Hlaing was only nine, but his eyes held the weight of someone who had seen far more than his years should allow.

He had lived with his parents and little sister on the edge of a landfill in Mae Sot, Thailand, since they fled their village in Myanmar two years ago. Every day, the smell of rot and smoke clung to their skin, the scent of desperation and survival. Their home was a shamble of plastic tarps, rusted sheet metal, broken crates, and discarded signs in languages they could not read. It groaned in the wind like an old man and let the rain in like an open mouth. They would huddle together during monsoon nights, soaked to the bone, as the thunder rolled above and the garbage shifted beneath them.

It was not a house—it was barely a shelter. And it never gave them rest.

The landfill was both enemy and provider. They picked through it daily, collecting scraps they could sell: glass bottles, copper wiring, even soggy cardboard. It gave them enough to eat, sometimes, and just enough hope not to collapse.

But Hlaing had friends.

Other children, like him, who had come from the other side of the border. They spoke the same dialect, shared the same stories of fleeing soldiers and silent nights lit only by fire. They were children who played with deflated soccer balls and kites made of old plastic bags, children who still remembered how to laugh.

One morning, friends from the local community center announced to Hlaing, his family, and 19 other families the friends of the local community center had seen their challenges and wanted to invest in an upgraded new home for 20 families.

Homes that would not only provided needed shelter, but would help prevent the trafficking of the children and parents from those who often make false offers of shelter, food, medical, education, & jobs.

The community came together &  worked for days, together with skilled men, and used the resources to complete 20 needed Burmese style homes.

The structures rose from the filth like a miracle: a traditional Burmese house, lifted off the ground on short stilts, walls woven with bamboo slats, a roof that shed the rain like feathers.

It wasn’t large, but it was enough.

When Hlaing stepped inside for the first time, he gasped. The air was cooler. The floor was dry. For the first time in years, his sister smiled as she spun in slow circles, marveling at the woven light that filtered through the walls.

That night, the wind howled—but the walls held. The rain came—but the roof did not leak. And for the first time since crossing the border, Hlaing and his family slept deeply, their breaths slow and even, the house cradling them in the safety of home.

It was still a hard life. But now, they had a roof that didn't break and a floor that didn't flood. They had shelter not built from waste, but from memory and kindness. From tradition. From community.

And sometimes, when he lay on the bamboo floor listening to the rain, Hlaing would whisper, “Thank you,” to no one in particular, and fall asleep smiling.

The details & names have been changed to protect the identity of all involved.  If you would like to meet to real heroes, encourage these children, and have first hand experience, join us on one of our future trips.

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