In a crowded church filled with mourners on September 6, a young high school teacher sat among friends, her face streaked with tears as she gazed at the makeshift shrouds covering the small bodies laid out before her.
Among them were her students — children she had taught, known and cared for deeply.
"I couldn't recognize some of them," she whispered to me, her voice trembling.
The previous night, the war refugee camp where she lives in Myanmar's Paekon Township, near the Karenni and Shan state borders, had been transformed into a scene of unimaginable loss. The ruling junta had dropped two 500-pound bombs on the camp, killing 10 people, seven of them children.
The attack unfolded just before 9 p.m. local time, as families were settling in for the night. The ominous hum of a military plane filled the air, circling over the camp. Shouts of "Run! Run!" echoed as people scrambled for safety, but there was barely time to react.
The teacher described the chaos, recounting how, on its second pass, the plane released a bomb that tore through makeshift shelters filled with families.
"The children were covered in blood, wandering aimlessly in the dark," she said, her voice heavy with grief. "Some were hit directly — only their small hands were visible. It was horrific."
On the ground, scattered amid the rubble, lay textbooks and notebooks filled with the handwriting of the students — evidence of lives interrupted and dreams shattered. Pages written by those young hands lay torn and trampled, a haunting reminder of the futures lost in the blast.
Throughout the night, Karenni Armed Revolutionary Forces and camp officials worked tirelessly to rescue survivors and tend to the wounded, but the losses were devastating.
In the dim light of the following morning, the teacher's sorrow echoed through the crowd of mourners, each bearing the weight of lives cut short.
"There is no safe place, no demilitarized zone," she told me. "We cannot live like this, in constant fear."
State symbolizes hope
Karenni State, known as Kayah, a beautiful mountainous region in eastern Myanmar, has become a powerful symbol of resistance and resilience in the country's fight for democracy and federalism.
Nestled along the border with Thailand, Karenni is home to a diverse ethnic community with a distinct cultural heritage. Decades of conflict with Myanmar's military regimes, beginning with Karenni's fight for independence in 1957, have left the region deeply scarred. Yet its people push forward, determined to build a self-governing future and protect their land.
Reaching Karenni involved a challenging three-week journey, crossing from Thailand along rugged mountain roads while carefully avoiding junta outposts. Travel was only possible in areas controlled by Karenni resistance forces, who provided protection along the way.
Eventually, I reached Demoso, a town about 138 miles from Naypyidaw, the junta's military-built capital. In Demoso, where electricity is rare, residents depend on generators and Starlink for internet, though outages are frequent. Artillery fire and airstrikes echo through the hills, a constant reminder of the relentless conflict gripping the region.
Despite these challenges, local leaders have forged ahead with efforts to establish a self-governing administration, train young resistance fighters and rebuild communities. Their successes have made them a model for other ethnic states in Myanmar striving for a future grounded in democracy and federalism.
'Feels like retaliation'
The day after the airstrike, survivors and community members gathered at a Catholic cathedral about a 20-minute drive from the refugee camp to mourn the 10 lives lost in the junta's assault.
Inside the church, the bodies of six children lay surrounded by grieving friends and neighbors; outside, makeshift graves marked the final resting places of others who had perished in the attack. The crowd gathered in silence, their faces clouded with sorrow as they paid their last respects.
A Catholic priest who also volunteers as a health worker voiced his suspicions about the timing of the bombing.
"The junta's soldiers are dying in battles at the front. Just days ago, their chairman, Min Aung Hlaing, visited Loikaw and was fired upon," he said.
"This [bombing] feels like retaliation against innocent refugees who had no way to defend themselves," he said, his voice filled with quiet anger.
'No time to run'
As I spoke with the survivors, their tragic stories weighed on me. I met a 14-year-old girl with severe injuries to her face and thigh when I visited a makeshift hospital whose exact location cannot be disclosed for security reasons.
Her younger brother, just 2 years old, had been hit in the head and could not be saved. "We were all sitting in our tent. I heard the plane but had no time to run," she said.
Two sisters, both young students, lay nearby with broken bones and deep wounds. Their parents had sent them to the camp to protect them from the fighting.
I spoke to another seriously injured patient, the wife of a police officer who was injured in an earlier bombing that same morning. Her husband, standing next to her, told me, "They dropped two bombs on the building, then opened fire with machine guns. My wife is four months pregnant, and we lost the baby."
Junta denies responsibility
At Dosei Middle School, located west of Demoso, the principal described to me the devastating attack on February 5 that leveled all three of the school's buildings.
"The school, once filled with the lively shouts of students, fell silent within minutes as the sound of an approaching plane grew louder," she recounted. "The roar of bombs exploding was quickly followed by the rattle of machine gunfire, leaving the classroom lifeless — the last refuge of four middle school students. There was no time to reach a bomb shelter."
She added, "The elementary school children were incredibly lucky — they were outside for physical activities when the junta's jet dropped bombs on the other side of the building. Otherwise, every child, including my youngest daughter, who studies here, would have been buried beneath the rubble."
The junta consistently denies responsibility for civilian deaths caused by airstrikes in Karenni. Following the jet attack on February 5, the junta's information team stated, "There were no Tatmadaw [Myanmar army] flights in Demoso Township on that day."
Since the military seized power on February 1, 2021, Karenni State has become a battlefield, with civilians trapped between junta forces and Karenni resistance fighters.
Just one day before the September 5 airstrike, General Min Aung Hlaing arrived in Loikaw to meet with his troops. In response, the Karenni Nationalities Defense Force fired artillery toward Loikaw. The following night, junta forces shelled northern areas of Demoso, forcing families to flee again.
Pleas for protection
Throughout Karenni State, survivors echo the same plea — a desperate call for protection from relentless airstrikes and shelling. The Interim Executive Council of Karenni State, or IEC, condemned the bombing as "unprovoked violence" targeting civilians, including children.
At the site of the attack, the head of the Interior Department of the IEC expressed his outrage:
"I absolutely condemn this. It's pure bullying — a brutal act of violence that I cannot accept. This is Karenni territory, where our people live and work. The damage is not only to property but to lives."
The principal of Dosei Middle School also made a heartfelt appeal for action by the international community, including a halt to the sale of jet fuel to the junta and for stronger international pressure to stop the use of airstrikes against civilians.
