shoulders that bore the permanent scars of carrying, over mountains, for days or weeks at a time? He’d keep the camera for the moment, he decided. But sometimes fleeing groups ran head-on into other military divisions, and the villagers in the back had the best chance of being ambushed or taking stray gunfire from the pursuing ones. Though he felt like a coward, he fell back into the middle of the throng. Indeed, by the time they stopped at nightfall, news had spread through the crowd that one man in the rear had been shot dead.
Htoo Moo lay down but couldn’t sleep. He listened to the men next to him talking. Of the two hundred people, they four had guns. They counted their ammunition and determined that they had four or five rounds apiece. One admitted that he had only three bullets left. “No problem,” another told him. “You will just aim very well.”
After three days of squatting and swatting bugs in the jungle, Htoo Moo told the chief that he wanted to leave. Sometimes, villagers hide out for weeks because they don’t know if it’s safe to go back yet. Sometimes, it never is. Sometimes, those who’ve had to leave behind sick or elderly or shot who couldn’t run have to sneak back to bury their bodies quickly, looking over their shoulders—assuming
the bodies haven’t already been disposed of, burned along with the rest of the village. Htoo Moo didn’t know how long this displacement was going to last, but he needed to get back to work. A hunter was making his way back toward the border, and Htoo Moo could follow him away from the escaping villagers.
“I will take you myself,” the chief said. “I am ready.” He was in no hurry now. He’d heard news over the radio that the soldiers had stopped at the village and weren’t pursuing them. He didn’t have to run, and he didn’t have anywhere to go: The SPDC had killed the pigs and the chickens, then burned the village to the ground.
In the face of the oncoming attack, the KNU had set up scores of new land mines, and the old way in was no longer a safe way out. Htoo Moo and the chief trudged through the jungle for three days back to KNU headquarters, where they shook hands and parted. Soon after Htoo Moo and yet another guide started off from base, the parasites that had entered his body through mosquito spit and been multiplying in his liver burst through the cells that hosted them and flooded Htoo Moo’s bloodstream. He trekked, though more slowly, through his fever, stopping when the retching brought him to his knees. “Don’t rest there!” his guide screamed when he moved toward a smooth patch of soil just to the side of the path. He’d nearly knelt on a land mine. It took another two days to reach the riverbank, where he bought antimalarial tablets with his last few baht and boarded the boat toward what had, by default, become home.
“I WILL take you to Office Two for school today,” Htan Dah said Monday morning. We were both, as usual, up at dawn. I’d admitted to him that Htoo Moo’s driving terrified me, and I was pretty excited to hear that. I was also excited about the stack of neatly sorted and stapled papers I was carrying out of the computer room, a twelve-page workbook of English exercises for my beginner students I’d labored over all weekend, having got a better sense of their skill level the week before.
“Look what I did!” I said, holding the pages out proudly. “All this!”
“Wow,” he said, fingering them unenthusiastically. “That is . . . not so much.”
I swung the papers at him, hitting him in the arm. “This was really hard. This took a lot of work.”
He just laughed at me. “This morning, I have interview. But I will be back in time for breakfast before we go.”
The previous night, when I’d sat down next to Htan Dah in the living room as he watched Thai soaps—because, he insisted, they helped him learn the language—he’d told me that he’d been selected to interview for a
Htoo Moo lay down but couldn’t sleep. He listened to the men next to him talking. Of the two hundred people, they four had guns. They counted their ammunition and determined that they had four or five rounds apiece. One admitted that he had only three bullets left. “No problem,” another told him. “You will just aim very well.”
After three days of squatting and swatting bugs in the jungle, Htoo Moo told the chief that he wanted to leave. Sometimes, villagers hide out for weeks because they don’t know if it’s safe to go back yet. Sometimes, it never is. Sometimes, those who’ve had to leave behind sick or elderly or shot who couldn’t run have to sneak back to bury their bodies quickly, looking over their shoulders—assuming
the bodies haven’t already been disposed of, burned along with the rest of the village. Htoo Moo didn’t know how long this displacement was going to last, but he needed to get back to work. A hunter was making his way back toward the border, and Htoo Moo could follow him away from the escaping villagers.
“I will take you myself,” the chief said. “I am ready.” He was in no hurry now. He’d heard news over the radio that the soldiers had stopped at the village and weren’t pursuing them. He didn’t have to run, and he didn’t have anywhere to go: The SPDC had killed the pigs and the chickens, then burned the village to the ground.
In the face of the oncoming attack, the KNU had set up scores of new land mines, and the old way in was no longer a safe way out. Htoo Moo and the chief trudged through the jungle for three days back to KNU headquarters, where they shook hands and parted. Soon after Htoo Moo and yet another guide started off from base, the parasites that had entered his body through mosquito spit and been multiplying in his liver burst through the cells that hosted them and flooded Htoo Moo’s bloodstream. He trekked, though more slowly, through his fever, stopping when the retching brought him to his knees. “Don’t rest there!” his guide screamed when he moved toward a smooth patch of soil just to the side of the path. He’d nearly knelt on a land mine. It took another two days to reach the riverbank, where he bought antimalarial tablets with his last few baht and boarded the boat toward what had, by default, become home.
“I WILL take you to Office Two for school today,” Htan Dah said Monday morning. We were both, as usual, up at dawn. I’d admitted to him that Htoo Moo’s driving terrified me, and I was pretty excited to hear that. I was also excited about the stack of neatly sorted and stapled papers I was carrying out of the computer room, a twelve-page workbook of English exercises for my beginner students I’d labored over all weekend, having got a better sense of their skill level the week before.
“Look what I did!” I said, holding the pages out proudly. “All this!”
“Wow,” he said, fingering them unenthusiastically. “That is . . . not so much.”
I swung the papers at him, hitting him in the arm. “This was really hard. This took a lot of work.”
He just laughed at me. “This morning, I have interview. But I will be back in time for breakfast before we go.”
The previous night, when I’d sat down next to Htan Dah in the living room as he watched Thai soaps—because, he insisted, they helped him learn the language—he’d told me that he’d been selected to interview for a
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