THE 3 FINGER SALUTE
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Seven-year-old Ye Win has already glimpsed the edge of hell. For two terrifying months, he and his family—his parents, little brother, and baby sister—travelled just 150 kilometres, all five crammed onto a single Honda Wave motorbike. They moved like ghosts through the backroads of Myanmar, dodging military checkpoints, hiding in jungle camps and shanty villages, taking shelter with brave friends in unfamiliar towns.
Every day brought new danger. They ate daily rice rations, endured dysentery and Covid, and lay frozen in silence as soldiers passed close enough to hear their breathing. Ye Win was old enough to understand. He saw the fear etched into his father's face, the panic in his mother’s eyes that night they were almost caught. Fear had become his shadow.
After two months on the run, they finally reached Myawaddy. At 4 a.m., cloaked in darkness, two strangers ferried them across the Moei River in a narrow longboat—just 200 metres to freedom. When they reached the Thai side, Ye Win climbed out carefully. Then, without a word, he turned and stood tall. He raised his hand in the three-finger salute. The two strangers paused mid-paddle. In the stillness, they raised their hands and saluted him back—silently, solemnly—before drifting away into the night.
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