Echoes of Joy in a Fractured World
We are sharing a series of journal entries that the author, JH, contributed following an invitation from Insight Myanmar for publication on our website. She includes the following message: The following entries from my journal along the Burma-Thai border were first shared more than 18 years ago. On the advice of a respected teacher, they were distributed only on paper, so as to protect involved parties while raising awareness. Later, when the Internet became available, many of us still hoped in our hearts that these descriptions would soon become obsolete. Finally, I offer these words here in realizing that certain details remain far too accurate. May they bring benefit. Please forgive my youthful ignorance and arrogance. Errors are my own.
“There are enough contradictions in this life with conditions continuously arising; it can be beneficial to choose pre-occupations consciously.”
Burma Border Journals #7
The ice cream man rides a three-wheeled bicycle with a big yellow box affixed to the front. The music emanating as he peddles is fit for a Good Humor truck the size of a semi. He has ridden onto the clinic grounds along the bumpy mud-puddled drive, put down his kickstand to park, and gone off somewhere on foot.
Behind the weathered wooden beam of a shed-like living structure hides a gleeful child in beat up flip flops and a tiny tank top bearing an insignia from the disco era. His shorts are sparkly and green, probably his only pair, probably freshly laundered and pressed. People I meet from Burma dress their best, present themselves with a grace and nobility commanding respect.
The child glances side-to-side peering into sight, withdrawing. The coast is clear. He darts toward the yellow box decorated with life-sized blue and red images of popsicles. He knows just where the switch is, and before I know what’s happening the jingle blares buoyant throughout the camp courtyard. It’s not clear who is happier, he or me, with this game he apparently knows well. His dancing joy is contagious; it zings in and around our homemade neighborhood, lifting my spirits and so too the corners of my mouth into an insuppressible grin.
Two men wait out front of the Surgical department; perhaps they have come by word of mouth, for one of the impeccable hernia repairs offered by the medics. Waiting does not exist here the way it does at home. Sense of self-worth does not depend upon temporal flotsam. Daily affairs are conducted in intercourse with the larger tempo. Built into the cultural norm is participation in this natural writhing and settling. Less energy lost to resistance. Activities honor the ebbs and rivulets as they grow and inevitably subside. These men play checkers. The game pieces are used bottlecaps, variously decorated with colored paint; one side places these metal lids righted, the other team plays them upside down. Someone strums a donated guitar; others hum along, strewn in comfortable postures along the benches. The emergency driver to the hospital is finishing his lunch.
I scan visually for my shoes in the spread of sandals at the entrance to the tin-roofed construction. According to custom, one goes barefoot in these partially open-air barracks, though some Westerners bring a second clean pair for the cement floor. Temporarily stymied, the mischievous smirk of my ten-year-old girlfriend, Zay Eh, gives away their location; our mutual focus scrolls down to her toes. Having brought with me one pair of shoes with orange thong straps and one pair made with lime green, the first two individual sandals I removed from my backpack upon arrival in town happened to be mismatched. I wore the left green one and the right orange one during my initial acquaintance with the locale, and so thereafter ended up wearing the left orange one and the right green one in the clinic buildings.
After a few days in the Reproductive Health (RH) department, where they have a new protocol of wearing donated plastic clean shoes indoors, I began to notice that midwives, medics, and trainees were intentionally trading one shoe, purple for black. I was suddenly a fashion statement. Overnight and without words they had begun to emulate me. One thinking Karen friend says, “They copy you. You are from abroad and you know medicine. Even if you very stupid, they copy you. So what you do should be good, because they copy either way.” The little girl beams radiantly. I am overcome with the urge to give away my shoes. Of course I need them too; there is enough fungus here without my help in spreading it. Quick mental note to find her upon my final departure. Brief recollection of how my mother was so frustrated with me when I would give away shoes as a child. Part of me says I cannot help it; part of me disagrees. Part of me knows not to bother with a story of ideas past, sprung from empty memory, emotions that conditions no longer feed. There are enough contradictions in this life with conditions continuously arising; it can be beneficial to choose pre-occupations consciously. I relax and enjoy playing with my new- shoed friend.
May this writing heighten awareness about the plight and great beauty of the people from all parts once called Burma. May it bring benefit to all who are described herein and to all who read it. May you be truly happy.