My Grandson wrote the following piece called, 

"On witnessing suffering." 

He is a witness-bearer of the hardships of the Myanmar Civil War. His reflections explore our moral obligations to the lives and pain of others.    

"It is not surprising that the innocent are killed, tortured, driven from their country, made destitute, or reduced to slavery, imprisoned in camps or cells, since there are criminals to perform such actions.

But it is surprising that God should have given affliction the power to seize the very souls of the innocent and to take possession of them as their sovereign lord. At the very best, he who is branded by affliction will keep only half his soul. —Simone Weil

After I graduated from high school, I volunteered for an NGO, that helped people in the Myanmar Civil War. 

Assisting medically at the front line, reporting the Burmese military’s atrocities, giving aid to internally displaced people—this was all part of the job. 

Everyone sees a lot of discomfort in this line of work and must decide how to live with it. We can let the emotions saturate us, both compassion and despair, and sympathize with the victim to an extent that becomes uncomfortable: a choice that exhausts the soul. 

The other option is to remain indifferent, to view reoccurring disasters as normal, to see human life as a statistic, to treat a tragedy as merely another report. 

And throughout the years I volunteered, I was slowly fed the fruits of war. Each event witnessed piled upon another, leaving me with the choice of either becoming broken or calloused.        

What I saw still lingers with me to this day. 

Fleeing families hiding in the jungle, waiting for the Burmese Military to leave their village. The tarp huts they lived in, and the food they ate: plain rice and chilis, devoid of any real nutrients. 

Children running around in the dust, unable to study. Empty houses left behind, broken schools and churches hit by bombs and bullets. 

A buffalo missing one of its front feet, looking at us while we walked past it and the surrounding landmines. 

Two dead men in the back of our truck, insides spilled and limbs torn. Photos of families killed, mothers holding their dead sons, fathers holding their broken daughters. 

Autopsies of massacres where the victims were set on fire; you could tell if they died before or during the fire by looking at their lungs and seeing if they were black or white. 

My friend lying dead on the culvert, because he failed to get under it before the jet got him. My unconscious friend's injury, her brain laid bare after the bomb took off the top of her skull cap. 

Another friend dragged along the ground towards safety, quiet, eyes blank, bleeding out on the floor from his stomach. Two young resistance fighters burned alive by the Burmese Military, hung with their hands and feet tied together in one bind behind their back, gasping for air, asking to be taken away from the fire. Each event witnessed piles upon another, leaving one either broken or calloused. And I cannot describe the rage I feel. 

How does one reconcile such tragedy? 

As Weil writes, it is not surprising that such suffering exists in this world. However, it is surprising that the powers that be in this universe seem to be indifferent to our suffering—that if there is a God in the sky, he seems to think that intervention is unnecessary, while we crush and maul each other down below. When we experience or witness such affliction, it seems clear that some kind of justice must be done. But even so, it seems that justice is an event that rarely occurs in this world. Burmese soldiers seem to dismember and rape without consequence, laughing while they walk away from their mutilated prey. And since we cannot get justice, it seems that all we can do is resent.   

In a world full of unreconcilable suffering, how does one live with it?

Most people try to avoid the possibility of enduring such affliction—to have a heart of stone and to be unbreakable. To avoid seeing others’ suffering. To read the news of tragedies around the world and walk away pretending it’s normal. To never be vulnerable enough to be affected by love. To navigate through this world unscathed, chasing pleasure and avoiding pain. 

But what if we were to welcome the possibility of being crushed with open arms? To take the bludgeoning straight in the face? To live and eat in the same home with suffering, walking down the treacherous path together, holding one another’s hands? To lie bloody and naked next to a friend’s dead body, staring into his dark eyes, waiting for our turn to join him in death? Because what good will ever come about if no one has a heart of flesh?

I do not know the definite answer to the problem of suffering, but I will leave with this, a dream I had. I was in the jungles of Burma, sitting in a kitchen hut, eating and talking with the rebels around me. I recognized the man to my right, a doctor who had seen many broken bodies and crushed spirits. He talked of how it takes mettle and strength to endure through all the tragedies that one has witnessed. To my surprise, I replied with an answer unlikely to come out of my mouth: perhaps it takes the most to forgive those who bring about such pain."