Double karma, p.21
Double Karma, page 21
As he shares all this — and I can’t help but believe him — the reality sinks in. I first learned of Min’s time in Karen State early in my prison term, from a newspaper report about his disappearance. Convinced at the time that his only activity on the battlefield would have been taking photos, I had not once considered that my fiancé might be capable of anything more heroic. Now I learn that he not only picked up arms but, near the end of the battle, took on what amounted to a suicide mission for the KNLA. I tell him that’s one of the most selfless acts anyone could have committed for the Cause. It sounds like he really proved himself there.
“Yes, well, thanks,” he replies, looking at me warily. “But that’s only the beginning.”
Then he informs me that the rest of his story is something he hasn’t even told his father. It’s too incredible to believe, he says, and, once you do, too difficult to accept compassionately. He wants me to be the first to know — well, the second as he has also told a psychiatrist — because he owes me this; he thinks I deserve to know as his former fiancée, as someone who served a long sentence on behalf of everyone who ever dreamed of a free Burma. He has carried the burden of guilt for what he did almost as much as, perhaps more than, his guilt for having abandoned me. After twenty-four years, he needs to unburden himself. This is quite the buildup. But as he begins his confession, I can see why he found it necessary. The more he tells me, the deeper my heart sinks.
After the man he’s described as his double was blown to pieces, Min says, he woke up in a Tatmadaw hospital bed back in Rangoon, where he received — and accepted — a medal from Khin Nyunt. He stops to apologize for that, knowing how deplorable it sounds, before explaining that, from the moment he awoke, everyone thought he was the dead guy. He goes on to describe his job with the Ministry of Information, how the SLORC gave him a mansion at Inya Lake, and how he rubbed shoulders with Tatmadaw generals at photo shoots. It all seems too much to believe, but when I look into his eyes I know it’s as true as his combat memories. Gradually, with each revelation, a bit of the old anger and resentment I had long forgotten rises to the surface once again. I am finding his confession hard to take, and I tell him so.
I start by saying how amazing it is that he could pull off an act like that for sixteen months. How it demonstrated, once again, his incredible capacity for survival. But he can hear the sarcasm in my voice, so I get to the point. I tell him it’s hard to imagine myself in his position, making the decisions he did to survive. Was it worth it, I ask, all those falsehoods, all that fraud to fool the SLORC?
He says he can’t imagine having done it any other way.
I reply by asking him how he could come out of that experience and still have a conscience. He was being paid by the junta. He was doing their work.
Yes, he says, but his life was at risk. And I mustn’t forget what he did at Maw Pokay. He could have been killed there. After surviving that, the last thing he wanted was to give the dictators satisfaction.
Yes, I reply, eagerly trying to understand his perspective. But there are some things in this world on which we must never compromise.
He says nothing, so I lay into him. I tell him how, sometimes at Insein, when I wondered why I hadn’t heard from him after that one letter confirming he was still alive, I feared that he wasn’t really the person I had made him out to be. That he was actually one of those Western opportunists I had heard about, the kind who take full advantage of their privilege in the developing world before getting out when it suits them, when the heat becomes too much.
He interrupts me, raising his voice to complain that I am being unfair. What would I have done in his position? He explains that he was in a coma for nearly twenty-four hours and woke up surrounded by Tatmadaw soldiers, men whose comrades he had just been killing the last time he was awake. They were coming into the hospital every day bearing gifts, he says, so it’s not like he could have escaped from that. If they found out who he was, he would have been executed. He implores me not to forget what he did in Maw Pokay, that he really did risk his life for democracy. That political prisoners weren’t the only ones who sacrificed.
That may be true, I reply, adding that his courage in Karen State is impressive. But once he survived, it seems that his courage abandoned him. I wasn’t saying that he should have risen from his hospital bed and made a run for it. But he had a choice to make, and he didn’t have to hang around for sixteen months and collect a salary from the SLORC either.
He sighs, telling me I’m right, and that he was foolish to believe Saw Maung when he said he would hand over power to the NLD. Min says he should have known better than to wait for that possibility and could have made his run to the border much sooner. He looks down at the table, saying nothing more, so I ease up a little. I tell him I know there wasn’t much he could have done to help me once he returned home. So what happened to him in Los Angeles? He must have met someone else, no? Did he ever marry? He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and thumbs through it until he finds a photo. Then he hands it to me.
“This is who I married,” he says. A handsome white man.
“Oh. I see.”
I can’t think of what else to say. I was not expecting this. But then, the more I think about it, a lot of things I didn’t understand in ’88 begin to make sense as I sit here, across the table from my former fiancé. Like all that time we spent together without getting physical. Like the way Min treated me more like a sister than a girlfriend and couldn’t take the lead in anything. Like the way he became shy and nervous around my brothers. And like his ability to walk away from me and my country without so much as a backward glance.
* * *
Min:
After disappointing Thandar with the story of my sixteen months as a SLORC photographer, I wasn’t sure how she’d handle my other surprise. The news about Robert seems to have thrown her off. I watch her while she regards his photo, noting the change in her expression. It’s like her internal tape is being rewound to 1988 and, in a few seconds, reviews our time together and how I behaved then. A subtle smile forms on her lips. She expresses surprise that I can “do that sort of thing” in America now. I wait for more, but that’s her only response to the news of my marriage to someone else.
Affronted, I tell her “that sort of thing” is a human right we fight for in the United States: the freedom to love, as important as the freedoms of association and assembly, the freedoms to vote and have an uncensored press — the democratic rights we fought for in 1988. But then I apologize for the indignation, telling Thandar that she must not have seen it coming — my being gay, I mean.
No, she says, she didn’t. Should she have?
I ignore that, telling her my hubby’s name is Robert Malcolm, that he’s an art dealer I met at an exhibition of the photos I took in Burma. He is very kind, I tell Thandar. She would like him.
Yes, she replies, unsmiling. She is sure that she would.
I apologize again, telling Thandar it must have been hard to have been alone for all those years. I regret those words as soon as they leave my mouth, but Thandar has her own surprise. She hasn’t been alone for the past dozen years, she tells me, but met someone through the Assistance Association for Political Prisoners, the organization I contacted to reach her.
His name is Khine Kyaw, she says. He is very kind. I would like him.
Well played. I attempt a smile while nodding at her to continue.
Khine Kyaw was a volunteer for the AAPP who was assigned to her case, she says. They began writing to each other, and then he moved back to Rangoon from Mae Sot last year, after the country opened up. He started visiting her at Insein and after that, things got serious.
I’m not sure what to say. The Assistance Association for Political Prisoners is one of the most prominent NGOs in Burma. Anyone with family or friends at Insein who’s serious about freeing them would at some point establish contact with this organization. But I hadn’t kept up with affairs in Burma until 2007 and hadn’t known the AAPP existed. I hadn’t sent a single email, picked up the phone, or otherwise made any contact with this group until I’d heard about Thandar’s release. My last attempt to contact her had been a letter in 1990 that only exposed my failings as a potential spouse. But none of this matters now. Thandar gave up on me almost as long ago as I gave up on her. The confession about my time with the SLORC now seems anti-climactic. Other than Dr. Jules, Thandar is the only person I have told about what I did, and she has reacted as I feared she might: unimpressed, offended, but not as surprised as I had hoped she would be. Her negative reaction seems entirely cerebral, completely lacking in empathy. For the Thandar who sits before me in 2013, there is no emotional investment whatsoever in my personal decisions, past or present. Indeed, I detect not a flicker of nostalgia for what we once were. Or tried to be.
She changes the subject, telling me I couldn’t possibly have come all this way to see her. What else am I doing in Burma? I tell her I’m still a professional photographer. Reaching into my wallet, I pull out a business card and hand it to her. She regards my new name and Karma Communications with curiosity and then, flipping over the card to see Robert’s name and phone number scribbled on the back, grimaces. Stuffing the card in her handbag, she notes that I’ve taken my partner’s surname and changed my first name. I explain, then make a joke about how “whitening” it is but that I’m still Min Lin inside. Then she asks if I’m here to take photos again. Yes, I tell her, I’m here for a project on the Rohingyas in Arakan State.
She corrects me: I must mean the Bengalis. In Rakhine State.
No, I tell her, I mean the Rohingyas, in Arakan. Why does she call them that?
The mood darkens. Thandar frowns. “Because that other name doesn’t exist. Those people don’t belong here. They are not our people. They are Indians. But then I wouldn’t expect you to know that, being a foreigner.”
And what is that supposed to mean? I ask, now offended.
It means, she says, that I am not Burmese by birth but an American, so I have an American, black-and-white concept of right and wrong. I don’t understand the complexity of our country, she says, and I probably never did.
Whoa. Where did this come from? I’m too shocked to correct her about my place of birth. I was getting around to telling her that story, too, but we’ve hit a roadblock here.
Do I remember Mandalay? Do I remember what I said when she asked if I’d stand up for her? That I’d said, “Don’t be silly, of course I will stand up for you”?
Yes, of course I remember, I tell Thandar, adding that I failed her and will always feel guilty about that. I can’t apologize enough. But what does this have to do with the Rohingyas?
I see everything through a romantic Western lens, she tells me. I did that in ’88 when I was here with her, and now I’m doing it again with the Bengalis. Then she asks: I suppose you want to go into Rakhine and take pictures of people whose human rights are being violated, yes?
Of course, I say. What could possibly be wrong with that?
What’s wrong, she replies, is that the Bengalis are aliens who are meddling in our national affairs. They are trying to spread their religion so they can take over Rakhine State and ban Buddhism.
I can’t believe my ears. The person I thought I once knew is melting before my eyes. What on earth happened to her at Insein? I tell Thandar she sounds like that crazy fascist monk, Wirathu. She tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about. Same as before.
What happened to her? I ask. What happened to the brave warrior who fought on behalf of the people? Thandar regards me coldly and shakes her head. If I think she’s been hardened by her prison experience, she says, I’m wrong. She has always been Buddhist. Her country will always be Buddhist. And a good Buddhist always defends her religion. But, she adds, she wouldn’t expect me to understand that, coming from the West where faith is as cheap as talk.
What? She could not be serious! Not her, of all people!
Yes, dead serious, she replies, urging me to go ahead and sign up for a junket with Oxfam, Médecins Sans Frontières, or one of those other lying foreign NGOs, as she puts it, and fly out to Rakhine to get my one side of the story, and tell it to the world. Good luck to me.
I stare into her furious eyes. Where is the Thandar I used to know? The Thandar who, the other day, told a reporter that democracy without justice is a sham? What do “democracy” and “justice” mean to her now? Back in 1989–90, I worried that I might succumb to Stockholm Syndrome if I stayed too long with the SLORC. Now I wonder if Thandar’s been captured by another version of it at Insein: were she and her sister prisoners pumped up with ethno-nationalist Burman Buddhist propaganda by their jailers? How else could my former fiancée have turned into such a racist?
Rising from my seat to end our meeting, I tell Thandar that I will contact her again when I return from Arakan. Then I’ll let her know if I’ve changed my mind.
I say nothing more but turn and walk away, leaving her alone in the café.
24
I can’t wait to get out of Rangoon. My plan was to stay here for a few more days before flying to Arakan, but the nasty argument with Thandar has stiffened my resolve to board the next plane to Sittwe. Luckily, I’ve already arranged for guides. The day after landing in Burma, I called up Oxfam, Médecins Sans Frontières, and a few other NGOs to see who might have the resources to take a freelance photographer on a tour of the country’s most dangerous state. The first to return my calls was Oxfam. After confirming my AP credentials and reviewing the Karma Communications website — I had made sure to highlight a gallery of my Burma photos from ’88 — they told me to call as soon I was ready to go. When I do call, they tell me there’s one seat left for the next day’s flight to Sittwe. I will hardly be the first photographer to make tracks in this part of Burma — journalists from The New York Times, Reuters, and other media have already been there — but I count myself lucky to be signed up for an exclusive tour.
On the plane, I remind my Oxfam hosts that my project is a photo essay and that I hope to interview people as well as take their photos for an article to accompany the images. They advise me to spend as much time with ethnic Rakhine Buddhists as with Rohingyas; accusations of biased media reporting have caused problems for NGOs working in the area. International media have been accused of focusing too much on anti-Rohingya violence while ignoring Buddhist perspectives on the conflict. Impartiality, or at least the appearance of it, will help build trust with local authorities. I am more than happy to oblige, grateful to be provided with a multilingual Oxfam guide, a local host, and a driver for the duration of my five-day visit.
Within minutes of our leaving the airport in Sittwe, Rangoon starts to feel very far away. You can’t see a Muslim, a dark-skinned kalar, anywhere. They’ve all been sent to “resettlement” camps, forced to flee the city, or otherwise hidden away. I’m told that some of the Kaman Muslim minority, who look a lot like the Rohingyas, have suffered this fate as well. Among the locals, I don’t see many smiles. But I do see enough frowns to suggest how unwelcome a camera-toting Burman from out of state ought to feel here. Sittwe feels like a place that has recently expelled every member of an irksome and vilified minority but doesn’t want to talk about it; the kind of place where one shouldn’t express political opinions too openly, certainly not in Burmese, if those opinions diverge from the dominant Rakhine Buddhist line or express any degree of empathy for the Rohingyas. On our first night there, I share these impressions over dinner with my Oxfam hosts. They tell me I’m not mistaken, and that I will need to be discreet.
The next morning, our tour begins in downtown Sittwe with the ethnic Rakhine Buddhists. My first subject, a middle-aged shopkeeper, tells us that policing is underfunded. Buddhists feel vulnerable to attacks from Bengalis bent on revenge, he says, but police response is inadequate: there are neither enough weapons to defend local citizens nor enough cops to enforce the law. The Thein Sein government, clearly regarding this as a regional problem, has allowed frontier justice — mob rule — to sort things out. They have washed their hands of us, the man says, mimicking the gesture literally. The shopkeeper’s grievance seems heartfelt. Others we meet in the city, who agree to have their photos taken, share similar views. Many Rakhine Buddhists are as angry with the Burman-dominated federal government as they are with the Rohingyas. They are also angry about the outside world’s sympathy for the Rohingyas.
A woman running a coffee kiosk is dismissive of middle-class Burmans from Rangoon. She tells my Oxfam hosts and I that we seem to think the “Bengalis” are the only ones who lost their homes. If we want to see deprivation, she says, we should start with the Sat Roe Kya camp.
And so we do. Sat Roe Kya is a sad refuge for Buddhists displaced by the riots in 2012, an ugly assortment of flimsy, weather-beaten teakwood row houses with few amenities. But every family has its own quarters, with water hook-ups outside every home. People are free to come and go as they please, without fear of arrest or assault. They can also work, with enough opportunities to earn money, leave the camp, and start over. Life for displaced Arakanese Buddhists is no picnic, but how do their difficulties compare to those of the Rohingyas?
The next stop after Sat Roe Kya is the Aung Mingalar ghetto. On our way there, an Oxfam staffer describes how the streets of this old Muslim quarter used to blend in to Sittwe’s overall fabric, its shops and restaurants once part of a thriving local economy. But all that has changed since the first riots. Now, he tells me, Aung Mingalar is an open-air prison for the local Rohingya population. Members of this condemned Muslim minority are confined to a few blocks of housing and deprived of health care services that local Buddhists take for granted. When we arrive at one of its gated entrances, a couple of police officers debate whether to let us in. Only when my guide returns from the van with the papers he has forgotten — government clearance for Oxfam’s visit — are we admitted through the barbed-wire barricade.
