Sitting here on the 4th floor of the nap park hostel in bangkok. I recommend it, if anybody ever comes. Its super posh...kind of shocking really. Everything is clean and sparkling and stylish... gardens and espresso and computers and tile and poured concrete and white linens and gardens and smoking spots and sitting areas and candles and dark wood everywhere. Oh and a bunch of fucking hipsters, the only downfall. Wait, is that me?
Reflecting on the last week... I started to reflect on the last 5 weeks but then i had to forcibly stop myself by thinking about trees and stuff so that I wouldn't freak out. I am emotionally solid as a rock right now due to said behavior. Never give in, Natalie, never think about it all, it will kill you, you will die. (HTC evo vs. the iphone 4 video. priceless. "You have killed me, I am dead. Now my goddam cat is homeless.")
October 11th...I got up early. Too early. Too early for staying up late drinking with refugees. Dangit. But there was work to do, so. You learn real quick that you just gotta do what you gotta do. Including drinking, ad infinitum. Also working. Katie and I made friends with our hostel owner in Kuala Lumpur...his name is Patrick Jones, super awesome guy. He was concerned about our attending the refugee protest and gave us a twenty minute lecture. How to get out of a crowd by going sideways, not forwards or backwards, how to keep an eye out for trouble, how rubber bullets can actually pierce the skin, how 999 people can be peaceful and one kid throw a rock or bottle and BAM. Things go nuts. "This is not america," he said. He gave us his cell phone number and said he had friends in the police if we were to get arrested. He would come and get us.
My friend Sang Hre writes a blog for the Chin... and due to his taking off work on Monday to take Katie and I four hours away to interview plantation workers, he had to work the day of the protest. He asked me to do his other job for him. He had planned to interview the leaders of the Kachin tribe and write an article on them and the protest. "Will you do it?"
We were bestowed gorgeous Chin scarves, or Lai Zal, to wear. I took my camera, my little notebook, my best pen. There were police and cars and people and journalists and children and yelling and signs and onlookers and us. People wanted their picture taken with us that we didn't know. I guess having americans present lends legitimacy to your cause... and isn't that sad? Americans... people outside don't know how little we care about them and with what enormity we care about ourselves.
Afterwards we returned to the Chin Refugee Center (CRC) and I helped my friend Sang Bawi (sounds like "song boy") edit some appeal letters for people coming in trying to get their refugee status I.D. cards from the UN. The person sat on a chair in front of me. I sat at a computer and hurriedly typed things like "With the frequency of raids and detentions increasing, my family is in desperate need of your protection. We beg you to please assist us." Etc. The UN wants the letters in English. Cause all refugees speak English. Of course. Eventually the Kachin leaders showed up, five men. They sat in a semi-circle in front of me. I got out my notebook. I asked them basic questions, and they gave me complex answers. I wished Anna Laura or Jonathan were there. I wished Jordan was there. I wished anybody was there but me, honestly. I have never felt more inadequate in my life. Maybe.
My notes from that interview are funny. Not literally. There are scribbles recording how many have been raped, how many have been murdered, how many are hiding, how many are starving. Since last June. They also gave me details of cease-fire agreements, how much money the Chinese have invested in the dam project, how the NGO's are being kept out, how desperate they are for the 40,000 people in the jungle to get aid, to get food. They looked at me and said, "40,000 of our people are going to starve to death of the burmese don't withdraw their troops. Can you tell your government?" They said that they have had an alliance with the United States since world war two. I didn't tell them that we hesitate to upset the chinese, that we only care about larger people groups, that we are interested in oil. I just kept taking notes.
After that I ran down with the CRC boss and co-boss, Henry and Sang Bawi, to grab some lunch. Henry paid, of course he did, he always pays, the refugee for the american, cause that makes sense. We ran back up in time for me to edit some more letters while Katie and Sang Bawi interviewed a man named Dawt Cung. (Dot Choong). Dawt Cung just got out of jail in burma and escaped to KL. He got there last week...he was in jail for 8 years. He is twenty-seven. I tried to ignore them and just type away on my computer...but when he was describing being tortured by water-boarding i couldn't help but listen a little. I tried really hard not to. I stopped listening when he went on to the other forms of torture. I saw Katie getting more and more stoic in her questions and I realized she was being affected. Thats what she does when its happening. I learned that a while ago about her. Oh and btdubs, Dawt Cung was arrested on accident. I left, I went back to the hostel, I got a coke, got out my computer, wrote my article.
I found out later that after the man left, both Katie and Sang Bawi went outside and cried, together.
I came back at 5:45pm, in time to go with Sang Hre and Katie to interview our last family, a woman named Ellie and her two girls, ages 16 and 17. Their whole apartment was a room about 8 X 8, no furniture. Their father died of malaria in Burma. (It is so fucking ridiculous, i might add here, that anyone ever die of malaria. Ever.) Ellie was taken by the burmese soldiers to be a forced laborer many times over the years after her husband died. She had to leave her little girls with relatives. They (the girls) cried telling us about when the soldiers came and took their mom. Ellie said of all the forced labor she had ever done, portering was the hardest. Carrying extremely heavy loads for miles up and down mountains, given no food, having to pee on yourself. Ellie reminds me of Cathy Pool so much, in the face. Same spirit. We asked them what it was like escaping to KL...I guess I didn't realize it was what it was. They put boards in shelf form in the back of a van and make people lie down and squeeze in as tight as possible. They are not given hardly any food or allowed to make any noise. They had to walk for two days through the jungle and then in the van for nine more days. The drivers are paid to deliver, and they are not nice. They hit with sticks if anyone makes any noise. The girls were eleven and thirteen at the time. I asked Ellie if she ever regretted coming here. She began to cry, softly, quietly. She said no. If they had stayed, she knows she would have died. But when she looks at her girls...she is heartbroken. They fear the police, they cannot attend school, they have no hope for the future. I cried too, couldn't help it, I tried.
When we left she said thank you for honoring us with your presence. Pray for us, she said.
By this time it was pretty late, maybe nine-thirty or so. We were hungry, we had kinda forgot about supper. Me and Kate and Sang Hre went to a chinese restaurant down the street. Sang Hre kept acting like he was in a hurry.
Sang Hre is handsome, has dimples, and very stylish jeans. He works as an interpreter for IRC, as well as being on staff at the CRC. He works seven days a week, all day and into the night. He is really smart and really funny. Me and Katie have a crush on him. He reads the times, the washington post, bbc, cnn, and newsweek. He is very stubborn. He is an assistant to both the boss and co-boss at CRC, Henry and Sang Bawi. The three of them are very good friends. I put a pic on fb if you want to see.
Sang Hre was in a hurry because he knew that Henry and Sang Bawi were waiting for us at a karyoke bar. Duh. All three of these guys work like there is no tomorrow to help their people. Henry, as the coordinator, has his cell phone as the hotline number on the back of 12,000 refugee's I.D. cards. He keeps it on 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. They could make a lot more money elsewhere, but they feel called by God to help their people. So they work. And they play. We laughed all week hanging out with them. I have never been more impressed, more inspired, and more ashamed. They are humble and giving and tough as fucking nails. They have to be. I love them so much. God I love them all so very much.
I know, longest blog post ever, right? I just wanted to write it down, that day. I feel better now. Which is the point, right? Traveling really fucks with your brain. I'm so happy to be here.
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