Youngest will be far from the last

Let’s talk about Khin Myo Chit.

She’s been on my mind for the past week.

Khin Myo Chit was three months past her sixth birthday, not much younger than my grandson Gabriel and my granddaughter Johanna.

Khin Myo Chit lived with her family in Chanmyathazi Township of Myanmar’s Mandalay region. Yes, I know that’s a mouthful. Many of the names of people and places in Myanmar qualify as a mouthful.

Khin Myo Chit was in her family’s home when soldiers and police kicked in the door a week ago Tuesday. Terrified, she ran to her father and jumped in his lap, telling him she was scared.

Then security forces loyal to the leaders of a military coup that seized power Feb. 1 shot her.

Her father ran to the nearest medical clinic with his daughter dying in his arms. She did not make it.

Later, her family took her body and went into hiding. The regime’s security forces have recently been snatching the bodies of those they have killed, apparently in an effort to conceal the casualty count.

One week ago, Khin Myo Chit was buried in a Muslim cemetery with only close relatives present.

The strangest part of my daily routine for the past several weeks has been editing an update of the death toll. It occupies about an hour each morning, and it is unrelentingly grim.

First, I read through the copy provided by one of my colleagues on The Irrawaddy. I correct the English, rewrite sentences to make them clearer and try to make sure that the final version is in compliance with the news outlet’s style manual.

Lately, I’ve also struggled to find new ways to say the same thing.

After all, how many ways can there be to say, “shot in the head”?

When Myanmar’s military seized power and arrested the democratically elected leaders of the country, they were met with overwhelming civilian opposition. And they responded to that opposition with brutality.

Confronted with demonstrations in the streets, the military called on snipers. Protesters quickly became target practice. Those who attempted to help the wounded or gather up the bodies of the dead became targets as well. And, more recently, the killing has become more random and more wanton. Pedestrians minding their own business have been killed. A teenager steps outside his house to get some water to help his mother with household chores and gets a bullet in the brain.

After I’ve read through the day’s inventory of new corpses, I attach what is known as the metadata, the stuff that makes it possible for search engines to find news on the internet. I struggle to find words to write a new headline and a new teaser. Again, it’s hard to say, “death toll rises” in a new and compelling way.

Then, finally, I give the story a slow read, sometimes out loud, to make sure that I’ve done it justice. That’s when the fate of someone like Khin Myo Chit is inescapable.

Last week was especially tough. The death toll as calculated by The Irrawaddy hit 327 — though it is probably higher because of the countless people who have been seriously wounded — and 22 of those slain were kids.

The task before me was to edit 22 brief profiles of all those under the age of 18 who had lost their lives so far.

Khin Myo Chit was the youngest, but she was far from alone.

And others will follow.