In Myanmar, far north of the big city of Naypyidaw is the Sagaing Region. Life there felt slow, like a quiet river that forgets the sea it came from. People woke with the sun and lived by the seasons. Farming rice and beans was their breath, taught child to child, like a soft song passed down through quiet years, maybe broken only by the gentle buzz of market talk or a distant temple bell. Roads were small threads stitching villages together. Motorbikes zipped like quick thoughts. Bikes carried lives. Old ox carts rolled, heavy with time, the creak of their wheels a familiar sound. The big Chindwin River flowed, a brown mirror holding the sky in silence. The land felt safe, solid underfoot, like a promise whispered by the earth itself, a promise that would always be kept.

But on Friday, March 28, 2025, after lunch, at 12:50 PM, the promise shattered like glass. Time itself seemed to stumble and break. A giant earthquake, 7.7 strong, woke up like a monster from a long sleep deep under Sagaing city. No warning. Just a sudden, terrible roar from deep below, a sound that filled the air and stole breath, swallowing every other noise. Then the crash of things breaking everywhere at once – wood splintering, glass exploding, walls collapsing. Screams began, sharp cries cutting through the unbelievable noise, voices calling names that were lost in the chaos.

It wasn’t just shaking. It was the world tearing its own skin. The groan of bending metal, the sharp crack of wood snapping, the sickening thud of a brick hitting the earth. Buildings fell like playing cards in a careless hand, like secrets the wind scattered in a cloud of choking dust. Roads split open, showing black mouths of darkness underneath. Temples crumbled, holy places broken like ordinary toys a child grew tired of, the tinkle of small bells mixing with the rumble of falling stone. The ground became a shifting nightmare… amid the shaking and the dusty air, you could hear cries fade into weeping, short bursts of fear followed by a terrible, waiting silence, and then maybe another shout, “Mama! Where are you?”

More than 2,886 people gone. Swallowed. Like stars blinked out in the sky. Over 4,500 hurt, carrying the earth’s anger in their bodies. 373 still missing, lost in the broken pieces of yesterday, perhaps still calling out unheard under the weight. These numbers are cold stones, but each one is a sun of warmth that set forever. A story ripped mid-sentence. A laughter dissolved into an aching silence that felt louder than any scream. An empty space at the table that echoes with the ghost sounds of what used to be.

Hospitals became islands in a sea of pain, filled with the constant, low moan of the hurt. Tired doctors fought darkness with fading light in their own eyes, their quick, low voices urgent – “More bandages! Hold this! Quickly now!” The beep of machines, if there were any, struggled against the sheer scale of wounds. Outside, hurt people waited, their soft cries and whimpers mixing with the wail of distant sirens that started, a sound of help that felt too small, too far away.

The world heard Myanmar’s silent scream. International aid began to move. The World Health Organization sent emergency medical kits. Countries like China, India, Russia, and the United States offered help—doctors, tents, water filters, warm words carried in cargo. But aid had to cross difficult roads, not only cracked by the earthquake but also by conflict. Myanmar was already bleeding from within. Some trucks were delayed. Some never reached. Even kindness faced roadblocks. Even mercy needed protection.

Still, the small, stubborn flame of the human spirit did not go out. Hands, raw and bleeding, clawed at stone that was once home – the scrape and thud of digging, a desperate rhythm against the quiet despair. Shouts echoed into the rubble, voices raw with hope and fear, “Is anyone there? Can you hear us?” Food, suddenly precious like diamonds, was shared. Prayers rose like unseen birds into the dust-filled sky, soft murmurs against the backdrop of ruin. Then, a miracle no louder than a breath: a young man, 26, pulled from under the crushing weight of a hotel after five days that felt like lifetimes. Alive. Maybe they heard his weak reply first, a faint “Here… help…” cutting through the sound of shifting debris. A flicker in the ruins, weak and covered in the earth that tried to take him, but breathing. One single seed of life found in a field of grey ash. It was a tiny light proving that even when buried, life stubbornly whispers, “I am still here.”

But one light does not erase the darkness. The earthquake didn’t just break homes; it broke the shape of the world inside people’s heads. Trust in the ground, trust in the quiet rhythm of days – it cracked wide open. Now, every shadow feels like the earth might split again. Every distant rumble, even a truck passing far away, sounds like the monster stirring, bringing back the memory of that first terrible roar. The quiet is no longer peaceful; it’s filled with listening, waiting for the next terrible noise. The world beneath their feet feels like thin ice over a deep, cold, waiting darkness. Safety is no longer a place; it’s a memory, a ghost of something they once knew without thinking.

This is the earth’s hard lesson, spoken not just in roars and crashes, but in the long, echoing silence after. Life is fragile, a beautiful, thin glass ball we balance moment by moment. We build homes, we tell stories, we believe we stand on solid rock. But we are only guests on a spinning planet that dreams its own deep, ancient dreams, and sometimes, those dreams are of ruin. We are not safe because we are clever or strong. We are safe only by luck, like leaves floating on a vast, unknowing ocean. Until the current changes or the wave decides to rise.