mouth, the guileless forehead. Before they dropped off, the two boys told me their ages: fifteen and sixteen. Each told his parents that he was staying over at the other’s house. By now their lies have probably been discovered and their parents are sick with worry. But the woman told us we couldn’t think about leaving the apartment. She said it will be safe only in the morning, after residents in the building start going to work and school.
Soon enough, dawn light appears and grows in the room, revealing what we couldn’t see last night: the color of the kitchen table, the family photographs on the wall above the little sofa, the English and Burmese titles on the bookshelf. Though dazed with sleeplessness and stiff from lying on the concrete floor, I realize that I must have slept more than I thought, because I missed the woman’s husband coming in. Once we’re all awake, he brings us a tray of tea as though he regularly entertains young strangers at 6:45 A.M . He couldn’t get home last night because of barricades and rumors of a curfew; he stayed at the home of a colleague.
He has a long, low-toned discussion with the young men. The sadness I felt in the night emanates from all of us. The older man nods a lot and kneads his big-knuckled hands. We’ve finished our tea. The young man and I thank our generous hosts. There is so much emotion in the room that the boys tear up when they say their thank-you.
They will leave together. The young man gives me his address, carefully written out on a small scrap of paper. “I will meet you again someday,” he confidently predicts, though I know better. The three of them give me surprisingly lighthearted smiles and walk out the door.
Twenty minutes later, I follow them down the stairs and step into the morning sun. It is a normal day. People cross the intersection. Smoke-belching buses hurtle over the spot where the protesters kneeled, reciting Buddhist sutras. Walking away from Hledan Junction, I pass a womanwhose plastic baskets are packed with green leafy stuff and mangoes. She has just been to market. As though nothing happened here last night. As though no one was taken away.
I step off the curb too lightly. My body floats across the road, as insubstantial as a ghost.
CHAPTER 11
“THE SKULL IS MADE OF SUCH THIN BONE”
Anita is missing . I called her hotel repeatedly through the morning and afternoon. Now it’s past five, but she’s still not there. Since the protests started a week ago, we’ve telephoned or met each other every day, to compare notes and to check in and make sure all is well. My gut tells me that all is not well, but I resist the obvious conclusion. I don’t want to believe that she has been picked up by military intelligence agents. The generals are not very good at public relations, but I don’t believe they’re unwise enough to hurt a white woman journalist.
On the other hand, why wouldn’t they? Like me, Anita is here on a tourist visa, but she is writing articles for major European newspapers and collecting material for a book about Burma’s dictatorial politics. It’s foolish to assume that our white skin can protect us, yet we assume precisely that. At least I do. There is a measure of arrogance (how much?) mixed into this assumption. Even if I don’t act arrogantly, I benefit from the racism that is part of this world, the discrimination that adds a layer of value to this white-skinned body.
Yet today I feel like a ghost, invisible, erased because the acts of braveprotest I witnessed have also been erased. Ghosts are white, aren’t they? Does it matter that I saw what I saw? I have no newspaper to write for, no report to make to anyone who cares. The students who did not run were hauled away in trucks. What is happening to them?
I go downstairs and call Anita’s hotel again. Then I ring another journalist, who is also worried about her, but he has news only about last night. The riot police roughed up dozens of onlookers
Soon enough, dawn light appears and grows in the room, revealing what we couldn’t see last night: the color of the kitchen table, the family photographs on the wall above the little sofa, the English and Burmese titles on the bookshelf. Though dazed with sleeplessness and stiff from lying on the concrete floor, I realize that I must have slept more than I thought, because I missed the woman’s husband coming in. Once we’re all awake, he brings us a tray of tea as though he regularly entertains young strangers at 6:45 A.M . He couldn’t get home last night because of barricades and rumors of a curfew; he stayed at the home of a colleague.
He has a long, low-toned discussion with the young men. The sadness I felt in the night emanates from all of us. The older man nods a lot and kneads his big-knuckled hands. We’ve finished our tea. The young man and I thank our generous hosts. There is so much emotion in the room that the boys tear up when they say their thank-you.
They will leave together. The young man gives me his address, carefully written out on a small scrap of paper. “I will meet you again someday,” he confidently predicts, though I know better. The three of them give me surprisingly lighthearted smiles and walk out the door.
Twenty minutes later, I follow them down the stairs and step into the morning sun. It is a normal day. People cross the intersection. Smoke-belching buses hurtle over the spot where the protesters kneeled, reciting Buddhist sutras. Walking away from Hledan Junction, I pass a womanwhose plastic baskets are packed with green leafy stuff and mangoes. She has just been to market. As though nothing happened here last night. As though no one was taken away.
I step off the curb too lightly. My body floats across the road, as insubstantial as a ghost.
CHAPTER 11
“THE SKULL IS MADE OF SUCH THIN BONE”
Anita is missing . I called her hotel repeatedly through the morning and afternoon. Now it’s past five, but she’s still not there. Since the protests started a week ago, we’ve telephoned or met each other every day, to compare notes and to check in and make sure all is well. My gut tells me that all is not well, but I resist the obvious conclusion. I don’t want to believe that she has been picked up by military intelligence agents. The generals are not very good at public relations, but I don’t believe they’re unwise enough to hurt a white woman journalist.
On the other hand, why wouldn’t they? Like me, Anita is here on a tourist visa, but she is writing articles for major European newspapers and collecting material for a book about Burma’s dictatorial politics. It’s foolish to assume that our white skin can protect us, yet we assume precisely that. At least I do. There is a measure of arrogance (how much?) mixed into this assumption. Even if I don’t act arrogantly, I benefit from the racism that is part of this world, the discrimination that adds a layer of value to this white-skinned body.
Yet today I feel like a ghost, invisible, erased because the acts of braveprotest I witnessed have also been erased. Ghosts are white, aren’t they? Does it matter that I saw what I saw? I have no newspaper to write for, no report to make to anyone who cares. The students who did not run were hauled away in trucks. What is happening to them?
I go downstairs and call Anita’s hotel again. Then I ring another journalist, who is also worried about her, but he has news only about last night. The riot police roughed up dozens of onlookers
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