Burma - Three

Through fields
behind her clinic...

THIS SPRING, when I loosed the Velcro straps of my Tevas and stepped into the Mae Sot clinic after 10 months, it seemed nothing had changed. Same concrete stoop covered with flip-flops. Same ceiling fan, still broken. Same growl of trucks sputtering toward the border. Dr. Cynthia looked tired, but still much younger than her 37 years -- not thin, not pudgy, but soft, with large kind eyes, a broad face, hands that shape the air when she talks. She wore her hair the same way, natural curls falling out of her braid in loose corkscrews resembling the beautiful loops in Burmese script.

She exuded a quiet strength and serenity, but I could tell the war was wearing her down. Last year, she had tucked blossoms into her braid every morning. This year, she did not.

So much had happened.

West across the border into Burma, the thatched-hut field clinics -- including Chogali -- had been trashed. Soldiers had ripped apart meticulously penciled patient charts, mashed records into the mud.

Chogali, the village of little girls and orchids, had become a command post for the Burmese army.

It was a matter of retaliation. In January, leaders of the Karen tribe, the largest and most powerful of Burma's ethnic minorities -- and the tribe to which Dr. Cynthia belongs -- publicly vowed they'd never give in to the junta. In February, the Burmese military invaded Chogali and other Karen villages.

All the medics from these jungle clinics, our friends, had escaped over the border into Thailand, just hours ahead of enemy mortars. They brought with them to Mae Sot more than a dozen village children, mostly orphans. When we arrived, the children were in the rice fields, singing Beatles tunes, drawing pictures and learning English in a makeshift school Dr. Cynthia set up under a shade of woven leaves.

The orchid girls, Shu Wah and Oh Mu, were not among them.

I pulled out their snapshot. The medics peered at it, shook their heads, spoke among themselves in Burmese. Whatever they were saying didn't sound promising.

A skinny guy I didn't recognize pointed to the picture. "I know them," he said. "I saw them two weeks ago in Noh Poe." Noh Poe, about a 12-hour walk from Chogali, was a new refugee camp that had been hastily set up on the Thai side of the border in February after thousands of villagers fled attacks by the Burmese army.

"These girls?" I asked. "What were they doing?"

"They were happy, playing," he said. He wouldn't look at me. He tied and re-tied the long green longyi that wrapped around his waist and hung to his ankles.

"And they're fine? Healthy?"

"Yes. Playing. I saw them playing."

I should have felt elated, but did not. Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was the thought of the little orchid girls and cholera in the same refugee camp. Maybe it was apprehension about a trip to Noh Poe.

Noh Poe sprawls on the other end of a rutted jungle road that bumps along the undulating ridges separating Burma from Thailand. I had traveled the route last year, crammed into the back of an open-bed Toyota pickup with diaperless babies, clucking chickens, rubber plants, cast-iron sewing machines and Karen grandmas smoking cheroots. The all-night journey was long and uncomfortable, and the road was risky because of occasional snipers, corrupt border guards and drunk truckers hauling black-market teak.

Photographer Tom Reese was game to go to Noh Poe, though I wondered what I was getting us into. How would we possibly locate two little girls in a refugee camp of 11,000? And what would we do if we found them?

I sought out a friend for advice. I found her in an upstairs corner of the clinic, poring over a Karen history book while everyone else watched a kung-fu movie on television.

Paw Ruth Say had been senior medic in Chogali. She had carried me last year when I sprained my ankle in the jungle. We had stayed up late together, watching candles flicker, listening to the ratchety drone of insects. We had gossiped about men and love and our mothers.

So she could not lie to me, as I suspected the other medics had.

"The girls," she said, studying my snapshot. "The girls are still in the village."




Through fields behind her clinic...		THIS SPRING, when I loosed the Velcro straps of my Tevas and stepped into the Mae Sot clinic after 10 months, it seemed nothing had changed. Same concrete stoop covered with flip-flops. Same ceiling fan, still broken. Same growl of trucks sputtering toward the border. Dr. Cynthia looked tired, but still much younger than her 37 years -- not thin, not pudgy, but soft, with large kind eyes, a broad face, hands that shape the air when she talks. She wore her hair the same way, natural curls falling out of her braid in loose corkscrews resembling the beautiful loops in Burmese script. She exuded a quiet strength and serenity, but I could tell the war was wearing her down. Last year, she had tucked blossoms into her braid every morning. This year, she did not. So much had happened. West across the border into Burma, the thatched-hut field clinics -- including Chogali -- had been trashed. Soldiers had ripped apart meticulously penciled patient charts, mashed records into the mud. Chogali, the village of little girls and orchids, had become a command post for the Burmese army. It was a matter of retaliation. In January, leaders of the Karen tribe, the largest and most powerful of Burma's ethnic minorities -- and the tribe to which Dr. Cynthia belongs -- publicly vowed they'd never give in to the junta. In February, the Burmese military invaded Chogali and other Karen villages. All the medics from these jungle clinics, our friends, had escaped over the border into Thailand, just hours ahead of enemy mortars. They brought with them to Mae Sot more than a dozen village children, mostly orphans. When we arrived, the children were in the rice fields, singing Beatles tunes, drawing pictures and learning English in a makeshift school Dr. Cynthia set up under a shade of woven leaves. The orchid girls, Shu Wah and Oh Mu, were not among them. I pulled out their snapshot. The medics peered at it, shook their heads, spoke among themselves in Burmese. Whatever they were saying didn't sound promising. A skinny guy I didn't recognize pointed to the picture. "I know them," he said. "I saw them two weeks ago in Noh Poe." Noh Poe, about a 12-hour walk from Chogali, was a new refugee camp that had been hastily set up on the Thai side of the border in February after thousands of villagers fled attacks by the Burmese army. "These girls?" I asked. "What were they doing?" "They were happy, playing," he said. He wouldn't look at me. He tied and re-tied the long green longyi that wrapped around his waist and hung to his ankles. "And they're fine? Healthy?" "Yes. Playing. I saw them playing." I should have felt elated, but did not. Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was the thought of the little orchid girls and cholera in the same refugee camp. Maybe it was apprehension about a trip to Noh Poe. Noh Poe sprawls on the other end of a rutted jungle road that bumps along the undulating ridges separating Burma from Thailand. I had traveled the route last year, crammed into the back of an open-bed Toyota pickup with diaperless babies, clucking chickens, rubber plants, cast-iron sewing machines and Karen grandmas smoking cheroots. The all-night journey was long and uncomfortable, and the road was risky because of occasional snipers, corrupt border guards and drunk truckers hauling black-market teak. Photographer Tom Reese was game to go to Noh Poe, though I wondered what I was getting us into. How would we possibly locate two little girls in a refugee camp of 11,000? And what would we do if we found them? I sought out a friend for advice. I found her in an upstairs corner of the clinic, poring over a Karen history book while everyone else watched a kung-fu movie on television. Paw Ruth Say had been senior medic in Chogali. She had carried me last year when I sprained my ankle in the jungle. We had stayed up late together, watching candles flicker, listening to the ratchety drone of insects. We had gossiped about men and love and our mothers. So she could not lie to me, as I suspected the other medics had. "The girls," she said, studying my snapshot. "The girls are still in the village."