The sound of mortars and artillery shells is a constant across Burma’s ethnic states, and after nearly 80 years of war, the people have learned to endure. They can now gauge the distance of incoming fire, running for cover only when the threat is immediate. “You’ll hear a change in pitch before the planes dive,” one resident explained, describing the near-daily airstrikes that target civilian areas.

Today, more than 3.5 million people in Burma are internally displaced, and an estimated 20 million are in need of humanitarian aid. Karenni State has the highest displacement rate in the country — more than 80% of its population. Most live in makeshift shelters of bamboo and plastic, without U.N. protection, making their camps frequent targets for government airstrikes.

Despite the vast sums of money allocated to large aid organizations, assistance is not reaching the most vulnerable. The State Administration Council (SAC) prohibits international aid workers, independent journalists and observers from entering conflict zones, where most of the displaced are trapped. Aid that does reach them comes primarily from local sources: the Karenni State Interim Executive Council (IEC) — the pro-democracy civilian government — local Catholic churches, and a few small foreign-aid organizations, such as the faith-based frontline group Free Burma Rangers (FBR). These groups risk their lives bringing aid across the border illegally, in open defiance of the military government. 

“The children can’t all go to school together,” said Father Gabriele (a pseudonym for security reasons), explaining how the local Catholic Church provides education while dealing with the constant threat of government airstrikes. “We divide them up into three groups.” This way, if a school is bombed, there are fewer casualties. “I think Burma is the only country in the world like this,” he said.

As the car wound along one of the only paved roads, Father Gabriele motioned vaguely toward the temporary shelters lining the road and remarked, “So many displaced people.”

The small amounts of aid reaching the displaced, though rooted in Christ’s compassion, are woefully inadequate. The United Nations recommends that refugees receive 16 kilograms of rice per person per month to survive, yet most camps receive half or less. Some get no additional supplies, such as soap or cooking oil.

Medical care is severely limited, with only two functioning hospitals, and education is struggling. The Catholic Church oversees hundreds of volunteer teachers in and around the refugee camps, but transportation is a major challenge. Vehicles are scarce, making it difficult to bring children to and from school.

Then, there is the ever-present threat of airstrikes. In Burma, only the government has planes, so the entire population has been conditioned to run at the sight or sound of one. Even makeshift schools have numbers painted beside them, and the children know to hide inside when the planes come.

Further along the road, Father Gabriele gestured toward a small building. 

“That’s a clinic,” he said, “but it’s only open sometimes, and there is no doctor — just a nurse.” Two days later, even this clinic was targeted by government forces. Thirteen bombs were dropped in the area, but, miraculously, no one was hurt.

Burma’s conflict began in 1948, when several ethnic minorities demanded independence after the country transitioned from British rule. For decades, ethnic armed organizations (EAOs) fought in the ethnic states, while the Buddhist Bamar majority in central Burma pursued protests and parliamentary reforms, viewing armed resistance as terrorism. These movements remained largely separate until 2021, when the military coup shattered hopes for democracy. Facing arrests and killings, even the Bamar majority recognized that armed resistance was the only path forward.

The mass displacement has severely strained resources, especially water. 

“Water is a real problem,” said Father Gabriele, as streams and rivers dry up due to the sudden influx of people fleeing government-controlled areas. Deforestation, caused by cutting bamboo for shelters, has worsened the crisis, stripping the land of its ability to retain water.

With no electricity, cell service or internet, people gather firewood daily to boil what little polluted water remains. Deforestation has created a double disaster — flooding during the rainy season and dry riverbeds the rest of the year. A truck rattled by, carrying 50-gallon plastic tanks of questionable drinking water. 

“They have to buy the water, and they don’t have much money,” Father Gabriele observed.

The economy has collapsed. In the ethnic states, almost no one has a wage-paying job. The primary roles — resistance soldier, aid worker or civil government leader — offer no salary. The only alternative is to become an internally displaced person (IDP), trapped in a camp, waiting for a future that feels increasingly out of reach.

Father Gabriele continued driving up the mountain, several kilometers through the liberated zone; the entire way, the road was lined with displaced people’s camps and small businesses. These makeshift shops sold necessities like batteries and basic foodstuffs, while others offered services essential to the IDPs, such as hourly access to Starlink or charging stations for cellphones and flashlights.

Amid the rows of shelters, there were also the occasional barbershop, restaurant or even a sign reading “Fashion Clothing” — a small reminder that even in the face of adversity, the human spirit endures, finding ways to create normalcy and earn a living. 

Karenni State, one of Burma’s three Christian-majority states, is the only one where Catholics form the majority of the Christian population. The entire state falls under the Catholic Diocese of Loikaw, but in 2023, after three weeks of relentless government artillery and drone attacks, the diocesan headquarters — Christ the King Cathedral and the pastoral complex — had to be abandoned.

Bishop Celso Ba Shwe, along with clergy and thousands of displaced people, fled into the jungle. “We had almost 3,000 IDPs staying with us,” he recounted. “But as fighting reached the compound, it was no longer safe. We asked them to leave.” 

Most managed to escape, but 37 disabled individuals remained, unable to run or relocate. “We had nowhere to go, and they didn’t either, so we stayed with them.” Eventually, they reached a secret mountain location, where the bishop continues his work.

According to Bishop Ba Shwe, Father Gabriele is one of 98 priests in the Loikaw Diocese, which oversees 41 parishes. However, most churches have been destroyed or abandoned due to attacks. “Out of 41 parishes, 35 are already gone,” he explained.

To continue their ministry, the clergy have adapted, building temporary chapels in IDP camps and relocating to remote parishes when possible. “Now, our churches are made of bamboo and plastic.” 

Despite the destruction, he emphasized that the Church is not defined by its buildings. “The Church is not the structure; it is the people, the community. As long as we stay together and pray together, the Catholic Church is there.”

The bishop explained how the Church is providing aid through the Diocese Emergency Response Team, saying, “We buy rice and store it at the parish center, where those in need — identified by the local priest — can collect it. We cannot provide for everyone, but we help those most in need.”

The Church also supports IDP schools, assisting with stationery, school construction and supplies. “We have sisters who care for the sick, providing medicine at the convent and reaching out to the camps to offer basic health care,” he added.

The mass displacement has severely strained Church resources, forcing priests who once served small, localized congregations to now oversee multiple IDP camps, often deep in the jungle or high in the mountains.

Father Gabriele described the challenge of making rounds between camps. On Ash Wednesday, for example, he visited three different camps. At the first, he was encouraged by the large turnout for Mass — so many people attended that extra rows of plastic chairs had to be set up outside the small bamboo-and-plastic chapel.

But just minutes before the service, planes flew overhead, and everyone scattered. “They are afraid,” Father Gabriele said. Fortunately, faith prevailed — about half an hour later, people returned, and he was able to say Mass.

Apart from saying Mass, one of Father Gabriele’s most solemn duties is presiding over funerals — a grim constant in Karenni State. Even Catholic military commanders, hardened by combat experience, admit to being deeply affected by the relentless cycle of death, especially as so many of the fallen are young men.

In the days leading up to Ash Wednesday, a drone attack struck about one kilometer from a Catholic church — a church that had already been hit by government munitions. Five resistance soldiers were killed, four of them Catholic.

“Tomorrow, I will say a funeral Mass for a Karenni Army (KA) soldier,” the priest said. “He was 45 years old, had two children, and his wife is distraught. Another one was only 19. Many others are also 19.” He trailed off before adding, “I have lost so many parishioners during this situation. I am sorry for this event, but I have accepted it and continue praying for peace and reconciliation.”

Khun Bedu, a former Catholic seminarian who now serves as chairman of the Karenni Nationalities Defense Force (KNDF) and vice chairman of the IEC, the civilian government, attends as many funerals as his schedule allows. He comforts grieving families and provides small assistance payments from the government’s war-strapped coffers.

He emphasized the Catholic Church’s crucial role in supporting displaced people and shaping Karenni State’s future. He believes the Church will remain vital after the war, particularly in education and governance. 

“A lot of kids drop out of school at 15 or 16. The Church can help keep them in school,” he said. Because of this, he made it a priority to engage religious leaders in the IEC. “We have to meet regularly with them — Catholic, Baptist or Buddhist — to explain our movement and involve them.” 

He also sees faith-based institutions as key to international aid and long-term stability, noting that donors increasingly turn to the Church due to its credibility, manpower, low overhead and scale. While more aid is now funneled through religious organizations, he stressed that as the IEC gains legitimacy, it must also take on a larger role in governance and rebuilding Burma’s institutions.

When asked why the war and suffering were happening, Bishop Ba Shwe called it a “time of universal conversion,” urging people to return to God. “People must think beyond themselves, beyond their country or nationality, and come back to love and solidarity. We have to love and help each other.”

He regretted that many “forget God and don’t see him anymore,” emphasizing that true peace comes from loving God and one’s neighbor. “If we love each other, we can share with each other. We don’t need war. This crisis exists because of selfishness — some people think they can stand alone and forget God’s commandments.”

Reflecting on the impermanence of worldly things, he added, “Nothing lasts — your house, your cathedral, your business. Now everything is gone. People are learning that only God and the love of God remain. If you have God, you can survive.”

Antonio Graceffo, Ph.D., is a China economic analyst based in Asia.