The air hung thick with dust and the acrid scent of pulverized concrete. Around him, Mandalay lay broken, a jagged landscape of collapsed buildings and twisted metal. Friday’s 7.7-magnitude earthquake had ripped through the city like a vengeful god, and now, amidst the ruins, Kyaw knelt, his hands raw and bloody.
His apartment building, once a vibrant hub of family life, was now a tomb. He’d clawed his way through the wreckage, his clothes torn and stained, the phantom weight of lost limbs pressing against him. His son, little Aung, was somewhere beneath the rubble, buried alive.
Kyaw’s eyes, bloodshot and wild, focused on a section of the collapsed floor. He dug, his nails ripping against the shattered concrete, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Aung! Aung, Papa’s here!” he screamed, his voice hoarse. He lifted a heavy slab, the muscles in his arms screaming in protest, and threw it aside. He dug again, his fingers scraping against the earth.
Finally, the military arrived, their heavy machinery a stark contrast to Kyaw’s desperate, bare-handed efforts. He watched as they began to clear the debris, a flicker of hope igniting in his weary heart. “Thank you,” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”
For two hours, the soldiers worked, the roar of their machines a constant, grinding symphony. Then, they stopped. “Break time,” one of them announced, his voice flat.
Kyaw’s eyes widened in disbelief. “No!” he cried, his voice rising in desperation. “My child is under there! Please, you can’t stop! We have to keep going!”
The soldiers exchanged weary glances. “We’ve been working non-stop,” one of them said, his voice heavy. “We need a rest.”
Kyaw pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please! Just a little longer! He’s alive, I know he is!”
But they were unmoved. They took their 30-minute break, the silence that followed punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens. Kyaw, his body screaming in protest, continued to dig, his movements becoming sluggish, his mind reeling from exhaustion.
After another two hours of work, the soldiers took another break. Kyaw, his strength completely spent, sank to his knees, his body trembling, his vision blurring. He could no longer move, the weight of the rubble, the weight of his despair, pinning him to the ground.
He sat there, dazed, as the soldiers resumed their work after their break. The roar of the machines filled the air once more, a hollow echo in the devastated landscape. He watched them work, his eyes empty, the hope that had flickered so brightly now extinguished. The numbers, 1600 dead, 3400 injured, 139 missing, flashed through his mind. His son was now one of those numbers.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
Before and after satellite images show devastation caused by Myanmar earthquake – video
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