes like Lay Phyu and Myo Gyi, in Myanmar, etc., can motivate creativity, friendship, and joy. But when it becomes a blind obsession, it isolates, distorts, and harms. The same applies to study, business, or even hobbies. Balance is the key.
Young people must learn that passion is not wrong, but passion without discipline is dangerous. Respecting others, respecting health, and respecting limits are what transform passion into growth. Without that, fanaticism becomes a prison.
If today’s youth continue to chase extremes – whether in music, study, or pleasure – the future will bring exhaustion, broken health, and disappointment. But if they learn to balance enthusiasm with awareness, tomorrow they will not only enjoy their passions but also grow healthier, wiser, and more successful. The prediction is clear: those who walk the Middle Path will find lasting happiness, while those who chase extremes will face inevitable suffering.
In conclusion, fanaticism is not limited to music; it can appear in study, business, hobbies, or even harmful habits. Passion itself is not wrong – it can motivate, inspire, and bring happiness. However, when it becomes extreme, it may lead to imbalance, conflict, and suffering. The admiration that young people feel for certain popular artistes, like shows how easily enthusiasm can grow into obsession. The key lesson is moderation. As taught in the Middle Path, true satisfaction comes from balance rather than excess. Young people who learn to control their desires and respect limits will enjoy their interests without harming themselves or others. Those who chase extremes may eventually face disappointment and regret. Therefore, lasting happiness depends on self-awareness, discipline, and the ability to guide passion wisely rather than being controlled by it.
gnlm
Fanaticism is a powerful emotion that often begins with simple admiration. Many young people admire singers, actors, athletes, or other public figures, finding inspiration in their talent and personality. For example, fans of some pop stars may collect albums, decorate their rooms with pictures, or eagerly wait for each new release. Such enthusiasm is natural, especially during youth, when emotions are strong, and identity is still developing. However, admiration can sometimes grow into obsession if it is not balanced with self-control. When passion begins to affect family relationships, social behaviour, or personal responsibilities, it may become harmful. Therefore, it is important to understand the difference between healthy interest and extreme fanaticism. By examining the causes and effects of intense devotion, we can learn why self-control and moderation are essential for a balanced and meaningful life.
I once heard about a young man from Myanmar who was crazy about the heavy rock singer Bon Jovi. He was in his teens, and Bon Jovi was his idol. How much did he admire him? He even tried to carve a statue of Bon Jovi and keep it in his house. When the adults in his family found out, they told him he must leave the house if he insisted on keeping it. The young man felt troubled. Afterwards, he replaced what he really wanted to do with something else. Instead of making a statue, he painted a picture of Bon Jovi and hung it on the wall. That much, it seemed, his parents allowed.
Then there was another young man who was also a great fan of Bon Jovi. He and his friends were devoted only to him. Their craze was of a different kind. Whenever a new Bon Jovi album was released, they bought it immediately. They also bought the songbooks. If someone did not listen to the new album right away, they called him outdated. They persuaded teashops to play the album again and again, almost like free advertising. Listening to them talk, I could only sit there with my mouth open in amazement.
I myself have liked Bon Jovi since he first appeared. Even now, I listen to every album he releases. I buy and keep his albums. I used to think I was already a big fan. But when I met the young people mentioned above, I realized that my “fanaticism” was not real fanaticism. Theirs was the real thing.
Why Fanaticism Happens
Why do music-loving young people feel so intensely about a singer? It is because they deeply admire his music, his art, and his voice. From there, their admiration grows until it enters their whole being. They want to see him, hear his voice, and praise his talent. This is natural. Ordinary human beings cannot avoid such feelings. Not only here, but in foreign countries as well, people become fanatical about music. Some listen to Michael Jackson and shout wildly with excitement. Some cry when they hear Bon Jovi’s ballads.
Being crazy about music has both good and bad effects. Music only becomes truly effective if it is appreciated as music. When my heart is full of sorrow, I cannot listen to soft songs. But when I listen to heavy rock, the feelings in my heart burst out, and I feel relieved. Still, expressing feelings should not mean disturbing others. We must control ourselves with awareness.
The Role of Parents and Society
Parents often forbid extremes not because they dislike music, but because they fear obsession. Hanging a painting was acceptable; a statue was too much. This shows that young people should reflect: freedom must be balanced with respect for others. Playing music loudly near sick or elderly people is not appropriate. Passion must be tempered with consideration.
Sayagyi P Moe Nin wrote: “Human beings want to follow their desires. When they cannot do what they want, they suffer. When they follow their desires too much, they suffer even more. When they do not follow their desires at all, they also suffer. Therefore, they should follow their desires only to a proper extent.”
This is true. Satisfaction comes not from excess, but from moderation. The Buddha’s Middle Path teaches the same lesson: extremes bring suffering, balance brings peace.
Fanaticism Beyond Music
Fanaticism is not limited to music. Students obsessed with studying neglect their health. Business people obsessed with money lose their strength. Even good things, when taken to extremes, become harmful. And harmful things like gambling or drugs, when pursued fanatically, destroy lives even faster.
Therefore, young people should not feel backward if they do not follow every craze. True strength lies in self-control. If one can analyze and understand one’s own strong attachment, one will be able to control oneself. Then, in the future, beneficial results will certainly increase.
The Broader Lesson
Fanaticism is a fire. It can warm, inspire, and energize, but if uncontrolled, it burns and destroys. Admiration for the popular artistes like Lay Phyu and Myo Gyi, in Myanmar, etc., can motivate creativity, friendship, and joy. But when it becomes a blind obsession, it isolates, distorts, and harms. The same applies to study, business, or even hobbies. Balance is the key.
Young people must learn that passion is not wrong, but passion without discipline is dangerous. Respecting others, respecting health, and respecting limits are what transform passion into growth. Without that, fanaticism becomes a prison.
If today’s youth continue to chase extremes – whether in music, study, or pleasure – the future will bring exhaustion, broken health, and disappointment. But if they learn to balance enthusiasm with awareness, tomorrow they will not only enjoy their passions but also grow healthier, wiser, and more successful. The prediction is clear: those who walk the Middle Path will find lasting happiness, while those who chase extremes will face inevitable suffering.
In conclusion, fanaticism is not limited to music; it can appear in study, business, hobbies, or even harmful habits. Passion itself is not wrong – it can motivate, inspire, and bring happiness. However, when it becomes extreme, it may lead to imbalance, conflict, and suffering. The admiration that young people feel for certain popular artistes, like shows how easily enthusiasm can grow into obsession. The key lesson is moderation. As taught in the Middle Path, true satisfaction comes from balance rather than excess. Young people who learn to control their desires and respect limits will enjoy their interests without harming themselves or others. Those who chase extremes may eventually face disappointment and regret. Therefore, lasting happiness depends on self-awareness, discipline, and the ability to guide passion wisely rather than being controlled by it.
gnlm
Ko Pyae, who works at a garment factory in Hlinethaya Industrial Zone, had their phone stolen near the Aungzeya Suspension Bridge, which connects Insein and Hlinethaya. Such an incident occurred at about 9 pm when he returned home after his overtime duties at the factory. Due to the darkness at night, he could see two individuals coming towards him in the opposite direction, but he could not remember them clearly. One of the two suddenly held the handle of a bicycle ridden by Ko Pyae. As riding the bicycle was out of control for a while, another person snatched a mobile phone from the hand of Ko Pyae. As such, the bicycle fell over. Because the two sides were uneven in strength, all Ko Pyae could do was shout, asking why they took his phone. The two thieves ran toward the suspension bridge, but Ko Pyae could not pursue them.
Ko Pyae’s mother remarked, “If there were a proper electricity supply, this wouldn’t have happened. Even now, the power is out. Because it’s dark, it gives people who do bad things an opportunity. Fortunately, the two snatchers did not attack his son.”From then on, no matter what happens, Ko Pyae does not work extra time. In some neighbourhoods of Yangon, the power outage at night forces people to rely on the light from their mobile phones. This situation creates opportunities for wrongdoers, thieves, and criminals to commit theft. Not only in Yangon but also in other major cities, including Mandalay, darkness at night gives criminals the chance to commit bad deeds. They break the law without fear, committing theft, robbery, and even murder.
Electricity is an essential infrastructure for the daily routine of the people and their education, healthcare and economic sectors. Only then will the supply of electricity help operate industries at full capacity and the productivity improve. Consequently, electricity can benefit the socioeconomic life of the people and the development of relevant regions.
“Everyone needs to take care when going outside at night. Some criminals commit robbery openly. Those robbers not only take property but also harm the victims. I have experienced a case where a victim was struck on the head in an attempt to kill him. Fortunately, he escaped death. But his motorcycle was taken,” said a resident of Mandalay.
People like Ko Pyae, who are unavoidably travelling at night, are suffering from the disadvantages of insufficient electrification. Lighting along the routes reduces the fear and worries of people with mental health issues. Street lighting prevents wrongdoers and criminals from taking advantage of darkness to break the law. Under the light, their movements can be easily seen, reducing the opportunity for them to commit crimes.
Electricity is an essential infrastructure for the daily routine of the people and their education, healthcare and economic sectors. Only then will the supply of electricity help operate industries at full capacity and the productivity improve. Consequently, electricity can benefit the socioeconomic life of the people and the development of relevant regions.
When the urban lifestyle improves, newer electronic equipment flows into the market day by day. On the other hand, the electricity consumption of the people exceeds the generating capacity of the energy, causing a high electricity demand. As such, it remains a challenge in electrifying houses and roads and fully meeting the power needs required to maintain the productivity of factories and industries.
Main arteries of Myanmar — the Ayeyawady, the Chindwin, the Thanlwin and the Sittoung rivers — are primary sources to generate hydropower. In fact, hydropower is one of the renewable energies. Due to minimizing carbon emissions, hydropower is an environmentally friendly way to generate energy.
The government is urging people to follow electricity-saving methods to help meet the nation’s power needs. In addition to conservation measures, efforts are also being made to explore both short- and long-term ways to increase electricity production.
The majority of countries across the world manage to generate electricity from nuclear, hydropower, natural gas, coal, solar energy, wind power, biofuel, tidal power, geothermal energy and other waste. As no two countries can be similar in strong and weak points, every country needs to utilize the necessary resources suitable for it.
No matter what energy source is used, there are always both advantages and disadvantages. No electricity generation brings only benefits without any harm. However, by carefully considering factors such as energy efficiency, the natural environment, and economic impacts, and with the advancement of modern technology, efforts can be made to maximize benefits while minimizing negative effects.
Rivers and creeks, hilly areas and heavy rainfalls in Myanmar are wonderful resources to implement hydropower projects. Myanmar possesses great potential for generating hydropower. So, the country ranks 14th worldwide in terms of abundant hydropower resources. It is necessary to manage the comprehensive utilization of such an advantage, and if Myanmar effectively utilizes hydropower, it could meet the country’s current electricity demand while also generating foreign exchange through the energy sector.
Main arteries of Myanmar — the Ayeyawady, the Chindwin, the Thanlwin and the Sittoung rivers — are primary sources to generate hydropower. In fact, hydropower is one of the renewable energies. Due to minimizing carbon emissions, hydropower is an environmentally friendly way to generate energy.
As for Myanmar, although initial agreements were made to develop hydropower, various factors have delayed the continued implementation of these projects. According to assessments conducted in 2005, it was estimated that hydropower resources could generate around 45,000 megawatts. However, due to various reasons, actual production has not yet reached this potential, with current output achieving only slightly over seven per cent of the projected capacity.
Based on observations, the Shwesaryay hydropower project and Htamanthi hydropower project will be implemented on the Chindwin River, the Tahsan hydropower project on the Thanlwin River and the Myitson hydropower project on the Ayeyawady River. It was assessed that the hydropower project, located far upstream on the Ayeyawady River, 23 miles (37 kilometres) from Myitkyina in Kachin State, is expected to meet the electricity demand of the growing population in the future. China is prepared to implement the construction of eight dams, including Chipwenge dam, generating 99 megawatts, which can be provided for the construction of seven reservoirs and seven dams at the confluence of the N’Maikha (Maykha) and Malikha rivers, where the Ayeyawady River originates, and tributary rivers to generate some 20,000 megawatts.
SPIC stated that the largest project can generate 6,000 megawatts, the Laiza (Maliyang) project 2,800 megawatts, the Chipwe project 3,400 megawatts, the Usauk project 2,500 megawatts, the Phisau project 2,400 megawatts, the Khaunglanphu project 3,000 megawatts, the Rinan project 1,400 megawatts, totalling more than 20,000 megawatts. Upon completion, these projects will help Myanmar and its people expect a 100 per-cent-electricity supply across the nation in 2030. If so, based on hydropower resources, a strong energy sector can be established in the future to support economic growth and development.
Whether employees are returning home late at night or have to travel out of necessity, the anxiety caused by darkness while moving around can now be overcome. With the support of advanced technology, standards for environmental protection, social and community impacts, potential losses of water resources, and long-term sustainability based on the projects have all been carefully considered. For these reasons, there is no longer any justification for Myanmar’s lifeline, the Ayeyawady River, to be neglected or left at risk.
The public understands that the hydropower projects halted for various reasons are the main cause of insufficient electricity. Looking to the future, they hope that these projects will bring light, benefiting Myanmar and all ethnic communities across the country.
Translated.
gnlm
Ko Pyae, who works at a garment factory in Hlinethaya Industrial Zone, had their phone stolen near the Aungzeya Suspension Bridge, which connects Insein and Hlinethaya. Such an incident occurred at about 9 pm when he returned home after his overtime duties at the factory. Due to the darkness at night, he could see two individuals coming towards him in the opposite direction, but he could not remember them clearly. One of the two suddenly held the handle of a bicycle ridden by Ko Pyae. As riding the bicycle was out of control for a while, another person snatched a mobile phone from the hand of Ko Pyae. As such, the bicycle fell over. Because the two sides were uneven in strength, all Ko Pyae could do was shout, asking why they took his phone. The two thieves ran toward the suspension bridge, but Ko Pyae could not pursue them.
Ko Pyae’s mother remarked, “If there were a proper electricity supply, this wouldn’t have happened. Even now, the power is out. Because it’s dark, it gives people who do bad things an opportunity. Fortunately, the two snatchers did not attack his son.”From then on, no matter what happens, Ko Pyae does not work extra time. In some neighbourhoods of Yangon, the power outage at night forces people to rely on the light from their mobile phones. This situation creates opportunities for wrongdoers, thieves, and criminals to commit theft. Not only in Yangon but also in other major cities, including Mandalay, darkness at night gives criminals the chance to commit bad deeds. They break the law without fear, committing theft, robbery, and even murder.
Electricity is an essential infrastructure for the daily routine of the people and their education, healthcare and economic sectors. Only then will the supply of electricity help operate industries at full capacity and the productivity improve. Consequently, electricity can benefit the socioeconomic life of the people and the development of relevant regions.
“Everyone needs to take care when going outside at night. Some criminals commit robbery openly. Those robbers not only take property but also harm the victims. I have experienced a case where a victim was struck on the head in an attempt to kill him. Fortunately, he escaped death. But his motorcycle was taken,” said a resident of Mandalay.
People like Ko Pyae, who are unavoidably travelling at night, are suffering from the disadvantages of insufficient electrification. Lighting along the routes reduces the fear and worries of people with mental health issues. Street lighting prevents wrongdoers and criminals from taking advantage of darkness to break the law. Under the light, their movements can be easily seen, reducing the opportunity for them to commit crimes.
Electricity is an essential infrastructure for the daily routine of the people and their education, healthcare and economic sectors. Only then will the supply of electricity help operate industries at full capacity and the productivity improve. Consequently, electricity can benefit the socioeconomic life of the people and the development of relevant regions.
When the urban lifestyle improves, newer electronic equipment flows into the market day by day. On the other hand, the electricity consumption of the people exceeds the generating capacity of the energy, causing a high electricity demand. As such, it remains a challenge in electrifying houses and roads and fully meeting the power needs required to maintain the productivity of factories and industries.
Main arteries of Myanmar — the Ayeyawady, the Chindwin, the Thanlwin and the Sittoung rivers — are primary sources to generate hydropower. In fact, hydropower is one of the renewable energies. Due to minimizing carbon emissions, hydropower is an environmentally friendly way to generate energy.
The government is urging people to follow electricity-saving methods to help meet the nation’s power needs. In addition to conservation measures, efforts are also being made to explore both short- and long-term ways to increase electricity production.
The majority of countries across the world manage to generate electricity from nuclear, hydropower, natural gas, coal, solar energy, wind power, biofuel, tidal power, geothermal energy and other waste. As no two countries can be similar in strong and weak points, every country needs to utilize the necessary resources suitable for it.
No matter what energy source is used, there are always both advantages and disadvantages. No electricity generation brings only benefits without any harm. However, by carefully considering factors such as energy efficiency, the natural environment, and economic impacts, and with the advancement of modern technology, efforts can be made to maximize benefits while minimizing negative effects.
Rivers and creeks, hilly areas and heavy rainfalls in Myanmar are wonderful resources to implement hydropower projects. Myanmar possesses great potential for generating hydropower. So, the country ranks 14th worldwide in terms of abundant hydropower resources. It is necessary to manage the comprehensive utilization of such an advantage, and if Myanmar effectively utilizes hydropower, it could meet the country’s current electricity demand while also generating foreign exchange through the energy sector.
Main arteries of Myanmar — the Ayeyawady, the Chindwin, the Thanlwin and the Sittoung rivers — are primary sources to generate hydropower. In fact, hydropower is one of the renewable energies. Due to minimizing carbon emissions, hydropower is an environmentally friendly way to generate energy.
As for Myanmar, although initial agreements were made to develop hydropower, various factors have delayed the continued implementation of these projects. According to assessments conducted in 2005, it was estimated that hydropower resources could generate around 45,000 megawatts. However, due to various reasons, actual production has not yet reached this potential, with current output achieving only slightly over seven per cent of the projected capacity.
Based on observations, the Shwesaryay hydropower project and Htamanthi hydropower project will be implemented on the Chindwin River, the Tahsan hydropower project on the Thanlwin River and the Myitson hydropower project on the Ayeyawady River. It was assessed that the hydropower project, located far upstream on the Ayeyawady River, 23 miles (37 kilometres) from Myitkyina in Kachin State, is expected to meet the electricity demand of the growing population in the future. China is prepared to implement the construction of eight dams, including Chipwenge dam, generating 99 megawatts, which can be provided for the construction of seven reservoirs and seven dams at the confluence of the N’Maikha (Maykha) and Malikha rivers, where the Ayeyawady River originates, and tributary rivers to generate some 20,000 megawatts.
SPIC stated that the largest project can generate 6,000 megawatts, the Laiza (Maliyang) project 2,800 megawatts, the Chipwe project 3,400 megawatts, the Usauk project 2,500 megawatts, the Phisau project 2,400 megawatts, the Khaunglanphu project 3,000 megawatts, the Rinan project 1,400 megawatts, totalling more than 20,000 megawatts. Upon completion, these projects will help Myanmar and its people expect a 100 per-cent-electricity supply across the nation in 2030. If so, based on hydropower resources, a strong energy sector can be established in the future to support economic growth and development.
Whether employees are returning home late at night or have to travel out of necessity, the anxiety caused by darkness while moving around can now be overcome. With the support of advanced technology, standards for environmental protection, social and community impacts, potential losses of water resources, and long-term sustainability based on the projects have all been carefully considered. For these reasons, there is no longer any justification for Myanmar’s lifeline, the Ayeyawady River, to be neglected or left at risk.
The public understands that the hydropower projects halted for various reasons are the main cause of insufficient electricity. Looking to the future, they hope that these projects will bring light, benefiting Myanmar and all ethnic communities across the country.
Translated.
gnlm
There is a particular ache that comes from harm that was never acknowledged. No apology. No explanation. No moment of reckoning where someone admits, “I hurt you.” Instead, there is silence — and that silence can feel like a second wound layered over the first.
When you don’t receive the closure you wanted (the closure you deserved), the mind keeps searching for resolution. It replays scenes, edits conversations, imagines alternative endings. But healing cannot depend on someone else’s willingness to take responsibility. At some point, peace has to become an inside job.
1. Validate your own pain: You do not need their confession to confirm that you were hurt. Write it down. Speak it out loud. Admit to yourself what happened and how it affected you. Self-validation replaces the acknowledgement you never received.
2. Stop waiting for the perfect apology: Sometimes we remain emotionally stuck because we believe closure will arrive in the form of regret from the other person. But waiting keeps the wound open. Accepting that the apology may never come is painful – yet freeing.
3. Separate accountability from your worth: Their refusal to apologize reflects their limitations, not your value. Someone’s inability to say “I’m sorry” is not proof that you were wrong for feeling hurt.
4. Create your own closure ritual: Write a letter you never sent. Burn it. Tear it up. Pray over it. Journal your final words. Symbolic acts can help the brain register an ending, even when reality failed to provide one.
5. Redirect your energy: Instead of investing emotional strength into replaying the past, pour it into growth – therapy, creativity, fitness, spiritual practices, meaningful relationships. Healing accelerates when your life expands beyond the wound.
6. Practise forgiveness for yourself: You may blame yourself for not seeing red flags, for trusting too much, for staying too long. Release that guilt. You made decisions with the information and emotional capacity you had at the time.
Healing from unapologized pain is not about pretending it didn’t matter. It mattered. It shaped you. It hurt. But you are allowed to move forwards even without their acknowledgement.
And when you stop waiting for someone else to finish the story, you finally regain the pen in your own hands.
gnlm
There is a particular ache that comes from harm that was never acknowledged. No apology. No explanation. No moment of reckoning where someone admits, “I hurt you.” Instead, there is silence — and that silence can feel like a second wound layered over the first.
When you don’t receive the closure you wanted (the closure you deserved), the mind keeps searching for resolution. It replays scenes, edits conversations, imagines alternative endings. But healing cannot depend on someone else’s willingness to take responsibility. At some point, peace has to become an inside job.
1. Validate your own pain: You do not need their confession to confirm that you were hurt. Write it down. Speak it out loud. Admit to yourself what happened and how it affected you. Self-validation replaces the acknowledgement you never received.
2. Stop waiting for the perfect apology: Sometimes we remain emotionally stuck because we believe closure will arrive in the form of regret from the other person. But waiting keeps the wound open. Accepting that the apology may never come is painful – yet freeing.
3. Separate accountability from your worth: Their refusal to apologize reflects their limitations, not your value. Someone’s inability to say “I’m sorry” is not proof that you were wrong for feeling hurt.
4. Create your own closure ritual: Write a letter you never sent. Burn it. Tear it up. Pray over it. Journal your final words. Symbolic acts can help the brain register an ending, even when reality failed to provide one.
5. Redirect your energy: Instead of investing emotional strength into replaying the past, pour it into growth – therapy, creativity, fitness, spiritual practices, meaningful relationships. Healing accelerates when your life expands beyond the wound.
6. Practise forgiveness for yourself: You may blame yourself for not seeing red flags, for trusting too much, for staying too long. Release that guilt. You made decisions with the information and emotional capacity you had at the time.
Healing from unapologized pain is not about pretending it didn’t matter. It mattered. It shaped you. It hurt. But you are allowed to move forwards even without their acknowledgement.
And when you stop waiting for someone else to finish the story, you finally regain the pen in your own hands.
gnlm
I currently reside in a hostel in the bustling heart of Yangon. To be honest, city life has been a challenge to adapt to, and my daily routine often feels like a monotonous cycle between my workplace and the hostel. Living in a temporary space without the presence of close friends can make one feel deeply isolated in such a crowded city.
In my view, having a true friend – someone who shares a similar mindset and understands one’s inner world – is essential for mental well-being. However, in a fast-paced environment where financial status often dictates social circles, finding genuine companionship is difficult. This sense of loneliness, coupled with the pressure of city living, often leaves me feeling stifled.
Yet, it is this very struggle that fuels my ambition. Whenever I feel overwhelmed by the anxieties of urban life, my thoughts drift back to my parents and my village in the Nay Pyi Taw Union Territory. My village faces significant hardships, most notably a severe water shortage. It pains me to think of my fellow villagers struggling to find clean water, especially as the scorching summer months approach.
I have realized that I cannot help them with my current circumstances, but I refuse to let that discourage me. This realization drives me to work harder every single day. I am dedicated to improving my English proficiency and advancing my professional career, knowing that personal success is the bridge to helping my community.
My ultimate dream is to become successful enough to return home and support my village in any way I can, especially in securing a reliable water supply. No matter how difficult my current life in the hostel may be, I will persevere. I am working not just for my own future, but with the hope of one day being a person who can provide a helping hand to the place and the people I love.
gnlm
I currently reside in a hostel in the bustling heart of Yangon. To be honest, city life has been a challenge to adapt to, and my daily routine often feels like a monotonous cycle between my workplace and the hostel. Living in a temporary space without the presence of close friends can make one feel deeply isolated in such a crowded city.
In my view, having a true friend – someone who shares a similar mindset and understands one’s inner world – is essential for mental well-being. However, in a fast-paced environment where financial status often dictates social circles, finding genuine companionship is difficult. This sense of loneliness, coupled with the pressure of city living, often leaves me feeling stifled.
Yet, it is this very struggle that fuels my ambition. Whenever I feel overwhelmed by the anxieties of urban life, my thoughts drift back to my parents and my village in the Nay Pyi Taw Union Territory. My village faces significant hardships, most notably a severe water shortage. It pains me to think of my fellow villagers struggling to find clean water, especially as the scorching summer months approach.
I have realized that I cannot help them with my current circumstances, but I refuse to let that discourage me. This realization drives me to work harder every single day. I am dedicated to improving my English proficiency and advancing my professional career, knowing that personal success is the bridge to helping my community.
My ultimate dream is to become successful enough to return home and support my village in any way I can, especially in securing a reliable water supply. No matter how difficult my current life in the hostel may be, I will persevere. I am working not just for my own future, but with the hope of one day being a person who can provide a helping hand to the place and the people I love.
gnlm
Before we speak about practice, we must first understand the meaning.
The Oxford University Press Dictionary defines respect as “a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements,” and also as “due regard for the feelings, wishes, or rights of others”. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary expands the meaning further, describing it as “high or special regard”, “esteem”, and “consideration”. These definitions, though concise, underline two essential elements: recognition of value and acknowledgement of rights.
Turning to our local understanding, an English–Myanmar dictionary commonly renders respect as “လေးစားမှု” (Lay-zar-mu) — a term that conveys reverence, regard, and mindful consideration. The Myanmar expression does not merely imply admiration; it carries a cultural weight of humility and restraint. In our social context, to “လေးစားသည်” is not only to admire but also to behave properly towards others according to moral and social boundaries.
When we combine these perspectives – global definitions grounded in rights and esteem, and local interpretations rooted in humility and conduct — we begin to see that mutual respect is more than politeness. It is reciprocal recognition. It is the conscious balance between self-worth and the worth of others. It is neither submission nor superiority, but an equilibrium.
This, at least, is what the dictionaries say. What I say – and what I see – may go further.
During my years with an international organization, I had the opportunity to travel abroad to attend meetings, seminars, workshops, fora, conferences, and congresses. Before each gathering, I would carefully read the agenda documents circulated to delegates. These documents were often detailed, outlining procedures, speaking time, seating arrangements, voting mechanisms, and codes of conduct.
Yet among all procedural matters, one principle was consistently highlighted: Mutual Respect.
It was not presented as a decorative phrase. It appeared as a clear reminder – sometimes even as a formal rule – urging delegates to uphold mutual respect throughout the event, regardless of gender, nationality, political system, or the relative size and influence of their countries. The wording was simple, but its implication was profound. Participants came from across the globe — large nations and small states, developed and developing countries, men and women alike — yet within the conference hall, equality in dignity was emphasized.
What struck me most was that this reminder was necessary. These gatherings involved highly educated individuals – diplomats, policymakers, experts, and senior officials. And still, the organizers found it essential to underline mutual respect at the very beginning.
Why?
Because diversity, while enriching, also carries the potential for misunderstanding. Differences in culture, language, economic power, and political standing can quietly influence tone, posture, and even listening habits. Without mutual respect as a conscious guideline, discussion can easily shift from dialogue to dominance.
Inside those halls, each country had its nameplate. Some nameplates represented powerful nations; others represented small countries rarely mentioned in global headlines. Yet when the chair recognized a speaker, each delegate was granted the same floor, the same microphone, the same allotted time. In that moment, respect was institutionalized. It was procedural. It was protected.
From this small but meaningful experience, I began to see that mutual respect is not automatic. It must be declared. It must be structured. And, above all, it must be practised – not only internationally, but also within our own communities.
This is what I saw.
If mutual respect is essential in international halls, it is even more crucial at home, especially in the aftermath of an election.
An election naturally produces two visible groups: winners and losers. The winners celebrate; the losers reflect. Victory brings confidence; defeat often brings disappointment. Yet democracy, at its core, is not designed to humiliate one side or glorify the other. It is designed to allow peaceful competition and orderly transition.
This is where mutual respect becomes a true test of maturity.
For the winners, respect means restraint. It means recognizing that triumph at the ballot box does not erase the dignity of those who voted differently. It means governing not only for supporters, but for the entire nation, including those who stood on the opposite platform.
For the losers, respect means acceptance. It means acknowledging the outcome without resorting to hostility or bitterness. It means understanding that disagreement does not justify division.
In many societies, I have observed that elections do not create division; they reveal it. The real question is what happens afterwards. Do citizens speak to one another with civility? Do leaders choose language that heals rather than inflames? Do institutions function with fairness and composure?
Mutual respect in such moments is not weakness. It is discipline. It prevents political competition from turning into social fracture.
In those international conferences I once attended, countries with vastly different systems and ideologies still agreed to speak with respect under one roof. If nations can do so across borders, surely citizens within one country can do the same after an election.
Victory is temporary. Opposition is temporary. But the nation is permanent.
This is what I see.
In the end, mutual respect is not tested when we agree. It is tested when we do not.
It is easy to respect those who think like us, vote like us, and stand beside us. The true measure of our maturity is how we treat those who stand across from us, politically, socially, or ideologically. A nation does not weaken because of differing opinions. It weakens when disagreement turns into disdain.
History has shown that power changes hands. Governments rise and fall. Political tides shift. Today’s winner may be tomorrow’s opposition. But if mutual respect remains constant, stability endures beyond any electoral cycle.
Respect does not silence criticism. It refines it.
Respect does not eliminate competition. It civilizes it.
Respect does not demand surrender. It demands dignity.
If we expect fairness when we lose, we must practise humility when we win. If we demand recognition of our rights, we must recognize the rights of others. Mutual respect is reciprocal; it cannot move in only one direction.
From international conference halls to our own communities, I have seen one simple truth: where mutual respect is upheld, dialogue continues. Where it collapses, division deepens.
In the quiet space between victory and defeat, between agreement and disagreement, lies a choice. That choice defines not only our politics, but our character.
This is what I see.
gnlm
Before we speak about practice, we must first understand the meaning.
The Oxford University Press Dictionary defines respect as “a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements,” and also as “due regard for the feelings, wishes, or rights of others”. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary expands the meaning further, describing it as “high or special regard”, “esteem”, and “consideration”. These definitions, though concise, underline two essential elements: recognition of value and acknowledgement of rights.
Turning to our local understanding, an English–Myanmar dictionary commonly renders respect as “လေးစားမှု” (Lay-zar-mu) — a term that conveys reverence, regard, and mindful consideration. The Myanmar expression does not merely imply admiration; it carries a cultural weight of humility and restraint. In our social context, to “လေးစားသည်” is not only to admire but also to behave properly towards others according to moral and social boundaries.
When we combine these perspectives – global definitions grounded in rights and esteem, and local interpretations rooted in humility and conduct — we begin to see that mutual respect is more than politeness. It is reciprocal recognition. It is the conscious balance between self-worth and the worth of others. It is neither submission nor superiority, but an equilibrium.
This, at least, is what the dictionaries say. What I say – and what I see – may go further.
During my years with an international organization, I had the opportunity to travel abroad to attend meetings, seminars, workshops, fora, conferences, and congresses. Before each gathering, I would carefully read the agenda documents circulated to delegates. These documents were often detailed, outlining procedures, speaking time, seating arrangements, voting mechanisms, and codes of conduct.
Yet among all procedural matters, one principle was consistently highlighted: Mutual Respect.
It was not presented as a decorative phrase. It appeared as a clear reminder – sometimes even as a formal rule – urging delegates to uphold mutual respect throughout the event, regardless of gender, nationality, political system, or the relative size and influence of their countries. The wording was simple, but its implication was profound. Participants came from across the globe — large nations and small states, developed and developing countries, men and women alike — yet within the conference hall, equality in dignity was emphasized.
What struck me most was that this reminder was necessary. These gatherings involved highly educated individuals – diplomats, policymakers, experts, and senior officials. And still, the organizers found it essential to underline mutual respect at the very beginning.
Why?
Because diversity, while enriching, also carries the potential for misunderstanding. Differences in culture, language, economic power, and political standing can quietly influence tone, posture, and even listening habits. Without mutual respect as a conscious guideline, discussion can easily shift from dialogue to dominance.
Inside those halls, each country had its nameplate. Some nameplates represented powerful nations; others represented small countries rarely mentioned in global headlines. Yet when the chair recognized a speaker, each delegate was granted the same floor, the same microphone, the same allotted time. In that moment, respect was institutionalized. It was procedural. It was protected.
From this small but meaningful experience, I began to see that mutual respect is not automatic. It must be declared. It must be structured. And, above all, it must be practised – not only internationally, but also within our own communities.
This is what I saw.
If mutual respect is essential in international halls, it is even more crucial at home, especially in the aftermath of an election.
An election naturally produces two visible groups: winners and losers. The winners celebrate; the losers reflect. Victory brings confidence; defeat often brings disappointment. Yet democracy, at its core, is not designed to humiliate one side or glorify the other. It is designed to allow peaceful competition and orderly transition.
This is where mutual respect becomes a true test of maturity.
For the winners, respect means restraint. It means recognizing that triumph at the ballot box does not erase the dignity of those who voted differently. It means governing not only for supporters, but for the entire nation, including those who stood on the opposite platform.
For the losers, respect means acceptance. It means acknowledging the outcome without resorting to hostility or bitterness. It means understanding that disagreement does not justify division.
In many societies, I have observed that elections do not create division; they reveal it. The real question is what happens afterwards. Do citizens speak to one another with civility? Do leaders choose language that heals rather than inflames? Do institutions function with fairness and composure?
Mutual respect in such moments is not weakness. It is discipline. It prevents political competition from turning into social fracture.
In those international conferences I once attended, countries with vastly different systems and ideologies still agreed to speak with respect under one roof. If nations can do so across borders, surely citizens within one country can do the same after an election.
Victory is temporary. Opposition is temporary. But the nation is permanent.
This is what I see.
In the end, mutual respect is not tested when we agree. It is tested when we do not.
It is easy to respect those who think like us, vote like us, and stand beside us. The true measure of our maturity is how we treat those who stand across from us, politically, socially, or ideologically. A nation does not weaken because of differing opinions. It weakens when disagreement turns into disdain.
History has shown that power changes hands. Governments rise and fall. Political tides shift. Today’s winner may be tomorrow’s opposition. But if mutual respect remains constant, stability endures beyond any electoral cycle.
Respect does not silence criticism. It refines it.
Respect does not eliminate competition. It civilizes it.
Respect does not demand surrender. It demands dignity.
If we expect fairness when we lose, we must practise humility when we win. If we demand recognition of our rights, we must recognize the rights of others. Mutual respect is reciprocal; it cannot move in only one direction.
From international conference halls to our own communities, I have seen one simple truth: where mutual respect is upheld, dialogue continues. Where it collapses, division deepens.
In the quiet space between victory and defeat, between agreement and disagreement, lies a choice. That choice defines not only our politics, but our character.
This is what I see.
gnlm
A year may seem long, but in reality, it is only thirty-six periods of ten days. At first, I never thought about it. But when I reflected on it, I was amazed by how swiftly time moves. Time keeps passing, and we can no longer afford to waste it lightly. If we meet once every ten days, we only meet thirty-six times a year. In this vast and magnificent journey of life, each meeting is quietly moving, step by step, towards separation as we count backwards. How precious every moment of life truly is.
Long-distance relationships have a way of teaching us arithmetic we never wished to learn. We begin counting days instead of memories, hours instead of embraces, phone calls instead of shared dinners. What once felt like an endless calendar suddenly becomes a narrow corridor of numbered chances. Thirty-six meetings a year. Thirty-six opportunities to look into the eyes of the person who feels like home.
When love lives in the same city, time feels generous. There is always tomorrow. There is always next week. There is always another evening to walk side by side without thinking about how many such evenings remain. But when distance stands between two people, time transforms into something sharper and more visible. Every ten days is like a single grain of golden sand in the hourglass of time. While waiting ten days to meet again, while planning ten days for a journey, while counting ten days from “I miss you” to “I finally get to see you”, time continues to slip away.
Time never stops. Like a silent river, it flows steadily forward, carrying people along with it, quietly leaving behind a destiny that never allows us to meet in time. Flights get delayed. Work becomes demanding. Unexpected obligations arise. Sometimes we miss a planned meeting and the arithmetic changes again. Thirty-six becomes thirty-five. Or thirty-four. Each lost meeting feels heavier than it should, because in a long-distance relationship, meetings are not ordinary events — they are the heartbeat of the relationship itself.
Yet every meaningful encounter leaves a beam of light in our lives, forming for us a sky filled with stars. The station platform where we wave goodbye becomes sacred ground. The small café where we talk for hours becomes a memory we revisit on lonely nights. The scent of their perfume on our jacket lingers longer than it should, as if even the air understands how rarely we are together.
Life is a cycle of meeting and parting. And because separation is inevitable, every meeting becomes even more precious. Those who love across distance understand the quiet miracle of ordinary moments. Sitting in silence next to each other. Sharing a simple meal. Walking without speaking. These become treasures because they are limited.
Distance tests patience, but it also refines love. It removes the superficial and exposes what truly matters. We learn to communicate more honestly, because misunderstandings cannot be solved with a quick hug. We learn to listen more carefully, because tone carries more meaning than touch. We learn to trust more deeply because we cannot watch over each other’s daily lives.
There are nights when longing feels heavier than hope. Nights when the phone screen becomes a fragile substitute for presence. Nights when the word “soon” feels both comforting and painfully vague. But there are also mornings when a simple message – “Good morning” – feels like a promise that love is still alive, still waiting, still enduring.
Do not wait for “later”. The best time is now. The longing we feel at this moment, the courage we have at this moment, the hands we can still reach out with at this moment – the present is the most valuable time of all.
In long-distance relationships, postponement becomes a dangerous habit. “We will travel together next year.” “We will celebrate properly when we finally live in the same city.” “We will take photos when life is less busy.” But what if life never becomes less busy? What if next year carries its own storms? The present moment is fragile. It does not wait politely for our convenience.
Let us meet while we still can. In these thirty-six encounters, let us create rich memories. Let us fill every meeting with warmth and meaning. Every sincere encounter is the gentlest way to resist life’s hardships – resisting forgetfulness, resisting loneliness, resisting distance, resisting longing, and resisting the regret of missing what should have been cherished.
When we finally stand face to face after days of waiting, the world seems to pause. The airport crowd fades into the background. The noise of traffic becomes distant. In that embrace, ten days of longing dissolve into a single breath. We realize that love is not measured by proximity, but by presence – by the depth of attention we offer when we are together.
And yet, even in the joy of reunion, there is a quiet awareness that the clock is already ticking again. Another countdown has begun. Another farewell waits somewhere in the near future. This awareness could make love anxious and fragile. Instead, it often makes love deliberate.
We speak more sincerely. We laugh more freely. We take more photos, not because we are obsessed with capturing moments, but because we understand how rare they are. We memorize the curve of their smile, the rhythm of their voice, the warmth of their hand in ours. We gather these details like treasures to carry back across the distance.
The beauty of life does not exist in some distant future, but in every “present moment” in which we are still able to meet. When the sunlight is bright, when longing still stirs in our heart, when it is not yet too late to say, “It’s been so long,” go and meet the one we miss, the one we long to see.
In a world that moves quickly and demands productivity, love can easily be postponed. But love is not an appointment to be rescheduled without consequence. It is a living connection that requires time, attention, and courage. Especially in long-distance relationships, effort is not optional – it is essential.
Thirty-six meetings a year may not seem like much. But within those thirty-six meetings lie countless conversations, shared dreams, whispered reassurances, and silent understandings. Within those thirty-six meetings lies the strength to endure another ten days apart. Within those thirty-six meetings lies the decision, repeated again and again, to stay.
Perhaps the true lesson of distance is not about sadness or sacrifice. Perhaps it is about clarity. When we know we cannot meet every day, we begin to understand the value of every single day we can. When we know time is limited, we stop treating it as infinite.
A year may seem long, but it is only thirty-six periods of ten days. Thirty-six chances to hold hands. Thirty-six chances to say, “I am here.” Thirty-six chances to choose each other again. And maybe that is enough – if we cherish them.
gnlm
A year may seem long, but in reality, it is only thirty-six periods of ten days. At first, I never thought about it. But when I reflected on it, I was amazed by how swiftly time moves. Time keeps passing, and we can no longer afford to waste it lightly. If we meet once every ten days, we only meet thirty-six times a year. In this vast and magnificent journey of life, each meeting is quietly moving, step by step, towards separation as we count backwards. How precious every moment of life truly is.
Long-distance relationships have a way of teaching us arithmetic we never wished to learn. We begin counting days instead of memories, hours instead of embraces, phone calls instead of shared dinners. What once felt like an endless calendar suddenly becomes a narrow corridor of numbered chances. Thirty-six meetings a year. Thirty-six opportunities to look into the eyes of the person who feels like home.
When love lives in the same city, time feels generous. There is always tomorrow. There is always next week. There is always another evening to walk side by side without thinking about how many such evenings remain. But when distance stands between two people, time transforms into something sharper and more visible. Every ten days is like a single grain of golden sand in the hourglass of time. While waiting ten days to meet again, while planning ten days for a journey, while counting ten days from “I miss you” to “I finally get to see you”, time continues to slip away.
Time never stops. Like a silent river, it flows steadily forward, carrying people along with it, quietly leaving behind a destiny that never allows us to meet in time. Flights get delayed. Work becomes demanding. Unexpected obligations arise. Sometimes we miss a planned meeting and the arithmetic changes again. Thirty-six becomes thirty-five. Or thirty-four. Each lost meeting feels heavier than it should, because in a long-distance relationship, meetings are not ordinary events — they are the heartbeat of the relationship itself.
Yet every meaningful encounter leaves a beam of light in our lives, forming for us a sky filled with stars. The station platform where we wave goodbye becomes sacred ground. The small café where we talk for hours becomes a memory we revisit on lonely nights. The scent of their perfume on our jacket lingers longer than it should, as if even the air understands how rarely we are together.
Life is a cycle of meeting and parting. And because separation is inevitable, every meeting becomes even more precious. Those who love across distance understand the quiet miracle of ordinary moments. Sitting in silence next to each other. Sharing a simple meal. Walking without speaking. These become treasures because they are limited.
Distance tests patience, but it also refines love. It removes the superficial and exposes what truly matters. We learn to communicate more honestly, because misunderstandings cannot be solved with a quick hug. We learn to listen more carefully, because tone carries more meaning than touch. We learn to trust more deeply because we cannot watch over each other’s daily lives.
There are nights when longing feels heavier than hope. Nights when the phone screen becomes a fragile substitute for presence. Nights when the word “soon” feels both comforting and painfully vague. But there are also mornings when a simple message – “Good morning” – feels like a promise that love is still alive, still waiting, still enduring.
Do not wait for “later”. The best time is now. The longing we feel at this moment, the courage we have at this moment, the hands we can still reach out with at this moment – the present is the most valuable time of all.
In long-distance relationships, postponement becomes a dangerous habit. “We will travel together next year.” “We will celebrate properly when we finally live in the same city.” “We will take photos when life is less busy.” But what if life never becomes less busy? What if next year carries its own storms? The present moment is fragile. It does not wait politely for our convenience.
Let us meet while we still can. In these thirty-six encounters, let us create rich memories. Let us fill every meeting with warmth and meaning. Every sincere encounter is the gentlest way to resist life’s hardships – resisting forgetfulness, resisting loneliness, resisting distance, resisting longing, and resisting the regret of missing what should have been cherished.
When we finally stand face to face after days of waiting, the world seems to pause. The airport crowd fades into the background. The noise of traffic becomes distant. In that embrace, ten days of longing dissolve into a single breath. We realize that love is not measured by proximity, but by presence – by the depth of attention we offer when we are together.
And yet, even in the joy of reunion, there is a quiet awareness that the clock is already ticking again. Another countdown has begun. Another farewell waits somewhere in the near future. This awareness could make love anxious and fragile. Instead, it often makes love deliberate.
We speak more sincerely. We laugh more freely. We take more photos, not because we are obsessed with capturing moments, but because we understand how rare they are. We memorize the curve of their smile, the rhythm of their voice, the warmth of their hand in ours. We gather these details like treasures to carry back across the distance.
The beauty of life does not exist in some distant future, but in every “present moment” in which we are still able to meet. When the sunlight is bright, when longing still stirs in our heart, when it is not yet too late to say, “It’s been so long,” go and meet the one we miss, the one we long to see.
In a world that moves quickly and demands productivity, love can easily be postponed. But love is not an appointment to be rescheduled without consequence. It is a living connection that requires time, attention, and courage. Especially in long-distance relationships, effort is not optional – it is essential.
Thirty-six meetings a year may not seem like much. But within those thirty-six meetings lie countless conversations, shared dreams, whispered reassurances, and silent understandings. Within those thirty-six meetings lies the strength to endure another ten days apart. Within those thirty-six meetings lies the decision, repeated again and again, to stay.
Perhaps the true lesson of distance is not about sadness or sacrifice. Perhaps it is about clarity. When we know we cannot meet every day, we begin to understand the value of every single day we can. When we know time is limited, we stop treating it as infinite.
A year may seem long, but it is only thirty-six periods of ten days. Thirty-six chances to hold hands. Thirty-six chances to say, “I am here.” Thirty-six chances to choose each other again. And maybe that is enough – if we cherish them.
gnlm
Nowadays, people often compare their love to fast food — quick and instant. They see, they fall in love, and they break up, all in a moment. In a world ruled by speed, where messages travel faster than feelings and decisions are made before hearts have time to understand, love is often treated as something to consume quickly and replace just as easily. Many people rush into relationships driven by excitement, curiosity, or loneliness, without stopping to ask whether what they feel is genuine, deep, or lasting. As a result, love sometimes becomes shallow, fragile, and short-lived, leaving behind confusion instead of comfort.
But I think comparing love to coffee makes the meaning clearer and more vivid. Coffee is not something to be rushed. It invites patience, attention, and appreciation. A cup of coffee carries warmth, aroma, and depth, much like true love. It has layers of flavour, moments of bitterness, and hints of sweetness that reveal themselves only to those willing to slow down and truly taste. In the same way, love is not merely a sudden rush of emotion but a gradual journey of understanding, growth, and connection.
Being in a relationship is like drinking a cup of coffee. When a steaming cup of coffee is placed in front of us, some people immediately add a lot of sugar and milk. They want instant sweetness. They want comfort without effort, pleasure without patience. As a result, the coffee turns into something more like a sweet drink. The original bitter taste of coffee disappears, and with it, the unique character that makes coffee special.
In love, if we only give gifts, flowers, and temporary happiness, we may enjoy sweetness at first. Romantic surprises, sweet words, and exciting dates can create beautiful memories, but they cannot carry a relationship forever. Over time, when we can no longer give those things, boredom and dissatisfaction begin to appear. Without emotional depth, trust, and mutual understanding, love becomes fragile. Just like overly sweetened coffee that lacks real flavour, a relationship built only on pleasure and excitement soon loses its meaning.
True love, like good coffee, contains a natural bitterness. This bitterness represents challenges, misunderstandings, sacrifices, and moments of disappointment. These experiences are not signs of failure but growth opportunities. They teach patience, empathy, and resilience. When two people face difficulties together and still choose to stay, their love becomes stronger, deeper, and more valuable. Without bitterness, sweetness has no contrast. Without hardship, happiness feels empty.
Some people drink coffee in one big gulp without tasting it. No matter how hot it is, they swallow it as if even one minute of delay might make them miss a train. They treat coffee as a task to complete rather than a moment to enjoy. In the end, except for the first pleasant aroma, all that remains in their mouth is bitterness.
Likewise, some people live in the same hurried way. They fall in love quickly, hold hands quickly, and make mistakes just as quickly. In a very short time, they fall in love, break up, and are left only with emotional exhaustion. Their hearts grow tired from repeated disappointments. Eventually, they can hardly remember who they loved or when they loved. Love becomes a blur of faces, promises, and endings, leaving behind only confusion and emotional fatigue.
In today’s digital world, this hurried love has become even more common. Social media, dating apps, and instant messaging create the illusion of endless choices. People believe that if one relationship fails, another will appear with just a swipe or a click. While technology connects us, it also encourages impatience. Many stop trying to understand, forgive, or grow together. Instead, they choose to walk away at the first sign of difficulty, hoping that the next person will offer instant happiness. But real love does not grow in such shallow soil.
The true way to enjoy coffee is to first breathe in its fragrant aroma when it arrives at the table — just like gently breathing in the scent of a woman’s hair. This first moment invites us to pause, to be present, and to appreciate what is in front of us. It is a quiet invitation to slow down and prepare ourselves for a meaningful experience.
Then, take a small sip and slowly taste it. After fully feeling the bitterness and richness on your tongue, you decide whether to add sugar or milk. This is how coffee becomes truly delicious. The key is not to rush but to listen to your senses, understand your preference, and respect the natural flavour before changing it.
In the same way, if we love slowly, patiently, and thoughtfully — tasting every moment — we will discover how beautiful love truly is. Real love grows through shared time, honest conversations, and quiet companionship. It is built in everyday moments: cooking together, walking side by side, listening after a long day, and supporting each other in silence. These small, simple acts create a strong foundation that no sudden excitement can replace.
Valentine’s Day often reminds us of romance, gifts, and grand gestures. Shops fill with red roses, heart-shaped chocolates, and shining jewellery. While these symbols are beautiful, they should not define love. True love cannot be measured by the price of a gift or the size of a bouquet. It is measured by patience, loyalty, respect, and understanding. It is found in staying when things become difficult, in choosing kindness over pride, and in forgiving even when it is not easy.
Love, like coffee, requires care and attention. Different coffee beans produce different flavours, and each cup depends on how it is brewed. Similarly, every relationship is unique. There is no single recipe for perfect love. What matters is the willingness to learn, adapt, and grow together. Two people who truly care will find their own balance between sweetness and bitterness, excitement and calm, passion and peace.
As we celebrate Valentine’s Day, perhaps it is time to rethink how we understand love. Instead of chasing instant romance, we can choose a meaningful connection. Instead of expecting perfection, we can accept imperfection. Instead of running from difficulties, we can face them together. Love is not a race; it is a journey. Those who walk slowly often see more, feel more, and remember more.
In a world that constantly pushes us to hurry, love invites us to pause. It asks us to listen, to understand, and to stay. Like a warm cup of coffee on a quiet morning, love offers comfort, reflection, and gentle strength. It reminds us that the most precious moments are not the loudest or the fastest, but the calmest and the deepest.
So, this Valentine’s Day, let us drink love like coffee. Let us breathe in its aroma, taste its bitterness, and appreciate its sweetness. Let us slow down, open our hearts, and allow love to grow naturally. For patience, sincerity, and gentle care, we will discover a love that does not fade with time, but deepens, warms, and stays.
gnlm
Nowadays, people often compare their love to fast food — quick and instant. They see, they fall in love, and they break up, all in a moment. In a world ruled by speed, where messages travel faster than feelings and decisions are made before hearts have time to understand, love is often treated as something to consume quickly and replace just as easily. Many people rush into relationships driven by excitement, curiosity, or loneliness, without stopping to ask whether what they feel is genuine, deep, or lasting. As a result, love sometimes becomes shallow, fragile, and short-lived, leaving behind confusion instead of comfort.
But I think comparing love to coffee makes the meaning clearer and more vivid. Coffee is not something to be rushed. It invites patience, attention, and appreciation. A cup of coffee carries warmth, aroma, and depth, much like true love. It has layers of flavour, moments of bitterness, and hints of sweetness that reveal themselves only to those willing to slow down and truly taste. In the same way, love is not merely a sudden rush of emotion but a gradual journey of understanding, growth, and connection.
Being in a relationship is like drinking a cup of coffee. When a steaming cup of coffee is placed in front of us, some people immediately add a lot of sugar and milk. They want instant sweetness. They want comfort without effort, pleasure without patience. As a result, the coffee turns into something more like a sweet drink. The original bitter taste of coffee disappears, and with it, the unique character that makes coffee special.
In love, if we only give gifts, flowers, and temporary happiness, we may enjoy sweetness at first. Romantic surprises, sweet words, and exciting dates can create beautiful memories, but they cannot carry a relationship forever. Over time, when we can no longer give those things, boredom and dissatisfaction begin to appear. Without emotional depth, trust, and mutual understanding, love becomes fragile. Just like overly sweetened coffee that lacks real flavour, a relationship built only on pleasure and excitement soon loses its meaning.
True love, like good coffee, contains a natural bitterness. This bitterness represents challenges, misunderstandings, sacrifices, and moments of disappointment. These experiences are not signs of failure but growth opportunities. They teach patience, empathy, and resilience. When two people face difficulties together and still choose to stay, their love becomes stronger, deeper, and more valuable. Without bitterness, sweetness has no contrast. Without hardship, happiness feels empty.
Some people drink coffee in one big gulp without tasting it. No matter how hot it is, they swallow it as if even one minute of delay might make them miss a train. They treat coffee as a task to complete rather than a moment to enjoy. In the end, except for the first pleasant aroma, all that remains in their mouth is bitterness.
Likewise, some people live in the same hurried way. They fall in love quickly, hold hands quickly, and make mistakes just as quickly. In a very short time, they fall in love, break up, and are left only with emotional exhaustion. Their hearts grow tired from repeated disappointments. Eventually, they can hardly remember who they loved or when they loved. Love becomes a blur of faces, promises, and endings, leaving behind only confusion and emotional fatigue.
In today’s digital world, this hurried love has become even more common. Social media, dating apps, and instant messaging create the illusion of endless choices. People believe that if one relationship fails, another will appear with just a swipe or a click. While technology connects us, it also encourages impatience. Many stop trying to understand, forgive, or grow together. Instead, they choose to walk away at the first sign of difficulty, hoping that the next person will offer instant happiness. But real love does not grow in such shallow soil.
The true way to enjoy coffee is to first breathe in its fragrant aroma when it arrives at the table — just like gently breathing in the scent of a woman’s hair. This first moment invites us to pause, to be present, and to appreciate what is in front of us. It is a quiet invitation to slow down and prepare ourselves for a meaningful experience.
Then, take a small sip and slowly taste it. After fully feeling the bitterness and richness on your tongue, you decide whether to add sugar or milk. This is how coffee becomes truly delicious. The key is not to rush but to listen to your senses, understand your preference, and respect the natural flavour before changing it.
In the same way, if we love slowly, patiently, and thoughtfully — tasting every moment — we will discover how beautiful love truly is. Real love grows through shared time, honest conversations, and quiet companionship. It is built in everyday moments: cooking together, walking side by side, listening after a long day, and supporting each other in silence. These small, simple acts create a strong foundation that no sudden excitement can replace.
Valentine’s Day often reminds us of romance, gifts, and grand gestures. Shops fill with red roses, heart-shaped chocolates, and shining jewellery. While these symbols are beautiful, they should not define love. True love cannot be measured by the price of a gift or the size of a bouquet. It is measured by patience, loyalty, respect, and understanding. It is found in staying when things become difficult, in choosing kindness over pride, and in forgiving even when it is not easy.
Love, like coffee, requires care and attention. Different coffee beans produce different flavours, and each cup depends on how it is brewed. Similarly, every relationship is unique. There is no single recipe for perfect love. What matters is the willingness to learn, adapt, and grow together. Two people who truly care will find their own balance between sweetness and bitterness, excitement and calm, passion and peace.
As we celebrate Valentine’s Day, perhaps it is time to rethink how we understand love. Instead of chasing instant romance, we can choose a meaningful connection. Instead of expecting perfection, we can accept imperfection. Instead of running from difficulties, we can face them together. Love is not a race; it is a journey. Those who walk slowly often see more, feel more, and remember more.
In a world that constantly pushes us to hurry, love invites us to pause. It asks us to listen, to understand, and to stay. Like a warm cup of coffee on a quiet morning, love offers comfort, reflection, and gentle strength. It reminds us that the most precious moments are not the loudest or the fastest, but the calmest and the deepest.
So, this Valentine’s Day, let us drink love like coffee. Let us breathe in its aroma, taste its bitterness, and appreciate its sweetness. Let us slow down, open our hearts, and allow love to grow naturally. For patience, sincerity, and gentle care, we will discover a love that does not fade with time, but deepens, warms, and stays.
gnlm
We often reassure one another with the phrase “the past is past, and the present is present.” It sounds sensible, even virtuous. It suggests order, progress, and emotional hygiene, as if time were a corridor of rooms, each sealed once we step forward. This idea is comforting, but it is also misleading.
Clock time is linear, predictable, and indifferent to human feeling. Psychological time is not. It stretches, compresses, loops, and resurfaces according to emotion and meaning. Anyone who has lain awake replaying an old conversation, or felt decades collapse at the smell of a childhood kitchen, understands this difference instinctively.
Memory Is a Living System, Not an Archive
Modern psychology shows that memory does not function like a filing cabinet. Experiences are not stored intact and retrieved unchanged. Instead, each act of remembering is an act of reconstruction, shaped by our current emotional state, beliefs, and social context.
A childhood humiliation may remain dormant for years, then suddenly feel raw after a workplace slight or family conflict. The original event has not changed; the self encountering it has. In this sense, the past is not something we leave behind. It lives within us, continuously reorganized as we grow, succeed, fail, love, and grieve.
The Past Lives Inside the Present
Because memory is dynamic, the past does not stay politely in its own era. It intrudes, informs, and sometimes overwhelms the present. Emotional reactions that seem disproportionate are often signals that an earlier experience has been activated.
This is not weakness or immaturity. It is how the human mind maintains continuity. Our past experiences shape how we interpret the world, whom we trust, and what we fear. Ignoring this influence does not erase it; it simply drives it underground.
The Present Is Saturated With the Future
Just as the past inhabits the present, so does the future. The mind rarely occupies a single moment in isolation. Psychologists describe this as temporal layering: we experience the now while simultaneously anticipating what might happen next.
A conversation may be shaped by fear of loss, hope for approval, or dread of consequences that have not yet occurred. This is why joy can feel fragile and why anxiety often has no clear external cause. The present moment is crowded with imagined tomorrows.
“The Past Is Past” as a Moral Aspiration
When people say “the past is past,” they are often expressing a wish rather than a fact. It is a moral aspiration — a desire for clean boundaries and emotional closure. In cultures that prize resilience and forward motion, this idea carries social approval.
Yet it can also produce quiet shame. People may blame themselves for being “stuck” or “unable to move on,” when in reality they are responding normally to unresolved experience. The psyche does not obey slogans.
Integration, Not Erasure, Is the Work of Healing
Psychological health does not come from cutting the past off, but from integrating it. Experiences that are acknowledged, understood, and emotionally processed tend to lose their power over time. Those that are denied or minimized often return as anxiety, bitterness, or unexplained sadness.
Integration means recognising when an old emotional pattern has been activated and responding from the present self rather than the wounded one. This is not indulgence; it is maturity.
Navigating Time With Dignity
Healing is not about closing doors. It is about learning to walk through one’s own history without getting lost in it. Psychological time is not a swing door to be shut, but a landscape to be navigated.
When we accept that time in the mind is fluid rather than linear, we stop blaming ourselves for normal human experience. Growth then becomes a gradual reorganization of meaning, not an act of forgetting. Dignity lies in understanding how the past lives within us — and choosing, again and again, how we respond to its presence.
Bibliography
• Conway, M A, & Pleydell-Pearce, C W (2000). The construction of autobiographical memories in the self-memory system. Psychological Review, 107(2), 261–288.
• Schacter, D L (1999). The seven sins of memory: Insights from psychology and cognitive neuroscience. American Psychologist, 54(3), 182–203.
• Tulving, E (2002). Episodic memory: From mind to brain. Annual Review of Psychology, 53, 1–25.
• Siegel, D J (2012). The developing mind: How relationships and the brain interact to shape who we are. Guilford Press.
• Zimbardo, P G, & Boyd, J N (2008). The time paradox: The new psychology of time that will change your life. Free Press.
gnlm
We often reassure one another with the phrase “the past is past, and the present is present.” It sounds sensible, even virtuous. It suggests order, progress, and emotional hygiene, as if time were a corridor of rooms, each sealed once we step forward. This idea is comforting, but it is also misleading.
Clock time is linear, predictable, and indifferent to human feeling. Psychological time is not. It stretches, compresses, loops, and resurfaces according to emotion and meaning. Anyone who has lain awake replaying an old conversation, or felt decades collapse at the smell of a childhood kitchen, understands this difference instinctively.
Memory Is a Living System, Not an Archive
Modern psychology shows that memory does not function like a filing cabinet. Experiences are not stored intact and retrieved unchanged. Instead, each act of remembering is an act of reconstruction, shaped by our current emotional state, beliefs, and social context.
A childhood humiliation may remain dormant for years, then suddenly feel raw after a workplace slight or family conflict. The original event has not changed; the self encountering it has. In this sense, the past is not something we leave behind. It lives within us, continuously reorganized as we grow, succeed, fail, love, and grieve.
The Past Lives Inside the Present
Because memory is dynamic, the past does not stay politely in its own era. It intrudes, informs, and sometimes overwhelms the present. Emotional reactions that seem disproportionate are often signals that an earlier experience has been activated.
This is not weakness or immaturity. It is how the human mind maintains continuity. Our past experiences shape how we interpret the world, whom we trust, and what we fear. Ignoring this influence does not erase it; it simply drives it underground.
The Present Is Saturated With the Future
Just as the past inhabits the present, so does the future. The mind rarely occupies a single moment in isolation. Psychologists describe this as temporal layering: we experience the now while simultaneously anticipating what might happen next.
A conversation may be shaped by fear of loss, hope for approval, or dread of consequences that have not yet occurred. This is why joy can feel fragile and why anxiety often has no clear external cause. The present moment is crowded with imagined tomorrows.
“The Past Is Past” as a Moral Aspiration
When people say “the past is past,” they are often expressing a wish rather than a fact. It is a moral aspiration — a desire for clean boundaries and emotional closure. In cultures that prize resilience and forward motion, this idea carries social approval.
Yet it can also produce quiet shame. People may blame themselves for being “stuck” or “unable to move on,” when in reality they are responding normally to unresolved experience. The psyche does not obey slogans.
Integration, Not Erasure, Is the Work of Healing
Psychological health does not come from cutting the past off, but from integrating it. Experiences that are acknowledged, understood, and emotionally processed tend to lose their power over time. Those that are denied or minimized often return as anxiety, bitterness, or unexplained sadness.
Integration means recognising when an old emotional pattern has been activated and responding from the present self rather than the wounded one. This is not indulgence; it is maturity.
Navigating Time With Dignity
Healing is not about closing doors. It is about learning to walk through one’s own history without getting lost in it. Psychological time is not a swing door to be shut, but a landscape to be navigated.
When we accept that time in the mind is fluid rather than linear, we stop blaming ourselves for normal human experience. Growth then becomes a gradual reorganization of meaning, not an act of forgetting. Dignity lies in understanding how the past lives within us — and choosing, again and again, how we respond to its presence.
Bibliography
• Conway, M A, & Pleydell-Pearce, C W (2000). The construction of autobiographical memories in the self-memory system. Psychological Review, 107(2), 261–288.
• Schacter, D L (1999). The seven sins of memory: Insights from psychology and cognitive neuroscience. American Psychologist, 54(3), 182–203.
• Tulving, E (2002). Episodic memory: From mind to brain. Annual Review of Psychology, 53, 1–25.
• Siegel, D J (2012). The developing mind: How relationships and the brain interact to shape who we are. Guilford Press.
• Zimbardo, P G, & Boyd, J N (2008). The time paradox: The new psychology of time that will change your life. Free Press.
gnlm
The public transport hubs are crowded with travellers on Union Day during the six-day holiday from 12 to 17 February. Here is the interview with the train passengers at the Yangon Railway Station.
U Yin Min Oo
(MR Dvision7, Manager)
During long holiday periods, Myanma Railways operates special trains. From 12 to 17 February 2026, we are running special services to ensure convenient travel for the public and government employees. Starting 12 February, special up and down trains are operating on the Yangon-Nay Pyi Taw route, along with an up special train from Yangon to Mawlamyine and another up special train from Yangon to Pyay. On 17 February, special trains will run on the Yangon-Nay Pyi Taw-Yangon, Mawlamyine-Yangon and Pyay-Yangon routes. Tickets for the Yangon-Mandalay and Mandalay-Nay Pyi Taw-Mandalay routes are also being sold online. For Yangon, Mandalay, and Nay Pyi Taw routes, tickets can be purchased online one week in advance for full journeys and three days in advance for intermediate stations. On busy routes like Mawlamyine, air-conditioned special trains are also operating. Today, trains are fully occupied, including trains for the Pyay route. Myanma Railways is committed to transporting passengers quickly and efficiently to their destinations. We are pleased to provide special trains in addition to regular services during this long holiday, ensuring smooth and comfortable transport for both passengers and goods”.
U Maung Maung Naing
(special Mawlamyine train,
engine driver 2)
As today is Union Day, I am happy to serve train passengers. It feels as though we were carrying our ethnic brethren in unity as one toward a modern and developed nation. I believe passengers will be satisfied with the operation of special trains to ensure convenient travel. I have 31 years of service. This morning at 9:15 am, we departed for Mawlamyine and will return to Yangon Railway Station from Mawlamyine on 17 February.
Daw Kyi Kyi Than
(passenger)
I’m travelling to Mawlamyine. I have been travelling by train for many years. I prefer it over buses because it feels freer and more peaceful. Regular train travellers in Myanmar are mostly those on the Mawlamyine and Pyay trains. These routes have been operating for many years, so long-time passengers like us have a strong attachment to Myanma Railways. The railway understands the bond between passengers and these two lines. Currently, the online ticket system covers only Yangon, Nay Pyi Taw, and Mandalay routes. Since Mawlamyine and Pyay are not yet included, I had to queue at 5 am yesterday at Yangon Railway Station to buy my ticket. It would be more convenient if tickets were also sold online. People who prefer queuing could still do so, while others could buy online. However, buying online requires a strong internet connection, and sometimes, when many passengers try to access the QR code system simultaneously, it may not work properly. So, improvements are needed to make online purchasing more reliable at any time. It is also important to prevent seat duplication. But travelling by train is enjoyable. Travelling on Union Day is especially memorable and exciting. I am happy to see improvements in Myanma Railways and feel proud of the country. I hope services will continue to improve and wish Myanma Railways continued success.
Ma Thoon Nadi San
(university student)
I’m travelling to Pyay. It feels special and joyful to travel on Union Day. I’m going with my family to visit pagodas. The train coaches are clean and tidy, which makes the journey satisfying. If the coaches, seating, and services continue to improve, both domestic and international travellers will choose trains even when it is not in holiday periods. For the tourism sector to grow, cooperation between the public and staff is also important. In my opinion, Myanmar Railways should showcase its modernization and development more widely so that the public becomes more aware. This would inspire people to travel by train, foster patriotism, and encourage responsible behaviour. Knowing that I’ll be riding an air-conditioned train makes the journey even more exciting.
Ko Ye Yint Aung
(passenger)
We bought tickets in advance to travel on Union Day when the children finished their exam yesterday. Even though there are many travellers, everything is going smoothly. Seeing my children happy while looking at the train makes me happy as a father. This train journey will become a cherished memory for them when they grow up. When we were young, our parents gave us similar experiences. I have noticed significant improvements in Myanma Railways compared to before. I hope Myanma Railways continues to progress and further enhances its services.
Translated by KTZH
gnlm
The public transport hubs are crowded with travellers on Union Day during the six-day holiday from 12 to 17 February. Here is the interview with the train passengers at the Yangon Railway Station.
U Yin Min Oo
(MR Dvision7, Manager)
During long holiday periods, Myanma Railways operates special trains. From 12 to 17 February 2026, we are running special services to ensure convenient travel for the public and government employees. Starting 12 February, special up and down trains are operating on the Yangon-Nay Pyi Taw route, along with an up special train from Yangon to Mawlamyine and another up special train from Yangon to Pyay. On 17 February, special trains will run on the Yangon-Nay Pyi Taw-Yangon, Mawlamyine-Yangon and Pyay-Yangon routes. Tickets for the Yangon-Mandalay and Mandalay-Nay Pyi Taw-Mandalay routes are also being sold online. For Yangon, Mandalay, and Nay Pyi Taw routes, tickets can be purchased online one week in advance for full journeys and three days in advance for intermediate stations. On busy routes like Mawlamyine, air-conditioned special trains are also operating. Today, trains are fully occupied, including trains for the Pyay route. Myanma Railways is committed to transporting passengers quickly and efficiently to their destinations. We are pleased to provide special trains in addition to regular services during this long holiday, ensuring smooth and comfortable transport for both passengers and goods”.
U Maung Maung Naing
(special Mawlamyine train,
engine driver 2)
As today is Union Day, I am happy to serve train passengers. It feels as though we were carrying our ethnic brethren in unity as one toward a modern and developed nation. I believe passengers will be satisfied with the operation of special trains to ensure convenient travel. I have 31 years of service. This morning at 9:15 am, we departed for Mawlamyine and will return to Yangon Railway Station from Mawlamyine on 17 February.
Daw Kyi Kyi Than
(passenger)
I’m travelling to Mawlamyine. I have been travelling by train for many years. I prefer it over buses because it feels freer and more peaceful. Regular train travellers in Myanmar are mostly those on the Mawlamyine and Pyay trains. These routes have been operating for many years, so long-time passengers like us have a strong attachment to Myanma Railways. The railway understands the bond between passengers and these two lines. Currently, the online ticket system covers only Yangon, Nay Pyi Taw, and Mandalay routes. Since Mawlamyine and Pyay are not yet included, I had to queue at 5 am yesterday at Yangon Railway Station to buy my ticket. It would be more convenient if tickets were also sold online. People who prefer queuing could still do so, while others could buy online. However, buying online requires a strong internet connection, and sometimes, when many passengers try to access the QR code system simultaneously, it may not work properly. So, improvements are needed to make online purchasing more reliable at any time. It is also important to prevent seat duplication. But travelling by train is enjoyable. Travelling on Union Day is especially memorable and exciting. I am happy to see improvements in Myanma Railways and feel proud of the country. I hope services will continue to improve and wish Myanma Railways continued success.
Ma Thoon Nadi San
(university student)
I’m travelling to Pyay. It feels special and joyful to travel on Union Day. I’m going with my family to visit pagodas. The train coaches are clean and tidy, which makes the journey satisfying. If the coaches, seating, and services continue to improve, both domestic and international travellers will choose trains even when it is not in holiday periods. For the tourism sector to grow, cooperation between the public and staff is also important. In my opinion, Myanmar Railways should showcase its modernization and development more widely so that the public becomes more aware. This would inspire people to travel by train, foster patriotism, and encourage responsible behaviour. Knowing that I’ll be riding an air-conditioned train makes the journey even more exciting.
Ko Ye Yint Aung
(passenger)
We bought tickets in advance to travel on Union Day when the children finished their exam yesterday. Even though there are many travellers, everything is going smoothly. Seeing my children happy while looking at the train makes me happy as a father. This train journey will become a cherished memory for them when they grow up. When we were young, our parents gave us similar experiences. I have noticed significant improvements in Myanma Railways compared to before. I hope Myanma Railways continues to progress and further enhances its services.
Translated by KTZH
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