Eight Men And A Motorbike
One of our stops during our Burma trip last year was Lashio – the second largest city in the mountainous Shan State. Lashio is mostly a trading post, not a tourist destination. We went to Lashio for a strategic reason: Given its location, Lashio is close enough to the “conflict areas” where militias and military fight so we can meet with victims who got caught in the cross fire. Yet, it is far enough from the actual fights so that it is relatively safe for us to travel.
We borrowed the headquarters of a non-profit organization to meet with people who travel for hours from rural villages to tell us their stories of being victimized by the Burmese military. This two-level cinderblock building is situated among residential houses and small fields in a rural neighborhood. The unpaved roads were so bumpy that the van had to drop us off a block away. The building had electrical wiring, but there was no power. We could not even turn on a fan on this hot, humid day. The roof was corrugated sheet metal. When we were sitting on the upper floor for the interviews, I felt like the top of our heads were being slowly roasted. There was supposed to be water supply to the property, but, without power in the neighborhood, water was not flowing. The bathrooms were just tin boxes with a squatting fixture in the ground. I did not even want to ask where these toilet fixtures connect to . . .
People started trickling in after our arrival. Of the many people sitting there to wait for their turn, a middle-age couple caught my attention. The husband and wife came in, sat down at a corner without saying a word. Most people who came would try to squeeze out a smile so as to be polite. Some are still feeling angry with what happened to them and could not wait to tell their stories. Their emotions were written all over their faces. During the entire interview, however, this couple displayed absolutely no emotions. It was as if it was someone else’s story.
The husband told us in a flat, low voice that they ran away from their village because military raided and destroyed their village. They live in an IDP camp set up by an NGO. The camp offers a roof over their head, but it does not provide food or other support for a living. Fortunately, through the grapevine, the husband found a job as security guard in a factory. That income at least was enough support him and his wife.
About six weeks before, he got a call from a friend asking him to come to the factory to help slaughtering a small pig for a festive occasion. He promptly went there, not knowing it was a trap. It turned out that a group of soldiers raided the factory. At the premise, they found a transistor radio which they believed was a device for secret communications. Everybody at the factory denied ownership of it. Because this man was not at work, it was concluded that the radio must belong to him! According to this man, many businessmen come through and occasionally stay at the factory overnight. Sometimes they leave things behind. They may or may not come again to fetch them. Therefore, factory employees are used to having things from these people laying around and not worry about it. Allegedly, the soldiers also found a gun with no owner. Conveniently, they attributed it to this security guard.
When he arrived, several of his coworkers were already rounded up and beaten. The men were taken to a check point and soldiers tortured these men for eight hours straight. They even confiscated the motorbike of one of the men and took it with them. Finally, the soldiers were hungry and tired, and left the men alone. It was a miracle that every one of them managed to stay alive. These poor men were exhausted and their bodies were hurting everywhere. Yet, in the dark night, they summoned the last bit of their energy to steal the motorcycle back and ran away from the military check point.
This man had a few ribs and his upper arm broken. He tried going to the hospital to seek medical help, but was turned away. As soon as the hospital staff found out the cause of his injuries, they refused to get involved due to their fear of the military. Given the police in Burma is all one big organization under the military, going to the police does not help his case. It may actually end up causing more harm.
It had been six weeks since his injury by the time we met him. He was still wearing a make-shift arm sling. His left arm and hand were very swollen. The swelling was impeding his circulation so badly that the color of the skin turned blue and he could not even wiggle his fingers. Around the broken arm, he was wearing a DIY splint which was a row of short bamboo sticks tied together with nylon strings. The sticks were pressed firmly into his swollen arm. It was hard to say if it was helping or hurting . . .
I could not help noticing some circular scabs on his legs and knees. When asked, he explained that soldiers lit up plastic bottles and dripped melted plastic onto his skin. I know of the old torture method of dripping wax on people's skin. Mind you: The melting point of wax is 99F. It is supposed to be very painful already. The melting point of plastic for making bottle is at least 211F. How painful it must have been . . .
Having listened to their story, I can finally understand the detached look in their eyes. After all that has happened to them, these people do not believe anything good may happen to them anymore. The world does not care about them, and so they stop caring about the world. They have given up hope.
After the interview, I went downstairs with them and asked if I may look at his arm. Through an interpreter, I told him I was not a doctor, but I was a bodyworker. I was hoping, maybe I can help get his swelling down with Reiki and acupressure so that his body can start the healing process? It had been six weeks already. The degree of swelling really was worrying me.
To my delight, despite their traumatic experiences, the couple were willing to trust a stranger. I gingerly worked on his shoulders, left arm and hand so as not to cause too much extra pain. After about thirty minutes, he started being able to feel his fingers. By the time I finished, the swelling had gone down significantly. The skin on his arm was no longer blue. He could even bend his fingers and rotate his hand.
Seeing the progress in her husband’s injury, the wife asked if I could help her with her achy feet and painful back. I chuckled and happily obliged. It did not totally take away her problems, but she was feeling much better already. I even taught her some physical therapy exercises to do at home. After that, we sat on the warm, dusty floor to eat some lunch boxes together.
After lunch, the couple got up to leave. They have an early bus to catch the next day. I wish I could give them a big hug and tell them how much I feel for them, but I did not want to scare them. I gently shook their hands and gave them my best wishes. via the interpreter The husband and wife broke out a smile on their faces as they wished me a safe trip home.
That was the first and only facial expression I saw on their faces. It was beautiful.
We borrowed the headquarters of a non-profit organization to meet with people who travel for hours from rural villages to tell us their stories of being victimized by the Burmese military. This two-level cinderblock building is situated among residential houses and small fields in a rural neighborhood. The unpaved roads were so bumpy that the van had to drop us off a block away. The building had electrical wiring, but there was no power. We could not even turn on a fan on this hot, humid day. The roof was corrugated sheet metal. When we were sitting on the upper floor for the interviews, I felt like the top of our heads were being slowly roasted. There was supposed to be water supply to the property, but, without power in the neighborhood, water was not flowing. The bathrooms were just tin boxes with a squatting fixture in the ground. I did not even want to ask where these toilet fixtures connect to . . .
People started trickling in after our arrival. Of the many people sitting there to wait for their turn, a middle-age couple caught my attention. The husband and wife came in, sat down at a corner without saying a word. Most people who came would try to squeeze out a smile so as to be polite. Some are still feeling angry with what happened to them and could not wait to tell their stories. Their emotions were written all over their faces. During the entire interview, however, this couple displayed absolutely no emotions. It was as if it was someone else’s story.
The husband told us in a flat, low voice that they ran away from their village because military raided and destroyed their village. They live in an IDP camp set up by an NGO. The camp offers a roof over their head, but it does not provide food or other support for a living. Fortunately, through the grapevine, the husband found a job as security guard in a factory. That income at least was enough support him and his wife.
About six weeks before, he got a call from a friend asking him to come to the factory to help slaughtering a small pig for a festive occasion. He promptly went there, not knowing it was a trap. It turned out that a group of soldiers raided the factory. At the premise, they found a transistor radio which they believed was a device for secret communications. Everybody at the factory denied ownership of it. Because this man was not at work, it was concluded that the radio must belong to him! According to this man, many businessmen come through and occasionally stay at the factory overnight. Sometimes they leave things behind. They may or may not come again to fetch them. Therefore, factory employees are used to having things from these people laying around and not worry about it. Allegedly, the soldiers also found a gun with no owner. Conveniently, they attributed it to this security guard.
When he arrived, several of his coworkers were already rounded up and beaten. The men were taken to a check point and soldiers tortured these men for eight hours straight. They even confiscated the motorbike of one of the men and took it with them. Finally, the soldiers were hungry and tired, and left the men alone. It was a miracle that every one of them managed to stay alive. These poor men were exhausted and their bodies were hurting everywhere. Yet, in the dark night, they summoned the last bit of their energy to steal the motorcycle back and ran away from the military check point.
This man had a few ribs and his upper arm broken. He tried going to the hospital to seek medical help, but was turned away. As soon as the hospital staff found out the cause of his injuries, they refused to get involved due to their fear of the military. Given the police in Burma is all one big organization under the military, going to the police does not help his case. It may actually end up causing more harm.
It had been six weeks since his injury by the time we met him. He was still wearing a make-shift arm sling. His left arm and hand were very swollen. The swelling was impeding his circulation so badly that the color of the skin turned blue and he could not even wiggle his fingers. Around the broken arm, he was wearing a DIY splint which was a row of short bamboo sticks tied together with nylon strings. The sticks were pressed firmly into his swollen arm. It was hard to say if it was helping or hurting . . .
I could not help noticing some circular scabs on his legs and knees. When asked, he explained that soldiers lit up plastic bottles and dripped melted plastic onto his skin. I know of the old torture method of dripping wax on people's skin. Mind you: The melting point of wax is 99F. It is supposed to be very painful already. The melting point of plastic for making bottle is at least 211F. How painful it must have been . . .
Having listened to their story, I can finally understand the detached look in their eyes. After all that has happened to them, these people do not believe anything good may happen to them anymore. The world does not care about them, and so they stop caring about the world. They have given up hope.
After the interview, I went downstairs with them and asked if I may look at his arm. Through an interpreter, I told him I was not a doctor, but I was a bodyworker. I was hoping, maybe I can help get his swelling down with Reiki and acupressure so that his body can start the healing process? It had been six weeks already. The degree of swelling really was worrying me.
To my delight, despite their traumatic experiences, the couple were willing to trust a stranger. I gingerly worked on his shoulders, left arm and hand so as not to cause too much extra pain. After about thirty minutes, he started being able to feel his fingers. By the time I finished, the swelling had gone down significantly. The skin on his arm was no longer blue. He could even bend his fingers and rotate his hand.
Seeing the progress in her husband’s injury, the wife asked if I could help her with her achy feet and painful back. I chuckled and happily obliged. It did not totally take away her problems, but she was feeling much better already. I even taught her some physical therapy exercises to do at home. After that, we sat on the warm, dusty floor to eat some lunch boxes together.
After lunch, the couple got up to leave. They have an early bus to catch the next day. I wish I could give them a big hug and tell them how much I feel for them, but I did not want to scare them. I gently shook their hands and gave them my best wishes. via the interpreter The husband and wife broke out a smile on their faces as they wished me a safe trip home.
That was the first and only facial expression I saw on their faces. It was beautiful.
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