Backpacker Fiction: Burma's Continuing Tragedy

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Burma's Continuing Tragedy

"Now everything so strange," the monk said as I followed him through the crowd of money changers, book sellers and food stalls. "Now in Yangon nothing is easy."

I had met D. two years earlier at the Sule Paya and had told him by email I was to return to Burma. Ten minutes earlier, he met me with a huge but reserved grin and shook my hand strongly. Both the September demonstrations and Cyclone Nargis had rocked the country and I could tell by the mischievous grin stroking his face that he had stories to tell.

I suggested we go to Shwedagon Pagoda - Burma's iconic golden stupa - a peaceful and somewhat nostalgic place to talk.

"No, not there." he said. "We can't talk there." Nor could he explain why, either at Sule, on the street or at the coffee shop we drank a small sugary cup of tea at. I'd heard about the spies that disguised themselves as street-sweepers, cigarette vendors or even monks themselves. It wasn't until we were back at his monastery in the privacy of the abbot's upper room where we could talk freely.

"Since September, monks are no longer allowed to speak with foreigners at Shwedagon. The army doesn't allow it. If they see a monk speaking to a tourist, they will interrupt and stop the conversation. Big trouble for the monk."

I was shocked. Two years earlier, monks flocked to Shwedagon in hopes of meeting foreigners with whom to practice their English. That was how I'd met D. at Sule. The monks acted as impromptu tour guides on both Buddhist and Burmese culture. That this was no longer allowed spoke to the increasing isolation with which the government was punishing the monks. Further bans on communication in an already paranoid culture could only mean setbacks on the road to democracy.
"What were you protesting?" I asked.
His lively face grew serious.
"Have you heard of Pakkoku? The army hung three monks by their necks from a busstop. First, we demanded an apology for their deaths."

I had heard previously of the other three demands - to reduce inflation of gas and food prices; to release all political prisoners including Aung San Suu Kyi; and national reconciliation. The story of the executed monks in Pakkoku had come as a hideous surprise. But it wasn't to be the last.

A classmate of D.'s confided in me more stories of atrocity. Those demonstrators who had been caught by the police had been rounded up, bound by the hands and feet and lined up in rows on the pavement. Army vehicles then drove over them as a means of quick, inexpensive execution.

Up north in the trekking district of Kalaw and Inle Lake, the people were eager to tell their stories to any tourist willing to listen. Stories of soldiers going door to door selling blankets and mosquito nets stolen from Cyclone Nargis aid. Stories of political prisoners being sent naked to prisons in Putao then being injected daily with amphetamines in order to induce madness. Stories of farmers being kicked off their land in order for the army to construct new buildings. The nightly power outages ("There's plenty of electricity. The government just sells it to China or sends it to Naypyidaw") were just a small reminder that the people of Burma were not just suffering from lack of organization as a nation-state, but were being deliberately and cruelly thwarted from making any kind of progress.

During one such power outage in Kalaw, two drunken men sidled up to us, mourning the fact that their band could no longer play their set.

"Do you like Burma?" one asked.

Usually when asked this question by a citizen, travellers politely gush about the beauty of the culture. That night I felt spectacularly uncomfortable doing so with Burma. Power outages were an adventure for me, not a daily inconvenience. The bar looked quaint, lit by tiny candles. Unpaved roads meant fewer tourists and better chances to interact with unjaded locals. But I had a plane ticket back to Bangkok. The drunken men, the monks, the families of the executed protesters didn't.

"The reason it's so difficult to get a passport," D. told me, showing off his new, unused one, "Is because the army knows everyone would leave!"

He told me of his plan to go to Bangkok, either by airplane - should he even find the funds - or by walking through the jungle and crossing illegally. "Either way, by April, I will leave this country."