My name is Thazin*, and I’m 25 years old. I come from a small village in Hmawbi Township, Myanmar. I’m the second of four daughters in a humble family of six. From a young age, I knew what struggle meant. By 8th grade, I had to leave school often to cut betel nuts just to help make ends meet. After finishing high school, I kept cutting betel nuts, even though the pay was still painfully low. Then one day, everything seemed to change. 

A wealthy lawyer came to our village, looking for workers for a new broom factory. He had heard that I’d passed my 10th-grade exams and offered me a job as an accountant, with a promised salary of 150,000 kyats ($110 AUD) per month—much more than I’d ever earned. The hours were from 7:30am to 4pm.

It felt like hope had finally arrived.  

I thought about my younger sisters’ school fees, my father’s failing health, and my dream of one day opening a small shop. I set that dream aside and took the job. For my family. For our future.

I was 20 years old when I started working a broom factory. At first, I did office work. But soon, the promises began to unravel. 

My job expanded from accounting to backbreaking labour. I was hauling bamboo, handling boiling water, and doing physical work far beyond what I signed up for. Then I still had to complete all the office tasks.

The workload was crushing. The employer began shouting at me in front of others. My pay was reduced to four days a week, even though I worked every single day. And then… it stopped coming altogether. 

For almost a year, I lived like this...I felt like I was disappearing—physically and emotionally.

Eventually, when my sisters passed their exams, I realised I couldn’t keep sacrificing myself. I told my employer I was leaving. I handed over every document in front of the staff. He agreed. I thought I was free. 

A few days later, I received a letter. The employer—who was a lawyer—accused me of accounting discrepancies. He ordered me to come to his office...He locked me in the factory and told the guards not to let me leave. I was trapped. Some days, I was so tired I couldn’t even eat. I had no contact with my family. I was physically and sexually exploited by the employer. It was the worst day of my life.

One night, when the employer was away, I pleaded with a night guard. I lied—I told him my mother was sick and I had to go home. By some miracle, he believed me. And I escaped. 

I went straight to the local authorities. With their help, and with the support of YKYWA, a partner of IJM, I filed a case against the man who had trafficked and enslaved me. I was scared—he was powerful, and his influence stretched far. But I wasn’t alone. 

IJM and and its partner Yangon Kayin Baptist Women Association (YKBWA) stood with me through every step. They gave me legal support, emotional care, and the strength to speak up. Some people tried to silence me. Others followed me, threatened me. But I kept going—because I knew there were other girls in that factory, some just 16 years old. If I didn’t speak, who would? 

“According to our partner at YKBWA, the case was especially difficult because the perpetrator was not just any employer—he was a lawyer with wealth, influence, and strong connections. He even bribed a police officer in an attempt to avoid arrest. But Thazin didn’t back down. Against all odds, justice prevailed,” says Salai Ye Win Tun, Senior Coordinator, Legal Services, IJM Myanmar. With support from IJM and a local partner, Thazin was given legal support, trauma counselling, and security support. She pursued justice. When the perpetrator fled, local taxi drivers helped authorities catch him at a tollgate. He was brought back to face the court but died shortly before the final verdict. The judge sentenced Thazin’s perpetrator to 30 years in prison. The police officer who helped protect the perpetrator was also dismissed from service.  

With the support of IJM and YKBWA, I joined training courses on human trafficking, leadership, and the law. That’s how I became part of the Linn Latt Kyal Local Survivor Network. Today, I serve as its treasurer. I help other survivors file police reports. I speak in villages to raise awareness. And when someone is trafficked, I go with the police to bring them back home. 

I want people to understand that being trafficked and exploited — whether you're a woman or a man — is nothing to be ashamed of. It's the perpetrators who should feel shame, not the survivors.  Where I once worked for others, I now own two businesses—a tailoring shop and a rice shop. I earn over 1.2 million kyats per month, and I reinvest some of that to help other survivors reclaim their lives too.

IJM provided me with economic development training. I learned how to accurately manage finances — from calculating accounts to properly handling financial records. I also realised that when starting a business, it’s important to distinguish between what you want to do and what you need to do.

My next goal? To expand my rice business from 10 million kyats in stock to 30 million—so I can support even more women and children who’ve been trafficked. If I become a successful businesswoman, I plan to use part of my profits to support other women and children who have been trafficked — helping them with legal matters and other essential needs. 

To anyone who’s been trafficked—you are not alone. You deserve freedom. You deserve justice. You deserve to dream again. Stand up. Speak out. You are stronger than you think. 

*Pseudonym and stock images have been used throughout this story to protect the survivor's identity.