Imagine standing before a centuries-old pagoda as it trembles violently, slowly crumbling into dust. In that fleeting moment of chaos, the world you once knew seems to vanish as families sprint down the street, gripped by panic. Such was the scene in Mandalay on March 28, precisely at 12:50 p.m., when a catastrophic 7.7-magnitude earthquake ravaged central Myanmar. The quake claimed the lives of over 5,000 souls, leaving thousands injured and devastating more than 120,000 homes.
The exhibition titled “7.7 MMERQK: Capturing Myanmar People’s Unheeded Cry” transports visitors to these haunting moments of terror and resilience. Curated by Platform 36 alongside SEA Junction, CMB Foundation, and Bangkok Tribune News, the exhibition showcases poignant images captured by four brave photographers from Myanmar. These photographers, including both seasoned professionals and courageous citizen journalists, braved aftershocks, political backlash, and the ever-watchful eyes of the junta’s censorship to chronicle the quake’s immediate aftermath in Mandalay, Sagaing, and Nay Pyi Taw cities. Their mission is unequivocal: to educate and galvanize.
“We hope visitors leave the gallery not only informed but deeply moved,” said Rosalia Sciortino, Founder and Executive Director of SEA Junction, a program under the aegis of the Foundation for Southeast Asia Studies at the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre.
The powerful photographs on display have yet to be published in any mainstream media outlets. As visitors wander through the gallery, they encounter a poignant series depicting a mother bathing her daughter in the Irrawaddy River, their backdrop being the collapsed Ava Bridge. The child’s tiny hand clutches a battered steel bowl, a symbol of endurance amid devastation.
Nearby, a photograph captures an assembly of Muslims kneeling in prayer amidst the ruins during Ramadan, the remnants of a formerly bustling mosque surrounding them.
These compelling visuals eloquently depict the unwavering resilience of the Myanmar people, determined to carry on with life even amidst the quake’s aftermath. “The people can no longer pray inside; the mosque is gone. Yet, they persist in their prayers outside,” Dr. Rosalia noted. “On a Friday during Ramadan, as the mosque crumbled, their faith endured.”
On a somber black panel, visitors read photographer Linkar’s poignant words: “At one heart-wrenching moment, I saw a doctor desperately performing CPR on a child, fighting to save her life. I couldn’t bring myself to take a photo—then, as the child went limp, I captured a single shot. Overwhelmed, I broke down. Taking photos while shedding tears was all I could manage.”
In this nation still haunted by the shadows of the 2021 coup and ongoing civil strife, photographers risk imprisonment or worse whenever they raise their cameras. “They tread cautiously,” Dr. Rosalia explains. “Most of our photographers are situated in Mandalay, with only a handful in Nay Pyi Taw. Although the earthquake’s impact reached Shan state, documenting it could expose them to grave danger.”
In a quiet act of defiance, each photographer adopts a pseudonym, aware that the government labels their images as “negative publicity.” Revealing their true identities could exact a heavy price.
Dr. Rosalia reveals a sobering truth: in towns obliterated by the quake, official assistance from the government is conspicuously absent. “The images lay bare the harsh reality—no help, no support,” she said. “You witness people taking matters into their own hands, cleaning up and managing everything independently. Tragically, they’re forced to sprinkle disinfectant over corpses to stave off disease, as removing debris remains an impossible task.”
Even when international aid reached the government, it rarely found its way to communities fractured by conflict. Inequitable resource distribution rendered grassroots support vital.
Back at the exhibition, Dr. Rosalia points to a panel showcasing two heart-wrenching photographs. In the first, medics clad in mint green scrubs cradle a seemingly lifeless child. Below, a photograph captures the harrowing gaze of a young girl as trembling hands press fresh bandages onto a gaping head wound.
“These images are deeply [graphic],” Dr. Rosalia acknowledged. “We debated whether to display them, but ultimately chose to, to confront visitors with the harsh reality.”
Following the disaster, the National Unity Government, Myanmar’s civilian government opposing the military regime, declared a two-week cessation of offensive operations to prioritize relief efforts. Yet, the junta persisted with air strikes, exacerbating the devastation.
By channeling funds into both clinical and preventative health services, the exhibition endeavors to ensure that every donation directly impacts Myanmar’s hardest-hit communities. The proceeds from prints and exhibition booklets will go to trusted aid groups, as cited by Dr. Rosalia.
The “7.7 Earthquake: Capturing Myanmar People’s Unheeded Cry” exhibition continues until Sunday at the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre’s Corner Space on the 1st floor. Visitors can contribute by purchasing limited-edition prints and booklets, with 100% of proceeds benefiting aid efforts. To donate via bank transfer, use TTB Bank account number 0431077502, account name: Foundation for Southeast Asia Studies.
This exhibition sounds incredibly moving and important. It’s a harsh reminder of how natural disasters and political turmoil often compound suffering.
I agree, but I’m skeptical about how much impact an exhibition can have. The root issues are political, and unless those are addressed, photography can only do so much.
True, but awareness and empathy can often lead to change. Grassroots movements have to start somewhere.
Exactly! Public pressure can sometimes push for international intervention. We shouldn’t underestimate the power of art.
I think it’s naive to think photographs are going to change anything. The Myanmar government has shown over and over how they can disregard international opinion.
It’s heartbreaking to think that help isn’t reaching those who need it most. This exhibition seems like a powerful way to showcase that disparity.
Absolutely, it shines a light on governmental negligence. It’s sad but necessary to witness.
Are we all going to ignore the fact that the proceeds might not even reach the victims because of govt interference?
They’ve mentioned donations are routed through trusted aid groups, so hopefully that’s a safeguard.
I sure hope so, but with so much corruption, it’s hard to trust anything without transparency.
I visited the exhibition and it was haunting. The images of families pulling together amidst the devastation are both tragic and inspiring.
It’s important for international organizations to press the Myanmar government to allow aid organizations greater access.
This is why cultural projects like these are crucial. Awareness can eventually lead to political change, even if it’s slow.
Or it just creates temporary noise in a world saturated with causes and issues.
Why is it that the most spectacular tragedies always seem to happen in places least equipped to deal with them?
It’s a cruel irony of the world, isn’t it? Those with the least resources are often the hardest hit but the most resilient.
We need real stories from Myanmar citizens published in mainstream media, not just exhibits. It might force global powers to take action.
At least this exhibition showed the bravery of photographers capturing these moments. They risked their own lives for this.
Governments like Myanmar’s junta are rarely moved by public opinion. Economic or military pressure might be the only things that work.
True, but such actions often harm everyday people more than anything.
I donated directly, hoping my small contribution makes a difference. Every little bit counts, right?
The exhibition’s dark tone is necessary. Sheltering people from the harsh realities keeps them ignorant.