Photos: http://princeton.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2055206&l=da9e3&id=1101094
Kendyl’s Newsweek Story: http://www.newsweek.com/id/71985
We went through several moments of childish elation that morning on the way into
Perhaps the strangest thing about our entry into Burma was our experience in the immigration line. Or, rather, the lack of immigration line. The line was split into foreigners and Burmese citizens, and on our flight of close to 100 people, we were the only non-Burmese citizens. Wow. Telling. I guess Burma isn’t so hot on the tourist track right now.
We caught a taxi into town, for which we paid five (American) dollars—the official Burmese currency is kyat, pronounced “jet,” but no one wants to hold it because of rampant inflation. It seems that whenever the junta wants to buy new cars or jewelry or what have you, it just prints new money, which in turn makes all the cash held by Burmese citizens lose value. This is just one of the many ways that the junta screws it citizens. In any case, dollars are the preferred currency for most transactions in Burma.
Accommodation in Yangon was not as cheap as it seemingly should have been, given that there were no tourists. We paid $18 for a mosquito-filled jail cell at the White House Guesthouse, which was supposedly the nicest guesthouse in town. I guess we could have bargained the folks down, but when you see the poverty and oppression that these folks live with, it’s very difficult to retain your bargaining spirit. We paid the $18 and didn’t think about it again.
We walked into the main section of town, past Sule Pagoda and all the way to the city’s central feature, Shwe Dagon Pagoda. Shwe Dagon is considered the spiritual center of the city, and of the country, even; every Burmese makes a pilgrimage at Shwe Dagon at least one in his lifetime, and the protests of 1988 and 2007 centered on marches around the pagoda.
The complex is stunningly beautiful. Gleaming gold stupas are surrounded by scores of small, intricately detailed temples, and everywhere monks dressed in maroon robes are gliding past, on their way to give a blessing or perform a ritual.
Small crowds had gathered around posters that had photos of abused prisoners on them, the top halves of their faces blacked out to conceal their identities. As we watched Burmese citizens stand and ponder the faces on the posters, we assumed that the posters, whose text was all in Burmese, warned against further anti-government protests, and displayed the photos of some of the protesters caught in last month’s demonstrations. As we later learned, that wasn’t at all what the posters were; instead, they were warnings against stealing money from “the Buddha” (presumably, the Buddhist temples), which apparently those pictured had done.
That afternoon we met with a man whose name Kendyl had received from someone she met in Mae Sot. The man provides help to journalists—provides information, contacts, and intelligence. He was nice enough, but in the end he wasn’t of much help to us—he mostly referred us to another woman who might be able to help us more. What we really wanted was a translator who would go with us to the home of a former child soldier and help us interview the child and his family. This guy said he didn’t know anyone who would do it, and he certainly wasn’t willing to do it himself. I can’t say I blamed him.
The man did offer for us to come drink tea with him and his friends the following morning across from Shwe Dagon, and not wanting to refuse an invitation to meet more democracy-minded Burmese, we gratefully accepted the invitation.
We spent the remainder of the day wandering around the city, which, in the end, is a rubbish bin. Kendyl said she remembered the city being beautiful, but she must have been remembering another city. This place was disgusting. Trash was strewn all over the roads and sidewalks, women hawked (and, remarkably, sold) fish that were lying on the sidewalk in pools of spit out betel nut juice, and smog filled the humid, stagnant air. Having planned on staying out until past the informal curfew, we changed our minds and headed back to the relative comfort of our jail cell early in the evening. I’ve heard that Burma is a cross between Thailand and India, the two nations it lies between geographically. If the cleanliness of Yangon is any indication, I’d say it has far more in common with India.
The following morning we went for a jog down to the river and received strange looks all along the way (“You mean you’re voluntarily burning calories?”). Afterward we went to meet our Burmese friend for tea, but when we arrived he was nowhere to be found. I wandered around looking for him for a bit, and passed a group of monks sitting on the ledge outside a temple. They appeared to be talking to me, but I couldn’t hear them, so I leaned in and strained to hear: “Give me money.” Ahh. And here I thought it was something political, or social, or, heaven forbid, spiritual. I didn’t have any money with me (I had left my bag with Kendyl), and I told them so and apologized, and then they said, “Then you don’t visit temple.”
How nice. I didn’t have any money to give the monks, so they suggested that I not visit their temple. And here I thought monks were spiritual beings, unconcerned with material wealth. Apparently, I had it all backward. My respect for Burmese monks dropped like a rock that morning.
In the end, our friend never showed (Kendyl talked to him later that day and he and his friends had decided not to go to tea after all, but had no way of informing us—nice), so we walked across the road to Shwe Dagon to try to find someone who would be willing to take us around town to do some interviews.
Just outside the Shwe Dagon entrance, ee met a particularly perky man who said he was a freelance guide. “I take you wherever you want to go,” he said. “And we can talk about anything.” Thinking he was alluding to his willingness to deal with touchy political subjects, we asked him if he’d be willing to take us to the home of a former child soldier, and then to the home of a recent political prisoner. We acknowledged that the mission would be dangerous, and told him that he should only take us if he felt comfortable.
“OK, so you want me to take you to see a man who was recently imprisoned by the government? Eeeeee.” His face said it all. He may have been willing to talk about anything in the privacy of his car, but he was less than willing to go near the house of a former political prisoner. Once again, I found it hard to blame the guy for wanting to keep his head on his shoulders.
He did, however, offer to find us a cab and point us in the right direction to visit the address in Kendyl’s notepad—the home of the former political prisoner. Realizing that we were running out of options, we took him up on his offer, and ten minutes later, the cab was driving up in front of the man’s house.
Two hours later, Kendyl had her story. The man had been in prison until just two days ago, and Kendyl was the first journalist he had spoken to since he got out. You can read the published version of the story here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/71985.
That night we celebrated by going out to
That night I lie in bed thinking about my impressions of this troubled country. I think the thing that most surprised me was the junta’s subtlety; one would never know that there had been bloody protests only weeks before we arrived. Even more, one would never know that Burma was even governed by a junta—we saw more of a military presence in Thailand than we did in Burma. But, I guess that’s the beauty of the junta’s oppression: people are so scared that its job is done for it. You might not see the military around, but you’re so scared about what will happen to you if you’re caught saying the wrong thing that you keep your mouth shut anyway.
Also, it seems that the junta does most of its dirty work after dark, when the citizens are in their homes. It’s nighttime when the junta goes to people’s homes and makes political arrests, dragging men and women away from their families, perhaps never to be seen or heard from again. But during the day, all is quiet. You’d never know that a dirty military regime was lurking in the shadows.
Besides the political scene, the economic life of the Burmese people was particularly surprising to me. I hadn’t realized just how badly the junta has run its country’s economy into the ground. But it has. Inflation is rampant, food prices are soaring, and newly-expensive gasoline is rationed to two gallons per car per day, an amount that is not nearly enough for cab drivers, leading to an illicit black market where prices are even higher. Some in Burma think the junta’s economic oppression of its citizens is even worse than its political oppression. Based on my observation, I’m tempted to agree.
Lastly, for the most part I was warmed by the kindness of the Burmese people. Despite all their hardships, they continue to smile, and they continue to treat visitors with respect that’s rarely displayed by their neighbors to the west. The one exception I would mention is Burmese monks—they seem aloof, self-righteous, and even money-grubbing. Supposedly the spiritual leaders of the country, they seem more like elitists who are enjoying their spot atop the social order. Nevertheless, they’re supremely respected throughout the country, and their support will be crucial for any successful push for democracy, so I hope they set aside their relatively privileged lives and do the right thing.
