One week ago
I’m in Bangkok and it feels utterly surreal. Since arriving here on Saturday morning mum and I have been galloping around non-stop, enjoying some quality mother-daughter time unlike we’ve had in years. Yet my head is still reeling. I keep remembering my last week in Mae Sot. How it all climaxed so amazingly in my last night, when an entourage of five escorted me from my hotel doorstep to the foot of the luxury double decker bus fated to whisk me away from a place I’d grown to feel so at home in. As I trudged towards the glowing headlights of my bus, squatting smug on the roadside like some unfriendly messenger from a nastier place, I positively willed it to leave without me. I dawdled nervously on the road side, hoping some hair brained traveller would lay some noble cause at my feet, beg for my seat on the bus, and release me from the awful burden of my goodbyes which felt so feeble in the light of such generous company. The weight of all I’d learned sat heavy on my shoulders, there was so much I felt I hadn’t been able to achieve, so much that I’d be far better positioned to achieve if I’d managed a way to stay in Mae Sot.
So I’ve been rather slack updating my blog, the catalyst for that being the fact that I managed to get quite sick in my third week. A mild bout of food poisoning soon turned into a rather nasty flu, and wanting to get well as soon as possible I took the Friday off school, hoping to rest up over the weekend. By the time Monday rolled around I was bored out of my brain, bed ridden and voiceless! My flu had morphed its way into a ridiculously bad chest infection and for two days straight I couldn’t raise my voice above a very un-sexy man-like husky whisper which made the delightful fellows working at reception giggle every time I passed them and attempted to murmur a greeting. My meals were confined to the cafe next door where an equally humoured Johny sign languaged his way around the menu with me, and excused me from polite conversations with fellow diners oblivious to the agony I was in.
Infuriatingly I never made it to Mae La camp. On the Wednesday I was scheduled to go I was dosed up on anti-biotics (I’m lucky medical students and I appear have a moth-to-the-flame connection-who the moth and who the flame I’m not quite sure- and a med friend staying in DK happily came to my aid with his santa sack of medicines) and couldn’t speak at all. I didn’t want to wander the refugee camp like some tourist at the zoo- all wide-eyed and snappy happy- and thought it best to save that adventure for another time when I’d be in ship shape to converse with the people I’d undoubtedly meet. There are enough foreigners rummaging around this place looking for their own salvation in others peoples suffering. The billion dollar aid industry is just that: an industry. As such there are plenty of NGOs run as businesses, looking to somehow profit on the dire situation here.
[Potential rant curbed by sore shoulders, a heavy heart and a beckoning mother!]
Today
I’m struggling to continue writing. I’m in Singapore now and Mae Sot really is a whole world away. I’ve been avoiding thinking about my experience too deeply, and am not quite ready to digest the extent to which that place has left its mark on me. I hate to sound cynical- as I’m not a cynic- but even my friend Shane (the go-to man of Mae Sot who over regular breakfasts watched me transform from wide-eyed gleeful innocent, to narrow-eyed, tight-lipped sceptic) saw it necessary to remind me that it’s all a matter of perspective, and you simply can’t have the good without the bad.
In trying to step back a little and give myself some room to make sense of the time I had, I’ve managed to step back completely. I’ve spent the past week buried in novels, movies, good eating and friends, relishing the simply luxuries of life. I’ve indulged in rich chocolate cakes, drunk too much beer, and stayed out always a little later than necessary. And every time I’ve tried to write something more about my experience I’ve encountered one heck of a mental road block. The website is hanging like an overripe promise in the wings, all of its progress pending on me to source my second wind and type like a woman possessed. But I’ve always been a believer in pacing oneself. I’m eager to get it up and running, but don’t want to do a botchy half job. And if I’m honest, that’s all I’m going to be able to piece together in a rush here at mum’s place in Singapore over the Chinese New Year break. I’m relishing the time for friends and family, so fleeting as the uni semester draws closer. In my experience, deadlines always function better in hordes.
So I’ll work on getting back to basics. And as I start both a photo album and PowerPoint presentation of sorts, I’m fondly recalling what I went to Mae Sot to discover. The people. I’ve returned with a treasure trove of connections, of smiles and secrets shared, of belly-aching laughter and gut-wrenching heart ache. I’ve already received emails from some of the friends I’ve made, and one from one of the teachers I ‘taught’ conversation English to in the afternoons which really struck a chord with me. And I realise I still haven’t commented on those afternoons! So crammed full of absurd trivia and politics, of folk stories and newspaper articles, my afternoon classes were hardly strenuous and always such a pleasure. I definitely learned far, far more from the teachers who so ridiculously called me ‘Teacher’!
It’s 1am and synchronised bumps in the night are sending me rapidly retreating to bed- watch this space!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
A feast!
I wonder if it’s wise at 21 to sponsor a refugee. It’s hard not to become invested in the stories I’ve heard here, and knowing that I have the power to secure a ‘happy ending’ for one person sits like a heavy, brimming golden weight in my gut. To take a chance on someone you’ve known, I’ve known, for only a short period of time. To believe in honesty, and the goodness of my fellow (hu)man.
I had an incredible dinner tonight with two Burmese chaps, one of whom works for the United Nations. I’ll be vauge, as a lot of the things we discussed were said in confidence, and I’ll also say outright that most of the talking came from the fellow who doesn’t work for the UN. His judgements were perhaps more educated guesses than necessary truth, but everything he said pretty much confirmed what I’d already deduced for myself.
I’ve been learning about the process a Burmese person without identification has to go through in order to receive the highly sought after stamp of approval for transfer to a third country. I’ve been learning about the do’s and the do not’s. I’ve been trying my best to understand why some people receive approval to go to the US, the UK, or Australia, within a matter of months, while others appear to wait for years without knowing why.
I met these fellows downstairs at the hotel lobby; we’d greeted each other often in passing, and have been staying at the DK for roughly the same amount of time. We got to chatting one morning, and when I heard that one of the guys was working at a big refugee camp nearby I got straight to the point and asked if he could get me inside. They often ask me how my day at school has been, and tonight they invited me to join them at the night market for dinner. I’ve been a bit lonely since James and Emma left, and while I’d jumped on a couple of backpackers a few nights earlier, it was nice to spend time with other people hanging out in Mae Sot for the long term.
I was quite unprepared for this meal though! We sat down at a place that I learned was their regular joint, and after screening me for likes and dislikes (prawn-yes, squid-no, frogs-I’d try it!) they proceeded to order me the most delectable of feasts, for one. They sat at the table drinking Chang after Chang, talking politics and sharing stories, while filling only my plate. I had a huge delicately deep fried golden fish to myself, a plate of perfectly spiced ‘morning glory’ greens, a plate of mouth watering chicken fried rice, a superbly comforting bowl of traditional clear chicken stock soup, and a plate of teppenyaki-like prawns, apparently all to myself! They kept filling both my glass and plate, calling me ‘little sister’ all the while as they refused my insistent cries that really- I was full- and they should enjoy some of the food themselves before it went cold.
So tonight I learned a few things about the interview process that determines who gets approval to go abroad. It annoyed me how predictably bureaucratic the UN is, that there are ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ answers, that in order to get transfer abroad you have to prove yourself feeble and desperate, without any sort of political drive, any desire to see your country’s situation change, and without any hope. If they ask you, ‘would you go back, if you could?’ and you say ‘why yes of course, I’d love to go home, if I could’ –wrong answer!. If they ask, ‘were you politically active, did you ever fight to try and free your country from the grasp of the demons that currently hold power?’ (The Burmese commonly refer to the junta as demons, as the reincarnation of bad spirits, and from here that doesn’t seem such an unfair portrait). If you answer yes, you are a terrorist, it’s an instant no.
They joke round these parts that even Aung San Suu Kyi herself would be denied refugee status under the UN’s criteria, and the absolute joke is that she actually would! Be denied that is. There are so many people I’ve met here- admirable, good people with brains- who will be denied refugee status because they tried to change the future of their country. Because once upon a time they fought against oppression and injustice, because they wouldn’t stand by and watch their families, their lives, their friends, their homes, their villages, fall to waste. Even if they gave up fighting years ago, decades ago, their application would be utterly rejected. The irony is that one day (maybe I am an optimist) these people will be acknowledged as the freedom fighters they are. They will be celebrated as heroes, and not written off as terrorists.
It costs US$3 000 for a sim card in Burma, and $US50 000 for a second hand car worth only $US3 000 across the border in Thailand. And people wonder why the 12 lane highway in the 9 billion dollar capital city-Naypyidaw- made by the junta, for the junta and their cronies, never has any fucking cars on it.
I’m multitasking- which is never a good idea for me, and I’m getting really riled up by a friend who is online telling me some horrible things, which maybe I need to hear, maybe I don’t. Refuting my arguments with bigoted, over-arching statements about how we should stop feeding Ethiopians because ‘their culture was stupid enough to move to the fucking desert in the first place’. I don’t even know how Ethiopia came into it; I was talking about refugees and Burma.
I am absolutely stuffed! That was a big night, and I’ve been down with a nasty head cold the past few days that I’m trying to get over as it’s impossible to teach English without a voice. At least, to teach it the way I do, which generally involves lots of shouting =)
So I’m heading to the big refugee camp this Wednesday, apparently I’m going to be granted clearance by the UN (which makes me giggle, I hope they don’t read my blog!) and given a pass which allows me through most of the sectors, and lets me use my camera. I’d best head to bed as I’ll need all the rest I can get to ensure I’m chirpy for the unexpected field trip. I’ll be sure to post an update soon after, and will hopefully manage to snap some nice shots. I really have no idea what to expect!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Myawaddy
I’d like to think I didn’t have any outrageous expectations when I entered Burma for the first time. I’d had several conversations with other travellers and a few local Burmese which ensured that nothing really came as a surprise. Quite a few politically minded people urge travellers not to go into Myawaddy, as the 500 baht entry fee is pretty much pocket money for the junta. Yet on the flip side, others urged people to go and see for themselves exactly what life under an overbearing military dictatorship is like, to hear the stories and meet the people. With that in mind, however, Myawaddy probably isn’t the best place to get an accurate picture of life in Burma. As the main artery connecting Burma to the rest of South East Asia, Myawaddy (I’ve been assured) is abnormally affluent. It benefits very much from its proximity to Thailand, and the highway was actually built by the Thai government, which also supplies Myawaddy with electricity.
Before we were allowed to officially enter Burma, we had to stop at the tourist office in the ostentatious ‘Union of Myanmar’ entryway building. There, a customs officer took our passports from us while he welcomed us to his country, reminding us that we had to return to Thailand before 5pm that day. As soon as we exited customs, we were swooped upon by charismatic tour guides eager to show us around the town. Tactfully shrugged off by James- who used his Burmese to explain that we’d been before and knew where the Pagodas were thank you very much- we quickly veered off the main road and headed into the backstreets.
Two things struck me almost instantly. Firstly, the fact that everyone still wore the traditional sarong- known round these parts as the longyi. Second, that every street held such a cacophony of vehicles- from creaky, rusting bicycles, to cars with exposed engines and wooden bodies, to strange jacked up jeeps and rickety motorised trishaws. With my digi SLR draped round my neck, I felt ridiculously obtuse. Although I tried to take several photographs of the people and the street scenes, I found most everyone incredibly camera shy. People swerved out of my path or thrust magazines, umbrellas or bags in the way of their faces, and I couldn’t help but think that somewhat ominous. I found the street signs eerie, and couldn’t shake the impression that I’d walked into some kind of primitive version of Orwell’s 1984. The ‘People’s Desire’ slogans often feature on the front page of the New Light of Myanmar- the junta backed national newspaper. They can also be seen hanging on signs outside government institutions, such as police stations, fire stations and schools. They read (in Burmese):
PEOPLE’S DESIRE
* Oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views.
* Oppose those trying to jeopardize stability of the State and progress of the nation.
* Oppose foreign nations interfering in internal affairs of the State.
* Crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy.
The extent to which the junta has a choke hold on almost every aspect of daily life became most apparent while we were sitting at quite a well to do coffee shop, enjoying some local tea. Hanging above the front counter was a large television playing a music DVD, and I watched thoroughly amused as a Burmese songstress strutted about the stage ripping off the likes of the Beatles, Kylie Minogue, and J-Lo (They even copied Kylie’s dance from ‘I can’t get you out of my head’!). Foreign media is banned here, and thus when I started singing along in English, the locals around me were delighted to hear that I knew a Burmese song. I tried to explain that as a matter of fact most of the songs were from elsewhere, but decided that knowledge would probably do more harm than good. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat heart sore knowing that not even music was safe from the junta’s iron grip.
Like most places, in Burma it was the young people who were eager to try and overcome language barriers and share stories with us. I was very much interested in seeing the Moei River from the Burmese side, so we headed off road and through the most peculiar mini agricultural project-tiny fields of vegetables and penned goats and pigs- emerging on the northern side of the Friendship Bridge. James and Emma sat down in the shade and- with the help of a Burmese language handbook- struck up conversation with a group of curious teenage girls. Unable to keep up with the exchange, I kept strolling towards the water, and watched from the high pathway as children played on the most peculiar looking beached ship- that may have been some kind of dredger now out of service- and women washed clothes in the river. I tried going down to the water’s edge, once again hoping to find someone somewhat fluent in English, but think I only managed to annoy the women, who were either telling me to leave, or asking me to join them in cleaning. Nonetheless, I didn’t have too much time to worry about it, as I was suddenly hijacked by a gang of delightful street rats; grubby boys with big voices and keen eyes, they’d spotted my camera and wanted me to take photos of them.
The next twenty minutes unfolded like some kind of bizarre flip-book performance, as some of the boys climbed on the boat’s strange, rusted pipes-posing all the while- and others just shifted themselves in front of my lens constantly- not striking a pose or smiling, just apparently eager to be recreated on my mini LCD screen. It’s perhaps the funniest thing about shy children; they dare not smile for the camera, and tend to just stand there somewhat insipid and frightened. Yet, when they see their image recreated on the mini screen, they never fail to burst into the most delightful and whole-hearted of grins, that I wished I had a second camera to photograph them genuinely admiring their own picture.
My trip to Burma certainly convinced me that if anything is to change within the bounds of that totalitarian state, it’s going to be effected from the outside, in. It’s no wonder the junta consider the activists in Mae Sot such a threat, because they dare to speak of politics and democracy, human rights and freedom. I still can’t quite comprehend the disparity between the wealth of the average Burmese citizen, and that of the junta and their henchmen. Myawaddy I’ve been told time and again is affluent, and while the occasional sign of prosperity- like the token internet cafe, or gambling room- was apparent, for the most part I saw poverty, making do. Houses built on top of fetid, stagnant pools of water, holey roofs, and scabby children, the people appeared content, but bored. There seemed to be a lot of sitting around going on in Myawaddy.
I’m sad I didn’t get to speak more with the people of Burma, but it really shouldn’t have come as I surprise and I shouldn’t have expected people to necessarily know English. I’ve certainly realised that if this is a place I am interested in getting under the skin of, it’s important for me to arm myself with a bit more than just token Burmese. On that note, I have had a couple of lessons with a one toothed Karen missionary woman, who tends to stop mid-class in order to pray to God that I learn quickly. An absolute hoot of a woman, yesterday she told me that her prayers were the single force which re-opened the Suvarnabhumi International Airport in Bangkok, following the political protests of November-December 2008. She also told me that the Thai boy shouting loudly in his English class next door was the devil.
It’s comforting to know that here in Mae Sot, there are so many stories of hope, humour and heartache, that I’ll never be able to hear them all. Of late I’ve felt a bit saturated by the magnitude of the life stories people have shared with me. I’ve heard firsthand accounts of murder and sabotage, of torture and human trafficking, and apart from deciding to write one heck of a mystery novel, I don’t quite know what to do with them. I’m still not sure if they are my stories to share.
Meanwhile, I have several classrooms full of eager students to take care of. I’ve started taking individual photos of all the students at the BLSO School and will hopefully be taking class photos tomorrow, provided everyone remembers to wear their proper school uniform. I've also started teaching the Kindergarten kids English; they apparently hassled their regular teacher as they were jealous all the other classes got a lesson with me while they missed out. I can't help but feel like a bit of a rock star at that school, I don't know how I'll cope with becoming bog-ordinary Zarah again. It takes a lot of energy to teach Kindergarten kids, especially considering they've done nothing but the alphabet. I've invented a heck of a lot games and tomorrow, I'm going to teach them 'If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands'. Yee ha!
Before we were allowed to officially enter Burma, we had to stop at the tourist office in the ostentatious ‘Union of Myanmar’ entryway building. There, a customs officer took our passports from us while he welcomed us to his country, reminding us that we had to return to Thailand before 5pm that day. As soon as we exited customs, we were swooped upon by charismatic tour guides eager to show us around the town. Tactfully shrugged off by James- who used his Burmese to explain that we’d been before and knew where the Pagodas were thank you very much- we quickly veered off the main road and headed into the backstreets.
Two things struck me almost instantly. Firstly, the fact that everyone still wore the traditional sarong- known round these parts as the longyi. Second, that every street held such a cacophony of vehicles- from creaky, rusting bicycles, to cars with exposed engines and wooden bodies, to strange jacked up jeeps and rickety motorised trishaws. With my digi SLR draped round my neck, I felt ridiculously obtuse. Although I tried to take several photographs of the people and the street scenes, I found most everyone incredibly camera shy. People swerved out of my path or thrust magazines, umbrellas or bags in the way of their faces, and I couldn’t help but think that somewhat ominous. I found the street signs eerie, and couldn’t shake the impression that I’d walked into some kind of primitive version of Orwell’s 1984. The ‘People’s Desire’ slogans often feature on the front page of the New Light of Myanmar- the junta backed national newspaper. They can also be seen hanging on signs outside government institutions, such as police stations, fire stations and schools. They read (in Burmese):
PEOPLE’S DESIRE
* Oppose those relying on external elements, acting as stooges, holding negative views.
* Oppose those trying to jeopardize stability of the State and progress of the nation.
* Oppose foreign nations interfering in internal affairs of the State.
* Crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy.
The extent to which the junta has a choke hold on almost every aspect of daily life became most apparent while we were sitting at quite a well to do coffee shop, enjoying some local tea. Hanging above the front counter was a large television playing a music DVD, and I watched thoroughly amused as a Burmese songstress strutted about the stage ripping off the likes of the Beatles, Kylie Minogue, and J-Lo (They even copied Kylie’s dance from ‘I can’t get you out of my head’!). Foreign media is banned here, and thus when I started singing along in English, the locals around me were delighted to hear that I knew a Burmese song. I tried to explain that as a matter of fact most of the songs were from elsewhere, but decided that knowledge would probably do more harm than good. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat heart sore knowing that not even music was safe from the junta’s iron grip.
Like most places, in Burma it was the young people who were eager to try and overcome language barriers and share stories with us. I was very much interested in seeing the Moei River from the Burmese side, so we headed off road and through the most peculiar mini agricultural project-tiny fields of vegetables and penned goats and pigs- emerging on the northern side of the Friendship Bridge. James and Emma sat down in the shade and- with the help of a Burmese language handbook- struck up conversation with a group of curious teenage girls. Unable to keep up with the exchange, I kept strolling towards the water, and watched from the high pathway as children played on the most peculiar looking beached ship- that may have been some kind of dredger now out of service- and women washed clothes in the river. I tried going down to the water’s edge, once again hoping to find someone somewhat fluent in English, but think I only managed to annoy the women, who were either telling me to leave, or asking me to join them in cleaning. Nonetheless, I didn’t have too much time to worry about it, as I was suddenly hijacked by a gang of delightful street rats; grubby boys with big voices and keen eyes, they’d spotted my camera and wanted me to take photos of them.
The next twenty minutes unfolded like some kind of bizarre flip-book performance, as some of the boys climbed on the boat’s strange, rusted pipes-posing all the while- and others just shifted themselves in front of my lens constantly- not striking a pose or smiling, just apparently eager to be recreated on my mini LCD screen. It’s perhaps the funniest thing about shy children; they dare not smile for the camera, and tend to just stand there somewhat insipid and frightened. Yet, when they see their image recreated on the mini screen, they never fail to burst into the most delightful and whole-hearted of grins, that I wished I had a second camera to photograph them genuinely admiring their own picture.
My trip to Burma certainly convinced me that if anything is to change within the bounds of that totalitarian state, it’s going to be effected from the outside, in. It’s no wonder the junta consider the activists in Mae Sot such a threat, because they dare to speak of politics and democracy, human rights and freedom. I still can’t quite comprehend the disparity between the wealth of the average Burmese citizen, and that of the junta and their henchmen. Myawaddy I’ve been told time and again is affluent, and while the occasional sign of prosperity- like the token internet cafe, or gambling room- was apparent, for the most part I saw poverty, making do. Houses built on top of fetid, stagnant pools of water, holey roofs, and scabby children, the people appeared content, but bored. There seemed to be a lot of sitting around going on in Myawaddy.
I’m sad I didn’t get to speak more with the people of Burma, but it really shouldn’t have come as I surprise and I shouldn’t have expected people to necessarily know English. I’ve certainly realised that if this is a place I am interested in getting under the skin of, it’s important for me to arm myself with a bit more than just token Burmese. On that note, I have had a couple of lessons with a one toothed Karen missionary woman, who tends to stop mid-class in order to pray to God that I learn quickly. An absolute hoot of a woman, yesterday she told me that her prayers were the single force which re-opened the Suvarnabhumi International Airport in Bangkok, following the political protests of November-December 2008. She also told me that the Thai boy shouting loudly in his English class next door was the devil.
It’s comforting to know that here in Mae Sot, there are so many stories of hope, humour and heartache, that I’ll never be able to hear them all. Of late I’ve felt a bit saturated by the magnitude of the life stories people have shared with me. I’ve heard firsthand accounts of murder and sabotage, of torture and human trafficking, and apart from deciding to write one heck of a mystery novel, I don’t quite know what to do with them. I’m still not sure if they are my stories to share.
Meanwhile, I have several classrooms full of eager students to take care of. I’ve started taking individual photos of all the students at the BLSO School and will hopefully be taking class photos tomorrow, provided everyone remembers to wear their proper school uniform. I've also started teaching the Kindergarten kids English; they apparently hassled their regular teacher as they were jealous all the other classes got a lesson with me while they missed out. I can't help but feel like a bit of a rock star at that school, I don't know how I'll cope with becoming bog-ordinary Zarah again. It takes a lot of energy to teach Kindergarten kids, especially considering they've done nothing but the alphabet. I've invented a heck of a lot games and tomorrow, I'm going to teach them 'If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands'. Yee ha!
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Frustration
I am an optimist by nature, but I am beginning to get frustrated. Frustrated by all the things I don’t understand. I’m frustrated by the thousand acronyms which plague my perception of a conflict older than me. Maybe I came here hunting for a simple answer, but nevertheless any answer at all is hard to find as books on Burma are a rarity here, English ones even more so. Mae Sot is a friendly place, full of wonderful people doing their best to make ends meet. But there really is much, much more to it. There is a richness to this place, but I don’t quite know how to go about tapping into it. Language barriers get in the way and as much as people are eager to share their stories it’s hard to get anything more than a basic sense of the narratives, so complex, so riddled with heartache, determination and hope.
This morning James and Emma picked me up bright and early and we zoomed to the local Burmese part of town we’ve been haunting the past few days. It’s strange how even here, in a place so small and full of volunteers who have come to contribute to the local community, informal segregation is quite common. Westerners rarely dine at local shops, and as such there are plenty of up market restaurants which- expensive by local standards but still ridiculously cheap- keep over-cautious travellers happy and somewhere else. Thus when we scoot over to the predominantly Muslim sector- two white girls and one incredibly tall farang man- we are quite a spectacle! We hunted the streets for mohingga. A traditional Burmese breakfast, mohingga is a deliciously comforting bowl of mildly spiced, coriander drenched, rice noodle fish soup. Absolutely amazing! It tasted like my perfect comfort food, like the exact thing I’ve been craving all my life those rainy days when I’ve been home sick with the flu and there was nothing to watch on TV but Days of our Lives. Heaven.
The little lady whose one road side table we occupied was tickled pink to have us there, and grinned profusely every time we exclaimed “Gaown Deh!” (delicious!). Yet while sitting there I witnessed a peculiar exchange between the woman and a Thai guy who stopped his motorbike next to her stall. He approached with a little booklet, which she appeared to sign before handing him 80 baht- quite a lot of money in this area. The exchange- although terse- was brief, and if I hadn’t been facing that way I would have no doubt missed it. I had no idea what the transaction was about, and don’t know if I’ll ever figure it out. Does she have to pay money to set up her street side stall? Is she in debt? Was he some kind of corrupt street merchant who made people pay for their security, a common occurrence I remember hearing about in India? Either way, maybe I read too much into things but she looked relieved when he went on his way.
Yesterday, riding back from the waterfall I was passed by an unlicensed vehicle zooming down the highway; black with tinted windows. Who was driving it, and where to, what for? I wondered if the police would bother stopping them, or if there was some kind of underhand arrangement going on. Perhaps it was one of the many cars destined to cross the border into Burma in the depths of the night. But I doubt I’ll ever know, and that frustrates me as much as it adds to the mystic of this place, adds to my determination to want to know more. It’s hardly been more than a week, but Mae Sot is under my skin.
I went down to the border again today, and watched the familiar sight of people ferrying to and fro. I still can’t believe Burma is quite literally a stone’s throw away from me, from where I stood this morning. I traced the well worn paths to the water’s edge with my eye, looking forward to the day I’ll be standing on the other side of the Moei, looking back at Thailand. Disappointed my friend Mah wasn’t around, but figuring it unlikely I’d catch him on a Sunday, after a quick stroll I headed back to town. As I rode my bike back up the highway towards Mae Sot, my right turning lane of traffic was stopped by the traffic police. We sat through our green light and watched as five speeding cars approached and passed us, zooming in the opposite direction towards the border and the friendship bridge. Three mini vans with windows so tinted they were practically blacked out, led and followed by two wailing police cars, their lights and hazard lights flashing wildly. Burmese diplomats? Lucrative business men? I could only speculate, and not for long as once they had passed we were finally allowed to continue on our way.
There is so much to be done, and while I am taken aback by the size of the task I have set before me, I’m confident it’s achievable. I don’t think I’ll take no for an answer. I’m pissed off. I’ve heard the stories of other big NGO’s, other journalists or PHD researchers who come here with their goodwill and plenty of questions. Who take information, photographs and valuable time, and leave nothing but footprints and empty promises of support. Who never reply to emails, who never return. I’m determined not to do that, and am already planning my next trip to Mae Sot, when I hope I can stay for longer. More than that, I’ve decided that my gift to the children and to the families of the school will be my few photographs. Realising how excited the children get seeing their faces on camera, I’ve told the school that I’ll do class photos and individual photos this week. Before I leave I’ll print out copies for each of the hundred and fifteen students. Everyone deserves something to remember their youth by, some evidence that they were young once, for an all too brief period of time.
God of the Classroom
I’ve had a week of teaching English at two very different schools, and reckon I’ve nearly got the hang of this thing. I follow no guidelines, stick to no lesson plan, and pretty much just wing it! I figure that so long as I get the students saying, yelling, writing, shouting, pointing and understanding anything English, I’m doing my job. I’ve been finicky about pronunciation, and in trying to teach a delightful bunch of foreigners the subtleties (don’t laugh!) of the English language, I’ve realised just how lazy my own accent has become! My first day involved running over the alphabet, and while the children know it really well they have trouble differentiating between the name of the letter, and the sound it makes. Thus my first classroom quickly erupted into in symphony of spittle as I tried my hardest to get everyone using their lips, teeth and tongues correctly in the problematic letters: ‘F’ ‘S’ ‘V’ ‘B’ and ‘P’.
I had a gleeful time playing God as I tried to get the class to understand some basic English instructions. I got everyone standing up and sitting down at my whim, and threw in a few double ‘stand up’s to ensure they really understood me. Everyone is eager to learn conversation English so that they can talk to the travellers and volunteers who come from abroad. Thus, my afternoon tends to consist of some conversation role play as the children introduce themselves to each other and ask some basic questions (‘Where are you from?’, ‘How old are you?’, ‘What do you do?’ etc.). The final learning English activity I’ve introduced involves recognising the names of different parts of the body, and as I point at my eyes, ears, nose, mouth, elbow and so on, the children have to call out the corresponding names. On the flip side, I’d call out ‘eyebrows’ ‘hair’ ‘knees’ etc. and the children would all have to point to the appropriate place. Good fun and much better than writing in books or on the board!
By far the most mortifying classroom experience I’ve had thus far occurred on Thursday, and was in many ways an extension of my ‘name the body part’ activity. I will be blunt, I am no artist. I appreciate art, I love a good drawing, and I occasionally scribble in the margins of my notebooks during boring uni lectures, but that is the be all and end all of my creative talents. So I asked the class to draw their face- or the face of their friend, brother or mother- in their books. I then wanted them to label all the different features they knew. Receiving eager but blank looks following the issuing of my instructions, and with none of the teachers able to translate English into Burmese, I decided to draw an example on the board...
Let me tell you a little something I’ve learnt about schools and the learning system in Thailand. The teacher- really and truly- is God of the Classroom. What teacher says is Truth. What teacher does is Right. And what teacher draws, is Copied.
So, imagine my horror, when every single member of my 30 something class- and even one of the other teachers!- sat politely in front of me and meticulously redrew my overgrown baby-stick-man. With stark bubble eyes, a triangle nose, munted jelly bean ears and one, measly strand of curly hair crowning his deformed face, he was an abomination! Even worse, they copied it down sincerely and enthusiastically, scrutinising my crass lines as if they together composed the lips of Mona Lisa. I tried in vain to explain that they could draw whatever face they wanted so long as they labelled the features correctly. I was ignored, and they continued to recreate my baby-stick-man to a T. Giving up, I sat down and averted my eyes from both the board and the litter of books on the tables in front of me, willing time to go faster. But, my torment did not end there. One by one as the children finished they approached me at the front of the class, their books held out like humble offerings to the Teaching God that I apparently was. The Marking ritual began, and 30 precise versions of my deformed man- with his bandy legs and two buck teeth- paraded beneath the sacred Red Pen. Tick after tick, I thought the day would never end!
So my mornings at the BLSO School have been simply incredible. I’ve learnt so much from the children and the local teachers I eat lunch with everyday and humbly call my ‘colleagues’. I have the team at Blessings in a Bag (http://blessingsinabag.com/) to thank once more for the amazing reading books they donated to the school. They’ve proven an absolute lifesaver, and the children are really excited when I take them out of the cupboard at the end of every lesson and read them a different story. They simply love the pictures, and I’ve even started up a very popular lunch time reading session, where the children can either listen to me read or practice reading one on one with me. The children here are so eager to impress me, and every day I am amazed by how much they remember from the day before.
I’ve yet to write about my experiences at the Light School. One of the few migrant schools here supported by the Thai government, it’s a much larger boarding school located on the other side of town. I absolutely love the ride to my afternoon classes, and though I tried to record the trip on my video camera the roads here are just too bumpy- and my bike far too stiff- to do the picturesque journey justice. So every afternoon I visit the school after hours to practice conversation English with the Burmese teachers who work there. More like a cultural exchange, we end up talking about politics, education and society, commenting on the similarities and differences between Burma and Australia as I occasionally clarify the definition or correct usage of particular words. The teachers are truly amazing, and while I am yet to learn the intricacies of what brought them all to Mae Sot, it is clear that they are united by a heartfelt eagerness to help their people. It’s truly humbling to have seven people whose combined teaching experience more than doubles my life time, sit in front of me every afternoon and respectfully listen to what I say, and copy what I write. These are the people whom I shared the eclipse experience with, and I will definitely write more on them at a later date. Meanwhile, I hope my pictures tell enough of the story.
I had a gleeful time playing God as I tried to get the class to understand some basic English instructions. I got everyone standing up and sitting down at my whim, and threw in a few double ‘stand up’s to ensure they really understood me. Everyone is eager to learn conversation English so that they can talk to the travellers and volunteers who come from abroad. Thus, my afternoon tends to consist of some conversation role play as the children introduce themselves to each other and ask some basic questions (‘Where are you from?’, ‘How old are you?’, ‘What do you do?’ etc.). The final learning English activity I’ve introduced involves recognising the names of different parts of the body, and as I point at my eyes, ears, nose, mouth, elbow and so on, the children have to call out the corresponding names. On the flip side, I’d call out ‘eyebrows’ ‘hair’ ‘knees’ etc. and the children would all have to point to the appropriate place. Good fun and much better than writing in books or on the board!
By far the most mortifying classroom experience I’ve had thus far occurred on Thursday, and was in many ways an extension of my ‘name the body part’ activity. I will be blunt, I am no artist. I appreciate art, I love a good drawing, and I occasionally scribble in the margins of my notebooks during boring uni lectures, but that is the be all and end all of my creative talents. So I asked the class to draw their face- or the face of their friend, brother or mother- in their books. I then wanted them to label all the different features they knew. Receiving eager but blank looks following the issuing of my instructions, and with none of the teachers able to translate English into Burmese, I decided to draw an example on the board...
Let me tell you a little something I’ve learnt about schools and the learning system in Thailand. The teacher- really and truly- is God of the Classroom. What teacher says is Truth. What teacher does is Right. And what teacher draws, is Copied.
So, imagine my horror, when every single member of my 30 something class- and even one of the other teachers!- sat politely in front of me and meticulously redrew my overgrown baby-stick-man. With stark bubble eyes, a triangle nose, munted jelly bean ears and one, measly strand of curly hair crowning his deformed face, he was an abomination! Even worse, they copied it down sincerely and enthusiastically, scrutinising my crass lines as if they together composed the lips of Mona Lisa. I tried in vain to explain that they could draw whatever face they wanted so long as they labelled the features correctly. I was ignored, and they continued to recreate my baby-stick-man to a T. Giving up, I sat down and averted my eyes from both the board and the litter of books on the tables in front of me, willing time to go faster. But, my torment did not end there. One by one as the children finished they approached me at the front of the class, their books held out like humble offerings to the Teaching God that I apparently was. The Marking ritual began, and 30 precise versions of my deformed man- with his bandy legs and two buck teeth- paraded beneath the sacred Red Pen. Tick after tick, I thought the day would never end!
So my mornings at the BLSO School have been simply incredible. I’ve learnt so much from the children and the local teachers I eat lunch with everyday and humbly call my ‘colleagues’. I have the team at Blessings in a Bag (http://blessingsinabag.com/) to thank once more for the amazing reading books they donated to the school. They’ve proven an absolute lifesaver, and the children are really excited when I take them out of the cupboard at the end of every lesson and read them a different story. They simply love the pictures, and I’ve even started up a very popular lunch time reading session, where the children can either listen to me read or practice reading one on one with me. The children here are so eager to impress me, and every day I am amazed by how much they remember from the day before.
I’ve yet to write about my experiences at the Light School. One of the few migrant schools here supported by the Thai government, it’s a much larger boarding school located on the other side of town. I absolutely love the ride to my afternoon classes, and though I tried to record the trip on my video camera the roads here are just too bumpy- and my bike far too stiff- to do the picturesque journey justice. So every afternoon I visit the school after hours to practice conversation English with the Burmese teachers who work there. More like a cultural exchange, we end up talking about politics, education and society, commenting on the similarities and differences between Burma and Australia as I occasionally clarify the definition or correct usage of particular words. The teachers are truly amazing, and while I am yet to learn the intricacies of what brought them all to Mae Sot, it is clear that they are united by a heartfelt eagerness to help their people. It’s truly humbling to have seven people whose combined teaching experience more than doubles my life time, sit in front of me every afternoon and respectfully listen to what I say, and copy what I write. These are the people whom I shared the eclipse experience with, and I will definitely write more on them at a later date. Meanwhile, I hope my pictures tell enough of the story.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
She Who Must Not Be Named
Let me start with the words of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, who in her famous Freedom from Fear speech, said: "It is not power that corrupts but fear. Fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who are subject to it."
I’ve been learning about the insidious undercurrents of Mae Sot, and how intricately the community here is linked to what goes on inside Burma. Like every place, stay still long enough and you gradually become privy to the folding-back of layers; things that once looked so innocent being to take on an insidious sheen. I’ve learned that 2010 is set to be a big year for the area; with the Burmese elections tentatively set for around October, it’s rumoured that there are going to be crackdowns on the local Burmese community, now roughly 200 000 strong. Some of the leaders of the infamous 1988 student uprising (known as the 8888 Uprising as key events occurred on the 8th of August) are based here and continue to influence their peers. I’ve personally met three of the ‘8888 students’ thus far: Than Doke, the director of BLSO whose story I will write more on later; a teacher who practices his English with me every afternoon; and the gentlemen who runs the Aiya restaurant and gallery where I often eat.
I’ve been told not to openly speak to strangers about being a volunteer here. This town is apparently crawling with SPDC spies (the military junta calls itself the State Peace and Development Council), and under my tourist visa I am technically not allowed to work as a volunteer in Thailand. Yet the insinuations I’ve been privy to are far more sinister than the threat of a slap on the wrist for working in migrant schools when I shouldn’t be. Whispers of impending assassinations may be grossly exaggerated, but considering the passion and eloquence of the ’8888 students’ I’ve had the honour to meet, it doesn’t surprise me that the junta considers them a threat and, moreover, a threat worth keeping an eye on. The saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’, springs to mind.
As far as I can tell, time has only worked to strengthen the resolve of the 8888 students. I think I’ve been in Mae Sot long enough now to recognise that it is perhaps more Burma than Thailand. Equilibrium hangs by a precarious thread here, and the presence of a whole battalion of Thai soldiers beneath the friendship bridge is a none-too-subtle reminder of that. After all, it’s painfully obvious that they are not there to prevent illegal trafficking. To the unaccustomed eye Mae Sot appears like any other semi-urbanised industrial hot spot, but on closer inspection it reveals itself to be something more. Mae sot is plastered in politically charged stickers, posters and t-shirts the likes of which would have people arrested scarcely 7 kilometres away. In Burma it is illegal to distribute materials critical of the government, so the Burmese based here who stock their shelves with the books of rebel fighters, who hang posters crying for the freedom of the several hundred political prisoners, and wear t-shirts calling for democracy would surely be arrested in their home country. This is exemplified by the recent sentencing to twenty years imprisonment of Hla Hla Win, a Burmese journalist who was working for the exiled Democratic Voice of Burma (See: http://cpj.org/2010/01/burmese-journalist-handed-20-year-prison-sentence.php).
The military junta are trying very hard to win international approval, and are doing their best to cloak the upcoming sham election in legitimacy. The election date hasn't even been set, and the junta are already warning people to make the "correct choice" on the impending day See: ‘Burma leader Than Shwe gives election warning’ http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8439160.stm).The trial of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi at the end of last year was a convenient way to keep her under house arrest and thus out of the running of the upcoming elections. Just in case that wouldn’t be enough, the junta have also passed a law forbidding anyone married to a foreigner from partaking in local politics. (Aung San is a widow; she was married to a British man who passed away in 1999 from prostate cancer. She wasn’t able to be at his death bed as the junta refused him a Burmese visa, urging Aung San abroad so they could prevent her from re-entering the country. She refused to leave her country and her people). Her name is potent even here, and her image is probably the most powerful symbol of Burmese solidarity I’ve encountered thus far.
I have so much to learn. I’m painfully aware that I’ve barely scratched the surface of the social, economic and political layers which link the Burmese community here so intrinsically to what goes on in their home country. There is a loyalty, a yearning for a homeland lost to them which binds like blood. The junta are vague, stern faces to me, but I can’t shake the impression that they are- for the most part- very afraid. So afraid of an embarrassing loss which occurred over 20 years ago that they keep the face of it locked away, and punish those who dare speak her name in public. Afraid that the world would be stirred to action if we only knew the truth, they lock away journalists who try so hard to get the truth heard. That is to me, as a ‘Westerner’, the most shameful fallacy of the West, perpetuated by our democratic governments who glove greedy hands in charades of democracy and human rights. That if We knew the Truth, we’d actually give a shit.
I still have so much to write about! I’ve had a week teaching English at both the BLSO school, and to the teachers at the Light School. From starting with no idea how I’d go about it, I’ve gotten into the swing of things and have a new, glowing respect for teachers the world over. It’s bloody hard work! James has FINALLY arrived, and I am dying to pick his brains about how to go forwards with a few things and can’t wait to sink my teeth into the BLSO website, which is in need of some serious work! I haven’t done it before, but I’m keen to try my hand at a bit of web design, anything I can do to get the BLSO cause out there. In case you’re unaware, the organisation- and vicariously the school- are under grave threat of closing down. While I am here to learn and to teach, my real mission begins back in Australia and possibly in Singapore as I’d like to do whatever I can to ensure the future of the school, and the good work that BLSO do for the Burmese community here.
More on that at a later date. First, I need to share my newfound love with you, in the hopes that you will vicariously fall for the grubby, grinning children of Burma!
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