In the dim light before dawn, the quake struck with brutal precision, ripping through homes as people slept. In Myanmar’s Lashio, entire streets are now mangled piles of concrete and twisted metal. Survivors claw through rubble with bare hands, shouting the names of loved ones, hoping for a faint reply. Emergency workers, exhausted and dust-covered, mark collapsed buildings where cries have fallen silent.
Across the border in Yunnan and northern Thailand, evacuation centers overflow with the displaced: elderly people wrapped in blankets, children clutching schoolbags they grabbed while fleeing. Phone networks falter; rumors spread faster than official updates. Yet amid the chaos, strangers share water, blankets, and phone batteries, forming fragile islands of solidarity. As aftershocks rattle already-broken towns, one question hangs heavy in the smoky air: how do you rebuild when the ground itself can no longer be trusted?
