I remember once when I was about ten years old, sitting on the bus on the way to school when a friend sitting next to me started to tell me of some problem she was having. She talked for ages spilling her story, not letting me get a word in edgewise. So I sat listening quietly, and after she finished, she told me that I was a really good listener because I didn't try to offer her advice. But the truth was, the whole time I was sitting anxiously, thinking that when she finished I would have to say something important to make her feel better, and I had no idea what that thing was. I wonder that nothing seems to have changed in the last 16 years.

I feel incredibly lucky that people here are willing to share their stories with me. One friend here told me about the student protests he took part in in 1996 in Rangoon. The university had been closed without notice and some members of a student union were arrested without apparent cause. The students began to demand that the University be re-opened and the prisoners released. They held a protest at a major intersection near the university, sitting for several days. Several times the police came and confronted them, the students retreating when the police advanced, advancing when the police retreated. The police began to block traffic and confiscate cars as someone had been bringing food and water to the students. Finally, the police broke up the group and began arresting them, my friend was also knocked down and caught as everyone began to flee, and was thrown into the back of a lorry with others. Most of them were finally released, and he returned to his dorms on campus, where the resident assistants told everyone to go home. The government however, had closed the post offices, which was the only way to send or receive money from home, leaving most of them with nothing in their pockets. He and a few others were taken to the airport in an unmarked car and escorted on the plane all the way to Hakka in Chin State. They were given their final exams without preparation in Hakka, but the university remained closed for two more years. Some of the students who'd participated were killed, and many are still missing.

I sat in awe as he spoke, humbled by the courage expressed in simple acts, amazed at what he was telling, and that he was telling me. I want to tell him how brave and incredible I think he is. But another part of me still sat anxiously, afraid of the burden of hearing something so intimate, and terrified of what to say. I become completely overwhelmed and tongue-tied, and have no idea how to respond. I know logically, that there is no advice I could give and that the value for them is in the telling. But I also know that there is something I am supposed to say, some magic word or phrase that perhaps offers encouragement, or at least expresses my respect. But I still have no idea what that thing is, and I continue to struggle with the responsibility of listening.

Perhaps if I could listen as a journalist, or researcher, where I'm allowed, and supposed, to maintain some distance it would be easier. But I am neither here, and I know they are telling me as a friend, as a 'sister'. Some part of me feels guilty for not being able to listen mindfully, for even feeling anxious in a situation where I carry no real burden.

Still, everyday when I see people newly arrived in Malaysia coming into the CRC to register, I want to know what their stories. I want to know what drove them here and what it feels like in the first few weeks, in those moments when they know they have become a refugee.

This Friday there was a guy who came into register here on his own. As we both sat in the front room, he asked what I was doing here, and said, visibly nervous, that he wanted to tell me his story. Not an hour before, he said, he'd been standing outside the UNHCR, unable to get in, and about to either cry or scream, not knowing what to do or where to go. He arrived in Malaysia not two weeks before I did. He had worked at a home for children run by a large international NGO, but the government had shut it down and sent the children to government run centers. In anger and frustration, he confronted a government agent who'd visited the home before. Without going into detail, he basically told him and the government off for not caring about the orphans and the lack of human rights in the country. He had to flee the city the same day, and now he's had to flee the country, leaving behind his mother and siblings, their father dead and the youngest son disabled. He's only 21, and sometimes he seems like just a boy to me, but now he must work to support his family from Malaysia, with no real hope of ever returning home.

I want to tell him how incredible it is that in such a small act of defiance, he was able to stand up to the entire government, but I think he probably wouldn't be too concerned about that. It makes me angry that the junta can be petty enough to go through the effort of arresting one kid who's never even been engaged in activism or political work. The thought of him going to prison or worse scares me. It makes me wonder how many other individual's there are like him, who don't manage to escape and are never heard of in the news.

When he first approached me he asked for my help, saying he had nothing left, and no one here to offer support. I want to tell him how much courage it must have taken to come up to me that day and ask for help, before he even knew my name. Instead I have to tell him that I can only try, that I don't know how much I will be able to help. For me, helping by editing reports and writing proposals has been easy, but how to help a boy who must be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders? I'm not sure that just listening is enough.