It happened by chance. He traveled around Asia for several months and the physical proximity to the Burmese conflict for the sake sensitized me more than usual. Addition, and for the first time in a long time, the news from around the world echoed a manifestation of Buddhist monks in protest to attacks on human rights were occurring in that country. The world learned that Myanmar was. And I with him.
The world learned that Myanmar was. And I with him.
I started to tell me about what was happening there. I learned about the British colonization of the country, on its promise of an independent state for ethnic minorities who inhabited, on its breach of the agreement and withdrawal, leaving the country mired in a bloody war and nothing fair lasted longer too. The Burmese-led by various military regimes- claimed that all that was left inside theirs borders; Karen said that the small territory within them should be your state. The conflict had been perpetuated for decades. And with it the slaughter, the burning of villages, violations, torture, killings, the escapes to the forest, where, incredible as it seems, whole families lived in hiding for years- and numerous contingent who came to Thailand as refugees.
It was difficult to access the field once I made the decision. I was lucky to contact a ZOA refugee-collaborating with one of the NGOs operating in the area- and after a couple of meetings in Mae Sot, Thai village near the border with Myanmar-, we outline what would be my job and where I was to play: I sent as an English teacher at Mae Ra Moe, one of ten refugee camps on Thai soil. The Englishman has never been my forte, but since the organization assuring reassured me that the level of the students was very basic. I just realized at that time that English would be the least of. The important thing, thought, was to see that someone cared about them, they were confident that the world had not forgotten. That, though the record on any map, someone managed to find.
Sent me as an English teacher at Mae Ra Moe, one of ten refugee camps on Thai soil
I arrived on a Tuesday in December, excited, nervous and prejudiced. He trayecto separating Mae Sot to Mae Ra Moe predicted a destination inhospitable and inaccessible. The jeep moved in fits and starts on a road impossible, copilot awoke bumps every time he was about to take a nap and mud slid dangerously wheels while the thick vegetation on the other side of the window inviting me to dream. In mis comes, the desire; in my head, the doubt; in my stomach, Vacuum knotted nerves. In I MP3, as always, Sabina. The ride lasted about four hours. In rainy season can last twice, I reported. They are frankly isolated, reflected.
I will never forget the moment when the jeep stopped at a rudimentary barrier gate, gave me a guard and documentation, following a few simple steps, the vehicle went into the that would be my temporary home. Astonishment. Bewilderment. Shock. I must admit I expected to find something else, television can be very harmful in these cases. But my preconceptions huge castle collapsed as I crossed the imaginary line between what I saw on the news and what I was seeing in real time. I would never have imagined that the place I was going to help out would have that aesthetic and that magic. Not to be so clean, so full of life, smiles as leftover, as dawn poured out songs.
I must admit I expected to find something else, television can be very harmful in these cases
And the field was a beautiful place. Outside and inside. Aesthetically perfect in its mountains green, in its backbone river scene, in their traditional bamboo houses, tropical sun in the landscape pulling impossible colors. He even shops, I never would have guessed- and a couple of restaurants that refugees with money and contacts in Thailand had set. Spiritually was even better. Their desperate situation, intimidate rather than hope, the spurred, the rising cubed, tossed it in the form of broad smiles, of dreams and desire. Talking to them was to take a lesson in humility, was to understand that dreams do not die for impossible, but forgotten. And yours were not: remained latent, living, overwhelmed, present in each and every one of your words. They believed in peace, despite being at war-, in freedom, despite being tied-. Small wanted to be teachers, journalists, political, medical. Higher, eager to build a future away from the chains that clung into imaginary borders. Some would get it (resettlement programs existed in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, U.S. on Norway); regrettably, not all.
It was easy to live with them. I moved into the home of a refugee family. He slept on the floor of the room on a couple of blankets, evening was read by the light of candles for lack of electricity-only generators possessed peak- and I showered in the yard, in a log cabin I just hid waist, without any intimacy. And, however, I can ensure that I was happy. The culprit had each and every one of them. People like Bonface, an angel who taught me that innocence and maturity can go hand in hand. O Mussy, the woman of the house in which he lived, shortly after his arrival that gave me a set of traditional Karen clothing with the little he had saved. O la hospitalidad, embodied in all those who invited me to dinner at their homes, I prepared a table very pretty with more than five courses in which he ate alone while they sat with me and watched me. At first it was uncomfortable. Only when I learned it was his only way of thanking me, I understood that I could not refuse any bids seem very unfair that I spent on a young white girl his scanty, their care and their desire.
If I gave her a tour of the village I sat down for coffee, to read or write in the little bar that I named my office, I followed and watched me
And what to say about my students. In class, the best: always attentive, without interrupting, with respect to the teacher who was lost for years in our beloved Western world. No me dejaban sola ni a sol ni a sombra. They came home at any time. To chat, to help me with my homework, to distract the night to the sound of a guitar. If I gave her a tour of the village I sat down for coffee, to read or write in the little bar that I named my office, I followed and watched me. And though sometimes the situation turned out a little absorbent, I always had a ready smile. For them I was a breath of fresh air, the novelty, the ideal opportunity to fulfill his boundless curiosity about a world that to them was vetoed. I was his bridge, his peephole, his window.
And of course they had sad stories, many-separated families, parents dead, villages burned, years living in hiding in the forest-, but with the ease of explaining who is speaking from his own life and. They were used to it at all but resigned. Conversely: this is a place where, above all, hope endures. It is a sad and defeated. It is a place of smiles, of dreams and desire. From illusions castrated, of time; but illusions after all.
From illusions castrated, of time; but illusions after all
Then came the day he was to return to make use of the freedom that I did have to go back through that tortuous road on which days ago had agreed to field. He had come as a teacher and dismissed me with the feeling of having learned much more than I had taught. A topical? Perhaps. But my appreciation for all that I learned from them is worth more than my ego narrative. Thanks. Once more.
I was prometiendo volver. And I did. Less than a year later. The second time, in order to mount a journal field, el "Karen Times". But this is another story. And another post.
