a short story by Swe Nwe Hmwe, translated from Burmese into English
When I rediscovered the nearly 30-year-old kerosene lanterns tucked away in the storehouse, I was instantly transported back to my childhood. It brought me to the years following 1990—to the many nights in our small rural town without electricity. As I remembered those times, they vividly reappeared in my eyes, filling me with deep nostalgia.
When we were young, we slept with the lantern placed near our heads, turned down to its lowest flame, glowing all night long. Every evening before nightfall, my mother would clean the glass chimney with newspaper, tend the wick, refill the kerosene, and wait patiently to light it once darkness fell. Many nights were spent like this. Though the outside world was wrapped in darkness, my parents’ love lit up every night with warmth and comfort, like the lantern.
Our evenings followed a rhythm: family Bible readings, prayer, and early bedtime. Regardless of the season—summer, monsoon, or winter— before power supply became stable, cleaning the lantern remained an essential part of our evening routine for years.
I still remember a moment from when I was about four years old. My mother lit a grey lantern while I, sick and feverish, lay on her lap. That must have been around 1992. I vomited and had diarrhea, and my older sister was frantically cleaning up. My eldest brother rushed to fetch a local doctor from a nearby house with the help of our neighbour, Uncle Thawng. The doctor examined me with concern. It was late in the evening, and with no medicine available. The only hospital in the town was under-equipped (about 50-bedded), he gave me a single injection and some electrolyte solution, promising to return the next day.
Back in those days, many people relied on Moke Soe Kyaw, the traditional medicine for cold and fever, when they fell ill. If you asked me whether healthcare has improved today, I would say yes, but only on the surface. For ordinary people, traditional medicines Moke Soe Kyaw have simply shifted to Kunywat Pone , the betel leaves based traditinal medicine for cold, for every illness. While some illnesses have disappeared, others still take lives.
That night, my father was on duty and away from home, and we feared I might not survive. But I did, and I even got to witness the arrival of a new lantern—a blue one this time. In the bigger cities of Lower Myanmar, electricity had already arrived, but for many of us, it was still out of reach. That blue lantern had a faulty knob and did not last long, so we soon replaced it with a green one.
In the early 2000s, electricity reached our town—but only once a week. Uncle U Paw Wa, who lived in front of our house would start their generator from 7 to 10 PM and supply electricity to the neighborhood. A single 2-foot fluorescent tube or one light bulb cost 200 kyats per month. Half of our neighborhood’s darkness was lifted. Families began buying TVs, and watching the 7 PM drama series broadcast by Myawady and MRTV together became a new tradition. When the show ended and the news began at 8 PM, the main figure on screen was always Colonel Khin Nyunt. Some military officers and wealthy households had VIP lines, so their homes remained lit during outages, while ordinary families like ours still relied on lanterns.
Later, as kerosene became scarce, candles began replacing lanterns. One by one, the lanterns were pushed into storage. But in 2017, under Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s government, a major electric grid reached our town, and we finally had 24-hour electricity. Streetlamps that had stood dark for years began to glow. For the first time, the people of Kalay could see the streets at night.
For years, these lanterns lit our darkest nights. They witnessed laughter and joy, sorrow and hardship. When I reached school age, I did my homework under the lantern light. I studied under their gentle flickers, preparing for exams that I eventually passed. Education, we were told, was the only light that could lift us out of poverty—a truth my family believed in deeply. So, the lanterns never failed us; they carried the responsibility with grace. Even when we moved houses, my father made sure to bring the lanterns along. That is why, when I reflect on my childhood, these memories come flooding back so vividly.
But then… everything changed rapidly again. For the past two years, since the military coup, we have had no electricity at all. Every evening, after sunset, we pray and go to bed early. From our beds, we listen helplessly to the sounds of bombs dropped from planes, artillery fired from Mount Tongphila, Howitzers launched by the artillery battalion, and the endless echo of gunfire—every night, since 2021. Tomorrow feels uncertain, and life even more fragile for those in this area.
Now, if the glass lanterns hanging on the wall of my father’s storage room could speak, I imagine them saying, “You can use us again—we’re ready.” But then again… where would we even find kerosene? Even now, a liter of fuel costs 20,000 kyats — and that is only when the roads are not blocked, and fuel trucks can still make it through. When the roads are closed, there’s no fuel to be found anywhere. Still, the lanterns resting quietly in the storehouse seem to tell stories of the past, while standing ready to serve again if needed.
They are like faithful old friends — always nearby, always present, and impossible to forget.