I was always arbitrary in my feelings towards Yangon. I felt at the back of my head that I should love Yangon, and couldn’t help feeling slightly guilty that I didn’t know if I did.
I knew I loved Kyangin, where I was born. I didn’t recall much of Mandalay, where I had spent some of my youth. I didn’t dislike Yangon, but I didn’t feel much for it any other way either. For a place where I spent most of my time before I left Myanmar, and a place so romanticised by tourists and foreigners alike, I didn’t have the emphatic “these-are-my-roots” sentiments.
The Yangon that I came back to didn’t hold the first-time wonders that it did to many foreigners who came in, eager to see the place where time stood still, locked away from the rest of the word.
It also didn’t hold the familiarity and comfort of a homecoming. Continue reading “Yangon”