Seventy-Two Months in Northern Myanmar

I’ve drifted through northern Myanmar for six years; a young woman has grown old here. Sacks float down the Mekong, stuffed with body parts. It chills the heart. Caught in a lawless world with nowhere to run, people are worth less than dogs, their lives as fragile as grass. My name is Xu Ye. I’m someone unfortunate enough to have stumbled into this hell. If you ever end up here, remember: don’t trust the people around you. Do whatever it takes to stay alive. Sir, there are no high-paying jobs in northern Myanmar. Miss, you should believe this too: there is no love in northern Myanmar.