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On our last day in Burma we walked past the guards and into the leafy, walled garden on Rangoon's University Avenue. At that time the gate was still open. Troops had not yet re-erected the barriers. The Military Intelligence officers only glanced at our passports. We sat with others under a bright canopy listening to a doctor speak about maintaining a healthy heart. The authorities had permitted his talk because of its 'educational' value, but rather than its medical tips it was his advice on staying true to one's own heart that the audience heeded. The speaker's ambiguous turns-of-phrase made the Burmese laugh like the bulbuls that hide in the green groves of peepul trees. In spite of the cordon of soldiers, the garden was the one place in all the country where people behaved as if they were not confined. In the front row, smiling with her countrymen, sat Aung San Suu Kyi.

At the time 'the Lady' was not under house arrest. The military did not forbid her from leaving her family home. But when she did go out they arranged for her car to be stoned by thugs. When she tried to travel to Mandalay her carriage was disconnected from the rest of the train. So she remained behind the garden wall, deprived, like most other Burmese, of her freedom. She was a prisoner of conscience, but her courage reached far beyond her containment. It drew the country and world to her - and to her party - through weekly speeches and meetings.

The tragedies and wrongs encountered during our journey had convinced me that there was no hope for democratic reform. The Burmese were too subdued, the generals too well armed. But when the talk finished and Aung San Suu Kyi walked through the crowd to welcome us to her home, I believed that their evil would be defeated.

She wore an elegant purple longyi. Her fine black hair was woven around yellow blossoms. She asked us about our travels. I responded by praising the generosity of individuals. She told us that, as visitors, we would not have seen their fear.

“We have sensed it,” I replied, “and have tried to understand.”

“We've seen a great deal of personal courage,” stressed Katrin. In a light voice, controlled by thoughtful directed speech, she said,

“That is what we must do; maximise courage, minimise fear.”

Behind her an NLD - National League for Democracy - supporter wore a T-shirt which read ‘Fear is a habit; I am not afraid'.

I didn't ask Aung San Suu Kyi any probing questions. I didn't query her about her clarity or her faith. I didn't pry into her six years of imprisonment, into the aching isolation from her sons. The questions had all been asked before. Instead I wanted to give something to her. So I told her what we had seen; that the people needed her, that they felt her love protected them, even if she might not be able to free them, that she was the embodiment of their hope. I tried to tell her that she upheld the only force, apart from fear and greed, strong enough to bind the diverse Burmese into one nation. She knew all this of course, though was too courteous to say, but it was all that I had to offer.

“Concepts such as truth, justice, compassion,” she once wrote, “are often the only bulwarks which stand against ruthless power.” Her kind, determined eyes were set in a slim, delicate face.

“We will get there in the end,” she told us, the good mother convinced that the family would prevail, “but it will take time.”

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