Burma - Ten

"This baby will die..."

ON THE BORDER, there are times when it seems like nothing can be done; the war will never end; the orchid girls have disappeared forever. In these dark moments, it is a comfort to know Dr. Cynthia. She somehow rises above the violence and misery and hopelessness around her, carrying on with her work, doing what the rest of us cannot. Day after day, she helps people.

The only physical clue to the power and complexity of her life is her purse. I rarely saw her without the squat, serious-looking leather bag. Once I asked her what was in it, and she gleefully dumped out the contents: snapshots of her two children, a stapler, scrawled notes, checks from foreign donors, grant proposals, keys, patients' HIV lab results, hair elastics, a pink ice-cream spoon, Thai money, a black address book.

During my first visit to Mae Sot, when I had taught aerobics out by the rice fields, Dr. Cynthia would set the purse on a pile of tires before dancing through the half-hour routine in her flip-flops and whirling longyi. After class, while I rewound the cassette, she'd leave me to watch her purse and stroll around the patch of dirt behind the clinic, picking up bits of garbage while the sky lightened to a dull white above the mossy mountains fronting Burma.

It seemed she was thinking about something far away, and I was always struck by the gravity and enormity and sheer number of things she handled the rest of the day:

Was the Burmese military bluffing in threatening the border villages? Should she wait to send a mobile medical team into the region? What if the monsoon arrived before the medics could dig a new septic tank for the latrines? How to convince malnourished women more babies would survive if they waited a few years between births? How to find time for her own husband and two young children?

Her short walk without the purse lasted less than 10 minutes. It seemed to be the only time she had to herself the whole day. Then she'd shoulder her purse and walk back toward the clinic, where patients squatted on the worn concrete, waiting.

So many people depend on Dr. Cynthia. What if anything should happen to her?

There was an anonymous letter found in the clinic's toilet room that had demanded 900,000 baht, threatened to harm "the doctor's" family. Dr. Cynthia had tried to laugh it off: "Which doctor?" A powerful Thai monk had quietly warned Dr. Cynthia to be careful of kidnapping. Punk monks had skidded their truck into the dirt yard, barged into the clinic, interrogated medics, abruptly left. Were they spies? Were those guns tucked under their orange robes?

A grenade had exploded in Mae Sot while we were there. There were rumors that because of the grenade, local Thai officials would force the Burmese refugees back across the border.

Dr. Cynthia has no patience with rumors or suspicion or fear. They are the regime's most powerful weapons. They turn people against each other, erode the community, destroy the heart.




"This baby will die..."		ON THE BORDER, there are times when it seems like nothing can be done; the war will never end; the orchid girls have disappeared forever. In these dark moments, it is a comfort to know Dr. Cynthia. She somehow rises above the violence and misery and hopelessness around her, carrying on with her work, doing what the rest of us cannot. Day after day, she helps people. The only physical clue to the power and complexity of her life is her purse. I rarely saw her without the squat, serious-looking leather bag. Once I asked her what was in it, and she gleefully dumped out the contents: snapshots of her two children, a stapler, scrawled notes, checks from foreign donors, grant proposals, keys, patients' HIV lab results, hair elastics, a pink ice-cream spoon, Thai money, a black address book. During my first visit to Mae Sot, when I had taught aerobics out by the rice fields, Dr. Cynthia would set the purse on a pile of tires before dancing through the half-hour routine in her flip-flops and whirling longyi. After class, while I rewound the cassette, she'd leave me to watch her purse and stroll around the patch of dirt behind the clinic, picking up bits of garbage while the sky lightened to a dull white above the mossy mountains fronting Burma. It seemed she was thinking about something far away, and I was always struck by the gravity and enormity and sheer number of things she handled the rest of the day: Was the Burmese military bluffing in threatening the border villages? Should she wait to send a mobile medical team into the region? What if the monsoon arrived before the medics could dig a new septic tank for the latrines? How to convince malnourished women more babies would survive if they waited a few years between births? How to find time for her own husband and two young children? Her short walk without the purse lasted less than 10 minutes. It seemed to be the only time she had to herself the whole day. Then she'd shoulder her purse and walk back toward the clinic, where patients squatted on the worn concrete, waiting. So many people depend on Dr. Cynthia. What if anything should happen to her? There was an anonymous letter found in the clinic's toilet room that had demanded 900,000 baht, threatened to harm "the doctor's" family. Dr. Cynthia had tried to laugh it off: "Which doctor?" A powerful Thai monk had quietly warned Dr. Cynthia to be careful of kidnapping. Punk monks had skidded their truck into the dirt yard, barged into the clinic, interrogated medics, abruptly left. Were they spies? Were those guns tucked under their orange robes? A grenade had exploded in Mae Sot while we were there. There were rumors that because of the grenade, local Thai officials would force the Burmese refugees back across the border. Dr. Cynthia has no patience with rumors or suspicion or fear. They are the regime's most powerful weapons. They turn people against each other, erode the community, destroy the heart.