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It took us an hour to find that worn, wooden fence. As the car stopped, my heartbeat started to race. The Burmese driver got out of the car to talk to a gentleman discreetly guarding whatever was inside. He glanced over to the car with a stony expression and nodded with permission. I breathed a sigh of relief as he opened the fence and we drove in. We stopped next to a white, rain-washed building with two women sitting next to the doors. They immediately stood up, alert with curiosity. I slowly stepped out of the car and put my hands in a prayer position to show respect as I walked towards them. They returned my greeting and their faces softened. One of the ladies broke a wide smile and whispered, “Welcome to our church”. I was staying in a small town called Tacheliek in Myanmar with my Thai family. My auntie Pon knew that I liked to attend church. “There’s a church here somewhere,” she declared, “but I’ll have to ask my friend. I can’t guarantee that he can take us.” He agreed to take us. Little did I know of the great risk our driver took to ensure that I got my Sunday fix. The lady with the big smile opened the doors that concealed a dark, dusty hall with around thirty people sitting quietly in temporary, worn-out pews. They were listening to a young pastor preaching in Burmese. Pon ushered me down the makeshift aisle and into a pew. I shuffled in and sat next to a middle-aged lady. As I looked up, I noticed the gaze of the congregation resting upon me. I smiled warmly and twitched with nerves. “Take no notice kungmalaay (young girl), we never see luuhpuw (white person) here.” With a smile, I nodded slightly with understanding and turned my attention to the young pastor. He was no more than 20 years old. He kept throwing his hands in the air and spoke with extreme passion. As I looked around the building, there was nothing on the walls that identified this building as a church. No signs. No crucifix. No bibles. Full of eagerness to know more, I asked the woman kindly if I could take a look at her bible. “Oh no kungmalaay, I can’t have bible. I used to borrow from library before Burmese army burn it all,” she explained in broken English. “If you bring bible into Burma, please be careful”. My curiosity reached new heights. I pressed the old woman for more information, “Why can’t you have a bible?” She glanced at me from the side of her eye and chuckled slightly. “You know about Rohingya Muslims?” As I nodded, she continued, “Well, the same happening to Christians in Burma. Many Christians in the north attacked every day by Burmese military. Homes burn to ground. Women raped and children killed. It not so bad here but my granddaughter, she come home upset every day because teacher is mean to her. Her friends make fun of her because she is Christian.” She pauses to gather her thoughts and to reflect on something the young pastor has declared. She took a deep breath and continued. “The other day, pastor in nearby village was caught and beaten. ID card taken and he was shamed. You see kungmalaay, to be Burmese is to be Buddhist. We are not given choice. We risk everything to follow God. We rebels!” she said with a light-hearted chuckle. Suddenly, the congregation stood up and started to sing in their mother tongue. I stood up alongside them and watched as they closed their eyes and immersed themselves in praise and joy. I felt overwhelmed with respect and admiration for these people. I asked myself, could I stay true to my religion if it meant risking my life and the lives of my family every day? Probably not. In my weakness, I closed my eyes, held out my hands and allowed their song of strength and faith to wash over me knowing that with every note they sang, they risked bringing death to those guarded church doors.