subjugation amply; some Burma army officers had even gone to London to study British warfare. Like the great colonialist power before them, Burmese soldiers in the ’60s—the Karen war still raging—started walking into defenseless villages with guns blazing and burning them down, issuing orders to Karen villagers, who were potential insurgents, that they could be shot if they kept more food on their farm than was needed for one person, or traveled at night, or traveled out of their village at all, or ran from Burma army troops that were shooting at them, or didn’t. Unfortunately for Htoo Moo, the Four Cuts campaign was, even decades later, alive and well.
The Burmese military had assumed, correctly, that the village where he was staying, which was in an area under KNU control, was home to some KNU members and sympathizers. A scout had spotted
assailing soldiers, and it was time to go. So this is the drill: You have to flee, carrying everything you can, big heavy loads, as much rice as you can stand on your back in giant baskets, any clothes or anything else you want to own for maybe the rest of your life, your baby. Htoo Moo helped the villagers hide rice, salt, fish paste, and some extra sets of clothing among the surrounding trees before they all took off together in the early evening. Htoo Moo followed the eighty villagers along a path he hadn’t noticed hidden beneath tall grass. Figuring a six-hour walk put them far enough out of harm’s way, they stopped at midnight and Htoo Moo slept, finally, on the forest floor.
The next morning, he woke up to find people quickly gathering the food and family they’d brought. A scout had arrived with news of the SPDC’s offensive; everyone needed to leave. Htoo Moo had slept through breakfast, and there wasn’t time to make more. While people were getting ready, he sat on the ground and counted. Neighboring villages had evidently joined the flight; there were two hundred heads in the makeshift camp. They had with them one KNU soldier. Not wanting to further strain the villagers’ supplies, he stalked an enormous rat he’d spied lumbering around and killed it with one strike of bamboo. When Htoo Moo smiled, pleased with his efficiency, an old man next to him laughed. “Before you woke up,” he said, “I tried to kill that. I think it was already tired.”
The villagers fled from seven in the morning until noon. Some of the shoeless children lost flesh and bled as their feet pounded the ground, and some of those cried silently as they ran. Htoo Moo carried his bag on his back, the dead rat in one hand, his digital camera in the other, occasionally snapping pictures of the exodus. When they stopped, he dug his fingers into the rat’s skin and ripped it off. He tore the meat into pieces and went in on lunch with another man, who provided a pot containing some chilies and salt. Five minutes over a fire later, seared jungle rat was served.
Htoo Moo could finally relax: His belly was full of warm meat, and he lay back on the cool jungle bed beneath the canopy of an abundant
tree. He closed his eyes as sleep started to descend upon him, and then the sound of gunshots.
Gunshots . He clutched his bag and got to his feet as the villagers started hustling. Nobody screamed. The boy with the bullet holes Htoo Moo had photographed had been carried by village men in a hammock this far, but now he jumped up and started running, new blood rushing from the wound in his ass. Htoo Moo took off, ahead of even the village chief, reaching a flat-out run, crashing shoulder-first through tall croppings of bamboo in his path, before realizing that he had no idea where he was or where he should be going. He stopped, turned around a couple of times, and considered ditching his camera. What if the SPDC caught him? What if they had him in captivity and saw that he’d been taking pictures of gun-shot farmers, prisoner-porters with skin disease, cigarette burns, knife wounds, raw and infected
The Burmese military had assumed, correctly, that the village where he was staying, which was in an area under KNU control, was home to some KNU members and sympathizers. A scout had spotted
assailing soldiers, and it was time to go. So this is the drill: You have to flee, carrying everything you can, big heavy loads, as much rice as you can stand on your back in giant baskets, any clothes or anything else you want to own for maybe the rest of your life, your baby. Htoo Moo helped the villagers hide rice, salt, fish paste, and some extra sets of clothing among the surrounding trees before they all took off together in the early evening. Htoo Moo followed the eighty villagers along a path he hadn’t noticed hidden beneath tall grass. Figuring a six-hour walk put them far enough out of harm’s way, they stopped at midnight and Htoo Moo slept, finally, on the forest floor.
The next morning, he woke up to find people quickly gathering the food and family they’d brought. A scout had arrived with news of the SPDC’s offensive; everyone needed to leave. Htoo Moo had slept through breakfast, and there wasn’t time to make more. While people were getting ready, he sat on the ground and counted. Neighboring villages had evidently joined the flight; there were two hundred heads in the makeshift camp. They had with them one KNU soldier. Not wanting to further strain the villagers’ supplies, he stalked an enormous rat he’d spied lumbering around and killed it with one strike of bamboo. When Htoo Moo smiled, pleased with his efficiency, an old man next to him laughed. “Before you woke up,” he said, “I tried to kill that. I think it was already tired.”
The villagers fled from seven in the morning until noon. Some of the shoeless children lost flesh and bled as their feet pounded the ground, and some of those cried silently as they ran. Htoo Moo carried his bag on his back, the dead rat in one hand, his digital camera in the other, occasionally snapping pictures of the exodus. When they stopped, he dug his fingers into the rat’s skin and ripped it off. He tore the meat into pieces and went in on lunch with another man, who provided a pot containing some chilies and salt. Five minutes over a fire later, seared jungle rat was served.
Htoo Moo could finally relax: His belly was full of warm meat, and he lay back on the cool jungle bed beneath the canopy of an abundant
tree. He closed his eyes as sleep started to descend upon him, and then the sound of gunshots.
Gunshots . He clutched his bag and got to his feet as the villagers started hustling. Nobody screamed. The boy with the bullet holes Htoo Moo had photographed had been carried by village men in a hammock this far, but now he jumped up and started running, new blood rushing from the wound in his ass. Htoo Moo took off, ahead of even the village chief, reaching a flat-out run, crashing shoulder-first through tall croppings of bamboo in his path, before realizing that he had no idea where he was or where he should be going. He stopped, turned around a couple of times, and considered ditching his camera. What if the SPDC caught him? What if they had him in captivity and saw that he’d been taking pictures of gun-shot farmers, prisoner-porters with skin disease, cigarette burns, knife wounds, raw and infected
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