would draw attention. Better to slink. As the trucks roll down the streets, more than half of this huge crowd does precisely that, dispersing into small lanes. People who live in the surrounding houses and blocks of flats have already gone back inside, their willingness to support the students having evaporated. The metal grilles that seal many apartment buildings for the night are pulled down with a resounding clank.
Several hundred protesters form into a thick ring, at the center of which stand perhaps eighty young men and women, some holding aloft portraits of Aung San and pictures of the golden fighting peacock, the symbol of student protest. The young women form the nucleus of this group; the young men stand around them in a protective, if futile, gesture. How bravely, foolishly, and profoundly dedicated they are to their cause! They knew the soldiers would come. They know they could be arrested, imprisoned. They know they could be tortured. Yet here they are.
The fire trucks begin their approach.
Anita and I lost each other when I went to watch the family drama with the young girl. I stand by myself at the far edge of the main group of students, in front of a block of flats. Faces behind me peer out from the closed grille. The students at the center of the gathering have finished yelling their political slogans. They light candles and pass the small flamesthrough the circle. They remove their shoes or slippers and kneel down on the pavement, facing one direction. When they begin to intone Buddhist sutras, I realize that they’ve turned toward the Shwedagon Pagoda, Burma’s most revered place of worship. As their voices rise in a mournful, steady chant, the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. Here and in Thailand, in temples and meditation halls, I have listened to hours of similar prayers uttered by monks and by laypeople, repeating together the ancient words that call for loving-kindness, for compassion, for equanimity.
The water shocks me. A wide white arc of it shoots through the air, then another, and another. I feel only cold, heavy gusts, but the water cannons knock over some of the kneeling students; others swing at the air as they try to keep upright. The posters and portraits of General Aung San shoot up and fall back on people’s heads. The drenching is meant to humiliate them before the final assault. More liquid salvoes come before the trucks pull aside to make room for the riot police and the soldiers. When I look around at the crowd, I find it mostly gone: the demonstrators in the outer ring have melted into the dark side streets beyond the lights.
Sitting in a ragged circle, the students murmur quietly. The soldiers make a tremendous racket when they jump out of the trucks that have carried them here. The riot police stand aside while the soldiers push and pull the protesters off the ground and drag their limp bodies to the army trucks. I am so mesmerized by what’s taking place in front of me that I don’t realize how alone I’ve become. The remainder of the crowd has gathered across the intersection. I stand in the glare of the lights. As soldiers lift the last of the girls into the trucks, I walk slowly along the face of the apartment buildings, touching the rough plaster walls with my fingers. The intersection is filled with trucks and troops, yet I hear only the thud of blood rushing in my ears. An epiphany of adrenaline pours through me: I have witnessed how oppressed people fight back and forge a new history with their own bodies. The hunger for justice shrinks the self; at first it makes the word
sacrifice
possible, then necessary. In the moment when peoplehurl their lives at dictatorships, they hardly care if their lives return to them.
I reach the intersection where the last group of demonstrators and observers huddle together. A row of riot police stand across the road. The students of the inner circle are in the trucks now. I glance at the person next to me and am relieved to
Several hundred protesters form into a thick ring, at the center of which stand perhaps eighty young men and women, some holding aloft portraits of Aung San and pictures of the golden fighting peacock, the symbol of student protest. The young women form the nucleus of this group; the young men stand around them in a protective, if futile, gesture. How bravely, foolishly, and profoundly dedicated they are to their cause! They knew the soldiers would come. They know they could be arrested, imprisoned. They know they could be tortured. Yet here they are.
The fire trucks begin their approach.
Anita and I lost each other when I went to watch the family drama with the young girl. I stand by myself at the far edge of the main group of students, in front of a block of flats. Faces behind me peer out from the closed grille. The students at the center of the gathering have finished yelling their political slogans. They light candles and pass the small flamesthrough the circle. They remove their shoes or slippers and kneel down on the pavement, facing one direction. When they begin to intone Buddhist sutras, I realize that they’ve turned toward the Shwedagon Pagoda, Burma’s most revered place of worship. As their voices rise in a mournful, steady chant, the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. Here and in Thailand, in temples and meditation halls, I have listened to hours of similar prayers uttered by monks and by laypeople, repeating together the ancient words that call for loving-kindness, for compassion, for equanimity.
The water shocks me. A wide white arc of it shoots through the air, then another, and another. I feel only cold, heavy gusts, but the water cannons knock over some of the kneeling students; others swing at the air as they try to keep upright. The posters and portraits of General Aung San shoot up and fall back on people’s heads. The drenching is meant to humiliate them before the final assault. More liquid salvoes come before the trucks pull aside to make room for the riot police and the soldiers. When I look around at the crowd, I find it mostly gone: the demonstrators in the outer ring have melted into the dark side streets beyond the lights.
Sitting in a ragged circle, the students murmur quietly. The soldiers make a tremendous racket when they jump out of the trucks that have carried them here. The riot police stand aside while the soldiers push and pull the protesters off the ground and drag their limp bodies to the army trucks. I am so mesmerized by what’s taking place in front of me that I don’t realize how alone I’ve become. The remainder of the crowd has gathered across the intersection. I stand in the glare of the lights. As soldiers lift the last of the girls into the trucks, I walk slowly along the face of the apartment buildings, touching the rough plaster walls with my fingers. The intersection is filled with trucks and troops, yet I hear only the thud of blood rushing in my ears. An epiphany of adrenaline pours through me: I have witnessed how oppressed people fight back and forge a new history with their own bodies. The hunger for justice shrinks the self; at first it makes the word
sacrifice
possible, then necessary. In the moment when peoplehurl their lives at dictatorships, they hardly care if their lives return to them.
I reach the intersection where the last group of demonstrators and observers huddle together. A row of riot police stand across the road. The students of the inner circle are in the trucks now. I glance at the person next to me and am relieved to
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