Easter hope amid the ravages of war

Mortars pounded all day, and drones hammered relentlessly. Sky, an American Bible college graduate working with the Free Burma Rangers, knelt beside a medic who had just become a casualty in the pro-democracy fight to stop junta troops from retaking a city in the liberated zone. Nineteen-year-old Benedictu, a Catholic from the Karenni ethnic minority, had been hit while evacuating the wounded from the front lines.

Once Sky’s student, the young man now lay dying. Shrapnel had torn through his abdomen, slipping between the protective metal plates of his vest. Sky’s body cam captured the nightmare: a fist-sized hole gushing blood, his hands shoving gauze into the wound, fighting to stop the unstoppable.

The war in Burma, also known as Myanmar, has waxed and waned since 1948, with 135 ethnic minorities and segments of the Bamar majority locked in shifting alliances against a succession of military juntas. The conflict erupted into full-scale war after the military overturned the 2020 elections and seized power on Feb. 1, 2021. Over 120 armed groups now clash, sparing no one, though ethnic minorities and Christians bear a heavier toll.

A war that began decades before Benedictu’s birth ended for him within minutes of that mortar strike. His death struck the Rangers deeply. Sky, moved by compassion amid Burma’s relentless suffering, clung to God’s promises for comfort: “He says there’s a place prepared for us. I believe that.”

As Easter approaches, Christians around the world prepare to gather in churches to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In Burma, many believers don’t have that luxury. For them, Easter is a promise they cling to in bloodied trenches and desolate refugee camps. The resurrection of Jesus offers the one hope that cannot be bombed, burned, or silenced: “I believe there’ll be a reunion in heaven,” Sky said. “With new bodies and Christ.”

The United Nations reports over 3.5 million displaced civilians. Christians—roughly 6% of Burma’s 54 million people, including about 750,000 Catholics—face targeted attacks, especially in the Christian-majority states of Chin, Kachin, and Karenni (Kayah), as well as Karen state, where they constitute nearly half the population. In these ethnic strongholds, the junta’s Buddhist nationalist ideology fuels efforts to crush resistance, amplifying violence against Christian communities.

Evidence of the junta’s disregard for its own people came in the wake of the 7.7-magnitude earthquake that rocked central Burma on March 28, killing more than 3,000 people. The government swiftly cut internet and communication lines to prevent news from spreading and blocked most international rescue teams from entering the country—allowing only those from China and Russia, the regime’s primary international supporters. Their relief efforts primarily focused on Naypyitaw, the military capital. Worse still, the regime launched airstrikes immediately after the disaster and continued bombing in the days that followed. Bowing to international pressure, the junta finally announced a ceasefire on April 2—but broke it almost immediately. According to the UN Human Rights Office, at least 61 attacks have been reported since the earthquake, including 16 after the ceasefire took effect.

Since the 2021 coup, an estimated 200 to 300 churches have been destroyed across Burma. Exact numbers remain elusive, particularly for Baptist churches, which lack the centralized records of the Catholic Church. In Karenni state, the only state where Catholics predominate among Christians, the entire region falls under the Diocese of Loikaw. Bishop Celso Ba Shwe reports 36 of its 41 parishes were lost to bombings or overrun by junta forces in the past four years. David Eubank, leader of the faith-driven aid group Free Burma Rangers, confirms this toll.

“I have not seen a single church in Karenni state that has not been bombed,” he told me.

In Kachin state, one of Burma’s three Christian-majority regions, the military bombed St. Michael’s Catholic Pastoral Center in Nan Hlaing, Diocese of Banmaw, severely damaging the century-old structure. No casualties occurred—locals had fled—but local priest Wilbert Mireh noted they now hold Mass under trees for safety. Across Burma, churches adapt to the security crisis: Some hold services in caves, others worship under green tarps in dried riverbeds to avoid detection from the air. A priest in Karenni state told me youth desperately need group interaction, but he fears gathering too many people in one place at once.

On March 16, junta soldiers torched St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Banmaw, reducing it to ashes on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day, a symbolic blow to Catholics. In Chin state, which is over 85% Christian, airstrikes hit Sacred Heart of Jesus Church in Mindat on Feb. 6, just 12 days after Pope Francis named it the new Diocese of Mindat’s cathedral. Its local priest called the bombing “a wound in our heart.”

Not only are Christian churches being targeted, but Christians themselves are under attack. In the Sagaing region, Donald Martin Ye Naing Win, a 44-year-old priest, was murdered on Feb. 14 at Our Lady of Lourdes Church. Ten intoxicated militiamen demanded that he kneel: “I only kneel before God,” he replied before his assailants savagely stabbed him in the body and throat, according to witnesses cited by the Catholic News Agency. Over 5,000 mourners attended his funeral, led by Archbishop Marco Tin Win. The murdered priest’s educational work was vital for Burma’s displaced communities. In many parts of the country, church-sponsored education remains the only option, as government schools have been closed for years.

People clear debris from damaged buildings in the aftermath of an earthquake in Naypyitaw, Myanmar on April 7. Associated Press

On Feb. 5, the day Benedictu died, drones and mortars from the junta’s forces tore into the outskirts of Moebye city in Karenni state for half a day—one of the fiercest clashes in recent memory. Phoe Aung, a 25-year-old Christian and Free Burma Rangers medic, had just loaded casualties into an armored ambulance when a mortar hit. “The bomb dropped and exploded and we flew away,” he said. “All the area was full of smoke. I felt dizzy—my brain didn’t work. I ran in the smoke and checked because someone was screaming my name.” That’s where he found Benedictu, “in a pool of blood.” Phoe Aung cradled Benedictu’s head, comforting him as Sky worked in vain to stop the bleeding.

After confirming Benedictu’s death, Phoe Aung discovered shrapnel had pierced his own leg. Transported to a hospital, he missed Benedictu’s funeral.

The heavy toll of Burma’s civil war hit home for Sky during the service. “Benedictu was number six of 11 children to die,” Sky told me. “Now, he’s buried amongst his brothers and sisters, which is sad.” His mother wasn’t the only one mourning that day. A Ranger running alongside Benedictu when the mortar hit suffered horrific wounds and died the next day, while another, struck by the same mortar, lost his foot.

At the nearby rehab center—the only one still functioning in Karenni state—amputees wait for prosthetic limbs. “But there is only one factory, and they ran out of chemicals to make plastic,” a nurse told me. Like those killed on the front line, most amputees were healthy young men in their late teens. Now they’re missing limbs. They waited in the hospital dormitory, hoping to hear new prosthetics would arrive, though no one knew when. Still, they weren’t in a hurry to leave. With 90% of Karenni state residents displaced, they had no homes to return to. Most of their families, displaced and unemployed, live on bare minimum rations in internally displaced people’s camps. At least at the hospital they had three meals a day, even if it was mostly rice.

Combat deaths, routine for resistance fighters, ripple through Burma’s civilian communities. Ethnic groups with large families and especially Christians, a minority, share tight bonds. Each loss reverberates among cousins and extended kin. For Catholics in Karenni state, with only 41 parishes and 98 priests, the pain cuts deeper—priests often lead a funeral Mass for young people they baptized as infants. Funerals take place daily, and since most resistance units are tied to specific regions, a single bomb blast can kill multiple soldiers from the same community, often distant relatives.

Beyond facing death, soldiers grapple with fear for families back home. The war has engulfed nearly all of Burma’s population. Phoe Aung learned mid-mission that his girlfriend’s village had been struck by several 500-pound bombs. “So, I was very sad,” he said. “I wanted to see her, but I couldn’t. I was in the middle of the mission. So, I prayed. I wanted to get to her place and help her and others.” In an unexpected twist, his prayers found an answer. “God’s plan was I got wounded,” he said, laughing. “Then she heard the news and came to me. So, God answered my prayer—but in reverse.”

Phoe Aung spoke of faith sustaining him through war’s toll: “All of this [that] happened is good to me. Because we cannot decide what we want to do. But there’s always God’s plan. My prayer is, ‘Help me and my friends and other soldiers on our side.’”

Sky, too, leaned on Jesus to cope with Benedictu’s death and the relentless losses. Citing Ephesians, he described faith as a shield protecting Rangers from the “flaming darts” of war—dead children, fallen comrades, the emotional wreckage of being bombed and shot at.

Though saddened by death’s toll, Sky held to God’s goodness and a future beyond the fallen world, accepting its pain with hope: “You have to trust in the promises of God.”