Insight Myanmar

Episode #634: Christopher Titmuss has spent more than fifty years teaching Buddhist insight meditation, yet he warns that the very practices intended to bring liberation can become sources of attachment. Having trained as a monk in Thailand and India before helping establish Western insight meditation institutions, he has witnessed how spiritual traditions can gradually elevate particular teachers, methods, and organizational forms into unquestioned authorities. “If you totally identify with one teacher, one form, one method, one technique, one language, or whatever, this might be imprisoning and not liberating,” he cautions.
His understanding developed through intensive monastic practice under Ajahn Dhammadharo, the teachings of Ajahn Buddhadāsa, and encounters with spiritual traditions throughout India. His experience with S. N. Goenka reinforced both his appreciation for disciplined meditation and his concern about claims of exclusive authority over Vipassanā. For Titmuss, no single form can contain the full possibilities of the Dhamma.
That conviction carries ethical consequences. Myanmar’s continuing suffering under military violence highlights the responsibility of Buddhist practitioners to confront harm rather than retreat into private spiritual cultivation. Titmuss argues for unwavering commitment to nonviolence without identifying with political factions, while distinguishing moral clarity from anger and self-righteousness. He also questions whether secular mindfulness, despite its demonstrated benefits, has neglected the explicit ethical commitments found in Buddhist teachings.
His critique extends to meditation itself. Present-moment awareness is useful, but fixation on the here and now can obscure the causes of suffering and the consequences of present actions. Retreats likewise offer valuable training without encompassing the speech, livelihood, relationships, and responsibilities that occupy daily life. Drawing on his experiences with death contemplation and the Buddhist understanding of non-self, Titmuss continues to examine how a path intended to dissolve attachment can remain free of attachment to its own methods.

Episode #633: “We’re in the dreams-come-true business.” Barry Broman uses that line to explain the human side of espionage, but it also captures the path that took him from teenage photojournalism in Thailand to combat service in Vietnam, twenty-five years in the CIA’s clandestine service, and eventually the station chief’s office in Rangoon. His career was built around access: finding people, earning trust, entering closed places, and learning what could not be understood from a distance.
Broman first reached Thailand in 1962, when he left college for a year and became an Associated Press stringer in Bangkok. He later studied Southeast Asia and Thai, served as a Marine infantry officer in Vietnam, and entered the CIA only fifteen days after leaving the Corps. In the Agency, he made his reputation as a recruiter of human sources, a method that later shaped his work on Burma and the Golden Triangle.
As chief of station in Rangoon from 1994 to 1996, Broman worked in a country where U.S. relations with the military government were poor but narcotics cooperation remained possible. He helped pursue intelligence against Khun Sa’s heroin network, defended working relationships with Burmese military officials, and drew a sharp distinction between corruption and state-directed trafficking. He rejects claims that the CIA itself participated in the regional drug trade, while acknowledging that later developments in the borderlands extend beyond the period he knew firsthand.
After retiring, Broman kept returning to Burma with cameras rather than classified reporting, producing books and documentaries on the country’s rivers, architecture, ethnic communities, narcotics economy, and politics. One film took him to Aung San Suu Kyi under surveillance; another brought him into Wa territory. Now the war has shut down many routes he once traveled along the Irrawaddy, Chindwin, and Andaman coast. For a career built on going closer, Burma has again become a place where access itself is uncertain.

Episode #632: “I was not political at all until 1988,” says Dr. Maung Maung Myint, the National Unity Government’s (NUG) representative to Norway. He describes how dictatorship, exile, and decades of activism have shaped his conviction that Myanmar’s military regime will eventually fall.
Born in 1958, he grew up under military rule. After General Ne Win’s 1962 coup, his family’s home and business were seized. He became a dentist in 1983, but the 1988 uprising changed everything. Angered by poverty, propaganda, and the killing of two students, he led a student union, organized protests, and published an underground newsletter. After the crackdown, he was sentenced in absentia to four years in prison; in 1989, he fled to Norway.
In exile, he joined the Norwegian Burma Committee (NBC), helped establish the Democratic Voice of Burma (DVB), and later worked for Radio Free Asia (RFA). He credits Norway’s early support, including its hosting of the National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma (NCGUB) and funding of DVB, as “the biggest thing that happened for us.” He appreciates Norway’s post-coup policies, in particular its shift to bypassing the junta and funding local civil society directly for humanitarian needs.
Maung Maung Myint feels that today’s opposition to the military is more hopeful and far more committed than during the transition period, when the military was able to entrench its influence in government. Unlike in the past, it no longer revolves around a single figure such as Aung San Suu Kyi. Instead, a younger generation is taking a leading role, with broader participation from ethnic minorities in a genuinely inclusive way. This, he says, gives him hope.
Despite decades in exile, his resolve remains firm: “We just have to keep going. Because this is the only way. We cannot give up.”

Episode #631: “Community for me is an other-making category.” Judith Beyer, a legal and political anthropologist and the author of Rethinking Community in Myanmar, uses an ordinary word to expose a long political inheritance. Her fieldwork in Yangon began with Muslim and Hindu individuals who presented themselves to an outsider first and foremost as members of ethno-religious communities. But the closer she looked, and the more acquainted she became with these individuals, the less stable this self-categorization became.
In her book, Beyer traces the category back through British colonial rule, when law, land grants, religious property, and trusteeship helped organize migrants into corporate ethno-religious groups. Those arrangements survived independence and still shape property, personal-status law, and the way minorities are recognized by the state and present themselves to others. Yet the same temples and mosques that embody these classifications also contain relations that exceed them. For example, at the Mahapeinne Temple in Yangon, Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, trustees, priests, workers, and worshippers can occupy the same space without becoming one coherent community. In the life of Mukhtaar Bhai,a Muslim of Shia identity, class, skin color, intermarriage, and his Sunni business relationships repeatedly cross the lines that supposedly define him.
The danger of fixed belonging becomes clearest in Beyer’s discussion of the Rohingya, whom she places at the far end of Myanmar’s long practice of making an excluded other. After the attempted military coup of 2021, the same problem follows people into exile. Beyer now prepares country-of-origin reports for British asylum cases, where courts may question whether someone is genuinely Rohingya or stateless. Rather than treating identity as an essence to be verified, she examines how states categorize people and what those classifications do to their lives.
She has not returned to Myanmar since the attempted coup because visiting her interlocutors could endanger them. The book grew from relationships she once expected to continue in person; now many of those relationships came to an end due to death or are separated by exile. While the categories she set out to question keep determining who can belong, who can be protected, and who can return.

Episode #630: “There's no fixing saṃsāra.” Khemarato Bhikkhu heard that line from a bhikkhuni in Berkeley after the 2016 U.S. election, at the moment when his faith in progress was already failing. An American monk now seven years ordained in Thailand’s Thai forest tradition, he had come to Buddhism through university stress, a Zen meditation group, friendships with Thai students, and a 2012 journey through Thailand. The Dhamma first made sense to him as something honest about craving, not-self, and the limits of worldly identity.
Before ordination, he had also entered one of the most future-facing worlds available: Silicon Valley. He joined Facebook early, then moved into education technology because he wanted his work to help society. But education’s deepest problems began to look political rather than technical, and Trump’s rise broke something in the narrative that history naturally moves forward. A month-long retreat in 2018 clarified what the Berkeley discourse had exposed: he had been trying to repair saṃsāra itself.
Ordination did not erase grief. It required leaving a romantic relationship, disappointing parents proud of his career, and accepting that the ordinary future of marriage, children, status, and income was no longer his path. In Thailand, however, renunciation became concrete rather than abstract: an alms bowl, food freely offered by lay supporters, a forest monastery where community provides enough support for solitude, and a practice life organized around Buddho, vipassana, the Pāṭimokkha, and the rains retreat.
The hardest teachings remain bodily. Autopsy practice at a Bangkok hospital turns death from doctrine into direct perception; each corpse trains the mind to see that every living person is already dying. Khemarato Bhikkhu does not present the monastery as a way to fix the world. It is the place where he tests whether the Buddha was right that saṃsāra is not the only possibility, and whether a human life can be organized around that fact before the body ends.