Burma - Eight

A plea for help...

WHAT WAS ORIGINALLY THE WORST OPTION now seemed like the best. I wanted to imagine the little orchid girls in a refugee camp, as the skinny medic in the green longyi first suggested. We took a 20-minute ride to Huay Kaloke camp, which we had visited last year. Huay Kaloke is far from Chogali, and deep down I knew the girls would not be there. Still, it was something to do, someplace to look.

Last year, Huay Kaloke had been muddy and crowded. In the narrow lanes between bamboo huts, toddlers with swollen tummies and stick legs had splashed in filthy puddles. Yet the camp had exuded a sense of neighborhood -- moms gossiping in the bustling medical clinic, students rehearsing for an assembly, grandmas weaving bright cloth, children jumping rope with looped-together rubber bands.

This time, when the Thai guard waved us through the red-and-white barricade, I did not recognize the place.

What stretched before us now was a hollow landscape of ash and dust, scraps of tin, charred stumps, rusted wire, rotted cloth, withered leaves, frayed plastic, broken pottery and shards of glass.

We found Than Hlaing, a medic trained by Dr. Cynthia, who had become a friend on my earlier trip. There were supposed to be other organizations staffing this camp of 7,000 refugees, but on the three days we visited Huay Kaloke, Than Hlaing was the only medic there.

He had been there Jan. 8, when Huay Kaloke was attacked.

At 10:30 p.m., hundreds of soldiers had sneaked down from the looming Burma hills onto Thai soil and into the camp, eyes reddened by whiskey, soot blackening their faces, rifles slung over their shoulders, walkie-talkies in hand.

"OK, fire! Start making fire!" the command crackled over their radios. The guerrillas poured diesel fuel on the leaf roofs and flicked their plastic cigarette lighters. In seconds, flames roared.

Shots burst through air, red streaked across the moonless sky. Children danced and clapped. They had never seen such fire before.

Than Hlaing grabbed his stethoscope and some medicine and ran toward the hospital. Five automatic rifles stopped him.

"Where are you going? Who are you? A medic? Do you have drugs?"

"Yes, yes, medic." Than Hlaing emptied his pockets: blood-pressure pills in blister packs, bandages, stethoscope, a string of Buddhist prayer beads.

"Buddhist? Come with us."

"No problem," Than Hlaing said, eyeing their guns. He made up a lie, so he could escape. "But that house on fire -- my baby is in that house! I must go get my baby. I'll be right back!"

He ran, then circled back. In a dark field, he bandaged burns and treated old men gasping.

The soldiers abandoned the burning camp that night, but Than Hlaing remained.

"I like to help my people," Than Hlaing explained.

His older brother is a Burmese soldier. This isn't unusual. The military exacts payment from each family; if they have no rice or money, they give a son. The army promises food and clothes and school. The son will learn to kill.

How do parents decide? Which son will be a medic? Which son will be a soldier? Healer? Killer? Enemy? Brother?




A plea for help...		WHAT WAS ORIGINALLY THE WORST OPTION now seemed like the best. I wanted to imagine the little orchid girls in a refugee camp, as the skinny medic in the green longyi first suggested. We took a 20-minute ride to Huay Kaloke camp, which we had visited last year. Huay Kaloke is far from Chogali, and deep down I knew the girls would not be there. Still, it was something to do, someplace to look. Last year, Huay Kaloke had been muddy and crowded. In the narrow lanes between bamboo huts, toddlers with swollen tummies and stick legs had splashed in filthy puddles. Yet the camp had exuded a sense of neighborhood -- moms gossiping in the bustling medical clinic, students rehearsing for an assembly, grandmas weaving bright cloth, children jumping rope with looped-together rubber bands. This time, when the Thai guard waved us through the red-and-white barricade, I did not recognize the place. What stretched before us now was a hollow landscape of ash and dust, scraps of tin, charred stumps, rusted wire, rotted cloth, withered leaves, frayed plastic, broken pottery and shards of glass. We found Than Hlaing, a medic trained by Dr. Cynthia, who had become a friend on my earlier trip. There were supposed to be other organizations staffing this camp of 7,000 refugees, but on the three days we visited Huay Kaloke, Than Hlaing was the only medic there. He had been there Jan. 8, when Huay Kaloke was attacked. At 10:30 p.m., hundreds of soldiers had sneaked down from the looming Burma hills onto Thai soil and into the camp, eyes reddened by whiskey, soot blackening their faces, rifles slung over their shoulders, walkie-talkies in hand. "OK, fire! Start making fire!" the command crackled over their radios. The guerrillas poured diesel fuel on the leaf roofs and flicked their plastic cigarette lighters. In seconds, flames roared. Shots burst through air, red streaked across the moonless sky. Children danced and clapped. They had never seen such fire before. Than Hlaing grabbed his stethoscope and some medicine and ran toward the hospital. Five automatic rifles stopped him. "Where are you going? Who are you? A medic? Do you have drugs?" "Yes, yes, medic." Than Hlaing emptied his pockets: blood-pressure pills in blister packs, bandages, stethoscope, a string of Buddhist prayer beads. "Buddhist? Come with us." "No problem," Than Hlaing said, eyeing their guns. He made up a lie, so he could escape. "But that house on fire -- my baby is in that house! I must go get my baby. I'll be right back!" He ran, then circled back. In a dark field, he bandaged burns and treated old men gasping. The soldiers abandoned the burning camp that night, but Than Hlaing remained. "I like to help my people," Than Hlaing explained. His older brother is a Burmese soldier. This isn't unusual. The military exacts payment from each family; if they have no rice or money, they give a son. The army promises food and clothes and school. The son will learn to kill. How do parents decide? Which son will be a medic? Which son will be a soldier? Healer? Killer? Enemy? Brother?