This is the year, p.15
The Heart Remembers, page 15
“I did.” She thought about it. “Of course we wouldn’t have to stay in Manhattan.”
“Where else would we go?”
“We could move to the countryside. Upstate New York, for instance, or Vermont, or Maine.” She took his hand and laid it on her swelling abdomen.
“I lack for nothing,” he said. “But still I’m missing something.”
“What?”
“I wish I knew how to put it into words. I’m sorry. I know that I’m being ungrateful.” After a pause he continued: “Perhaps I might even succeed in becoming a good citizen of this city or this country. Perhaps I would eventually learn to understand the rules, the written and the unwritten. But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“If I were to assimilate, then I would be a different person, no longer the one you love. Do you see what I mean?”
“I’m also a different person here than in Burma. Do you love me any less for that?”
“No,” replied Thar Thar. “Of course not.”
Julia would later replay this conversation over and over in her mind. Where do you belong? She could not get Thar Thar’s question out of her head. Did she belong in New York, or more precisely, on the Upper East Side, just because she was born there? Because she spoke the language and was familiar with all the customs, rituals, and rules of the place? She felt no sense of belonging in spite of all that.
Do we belong to a country, a tribe, a village? Or rather to a family or even a particular person?
To you, she ought to have answered. To you.
* * *
—
Thar Thar sat on the floor in front of the bed, intending to meditate. He tried to focus, but his thoughts were a tumult. Peace eluded him.
To meditate means to come back home, he had learned from an old monk. He had the feeling that everything in New York was twisting and wrenching him away from himself. The never-ceasing din, even at night. The throngs of people with their unfamiliar voices and faces. The lights, the smells, the sounds. All of it was strange to him. Everything demanded his attention. It was as if the children at the monastery had hidden themselves and were calling out from every corner: “Here, here, here.”
For him New York was a city of many gods dominated by the muddled roar of the world.
Chapter 25
THE FIRST REPORTS came trickling in around the middle of August. Thar Thar often listened in the morning to the news from Southeast Asia on the BBC World Service, where he started to hear stories of isolated protests in Myanmar sparked by governmentally imposed increases in fuel costs, which had precipitated a drastic spike in food prices. Many well-known critics of the government had been incarcerated.
A few days later there were reports that hundreds of people had gathered at a demonstration in Yangon. An uneasy quiet lay over parts of the city.
The following week the BBC reported on a demonstration by more than five hundred monks in the city of Pakokku. Thousands of citizens had lined the streets in support of the monks. Soldiers had fired warning shots and used considerable violence against the onlookers. According to unconfirmed sources, three monks were among the wounded.
From that point on Thar Thar spent nearly every free minute in front of the radio or television. Every day brought fresh reports of demonstrations and disturbances. Pictures unlike anything he had seen before. People standing in the middle of intersections blocking traffic. Chanting crowds demanding greater freedom and calling the name Aung San Suu Kyi, of whom one previously spoke only in whispers, if at all. Police and soldiers stood by without taking any action.
While Thar Thar watched these things on television, tears would stream down his cheeks without his even realizing it.
As a sixteen-year-old, after he had been taken by the military, he had often wondered how it would feel to be able to defend himself, not to have to put up with all of the atrocities. How it would feel if the question of whether he should live or die were not left up to any random individual in a uniform.
How it would feel to be free.
As he lay in the death house, beaten half to death for refusing to flog a fellow prisoner, he had imagined the day when the soldiers would have to account for what they had done. In a fevered dream he had seen them disarmed and stripped to their undergarments. In columns they walked, heads bowed, along dusty streets all throughout the country, falling to their knees and begging the people’s forgiveness. A long march of repentance. This thought had helped keep him alive even when he felt he would never see the light of another day.
One morning Julia set the New York Times in front of him on the table. An article on the front page described the growing resistance in Burma and the increasing number of protest marches. It painted a picture of a country on the brink of upheaval, whose citizens were daring for the first time in twenty years to rebel against military rule.
When he finished reading the article, he stood up and took her in his arms. “I have to go back,” he whispered.
“Back? Where?”
“To Burma.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow. As soon as possible.”
Julia twisted out of his embrace. “But why?”
“Because…because…” Thar Thar faltered. How could he explain to her what for him required no explanation? How could she understand what it would mean to him to stand up and defend himself? To reclaim his dignity? She, who lacked for nothing. She, who had no need to fear the police. She, who need never worry that soldiers would come in the night to take her away. It had something to do with courage. With self-respect. The military had tried to strip the people of his country of both those things. And now it turned out that they had failed. Courage and Dignity had merely gone into hiding, and now they were feeling confident enough once again to show their faces.
“Didn’t you read the article?”
“Of course I did.”
“Haven’t you seen the images on television?”
“I have.”
“Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for this moment?”
“A long time.”
“A long time? A long time?” He looked at her with an almost unbearable intensity. “Our whole lives, my love. Our whole lives!”
Julia said nothing.
“We have been ruled by criminals for fifty years. By murderers. It’s not like here.”
“I know,” she said almost inaudibly.
“We can’t just vote them out of office. For decades they’ve been robbing us of our land. Torturing us. Attacking our villages. Hauling us off and murdering us.” Thar Thar had to stop and take a few deep breaths before he could go on. “You know my story, and it is only one of so, so very many. We had to put up with it because they had weapons and we didn’t. Because we were crippled by fear. And now that’s over with!” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but she retreated from him.
“I understand all that, but I’m afraid for your safety. In two months we’ll be bringing a child into the world.”
He lowered his head. When at last he looked at her again, his eyes were red. “I’ll be back by then. You have my word.”
Thar Thar paced up and down in the living room. Stood at the window and gazed out. Heavy raindrops splattered against the glass. Julia had never seen him so agitated. He turned to her again. “In Yangon and Mandalay people are risking their lives while I sit here in Manhattan doing nothing. A kept man. Dining in posh restaurants.”
What could she possibly say to that?
“I can’t do it any longer. My country needs me.”
“I need you, too.”
“I know. Please try to understand me.”
“What are you going to do in Yangon?”
“Be a part of it.”
“The city is full of protesting monks. One more or fewer is not going to make a difference.”
“If everyone says that, no one will march.”
Julia let out a deep sigh. She was at once disappointed and furious. “I don’t understand you,” she said, and she was surprised at the edge in her voice.
“It’s only for a couple of weeks,” he said, attempting to reassure her. “Then I’ll come back.”
“When? When the protests are over and the government has collapsed? Maybe they’ll appoint you as some kind of minister. Then your country will really need you.”
He said nothing.
“Or when they’ve shot everyone? The military is not going to stand idly by for much longer.”
“They won’t dare to fire on monks.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“It’s a line they won’t cross. You know how important the monks are in our society. There are more than half a million of them, and they are honored above all others. The more of us on the street, the smaller the danger.”
Julia walked over to him at the window and took his head in both her hands. “I’m asking you not to go.”
But there are things we should not ask of someone we love. We either get them or we do not. When Julia saw how Thar Thar was wrestling with himself, she added: “Will you at least reconsider it?”
Thar Thar flew to Yangon the next day via Frankfurt and Bangkok. The return flight was scheduled for fourteen days later. They had booked a ticket that could not be changed. Julia could rest assured that he would keep his promise and be back in New York in two weeks.
He intended to spend the first six or seven days in Yangon. During the second week he thought he might go to Hsipaw to make sure that all was well with the children at the monastery.
They agreed that he would call at least once a day from Yangon. Hopefully it would not be difficult to arrange a call to New York from the Strand Hotel or from the Traders.
The following day the connection was as clear as if he were calling from the next room. Thar Thar sounded euphoric. He had marched through the streets of Yangon with several thousand monks accompanied by men, women, and children. True, the atmosphere was tense, but it was also more filled with hope than anything he had ever experienced. No sign of soldiers, and even the police were holding back. Julia had nothing to worry about. He missed her terribly.
On the second day he told her about more than twenty thousand monks, singing as they marched through the city while more and more onlookers joined the throng. People had lined the streets. They filled balconies, windows, and rooftops. People on all sides were waving or offering them food and water. The atmosphere was much more relaxed than on the previous day. More like a fair. On every corner one could feel that a big change was in the works. He wished she could be there with him to share in the experience.
On the third day he was breathless. More than a hundred thousand people had filled the streets of Yangon. He had heard of similar demonstrations in a number of other cities. In Mandalay a parade miles long had wound its way through town. Yangon was full of rumors. Supposedly soldiers had begun to desert and were joining the monks in their protests. In Mandalay an entire company had left their posts. The officers were reluctant to give any order to move against the monks. General Than Shwe was apparently about to resign. Others claimed that the opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi was soon to be released. If things continued like this there would soon be a million people on the streets. If only she could be there to share it all with him. He could not express how much he was missing her, how much he loved her.
The following day Thar Thar was pressed for time. His voice sounded gloomy, and he was in a hurry. She could hear chaos and shouting in the background. There was continuous interference on the line.
“Where are you?”
“At a shop near the Sule Pagoda.”
“Why?”
“—!?”
“Thar Thar, I can hardly understand you. Why aren’t you calling from the hotel?”
“—!”
“Dammit, I can’t hear you! What’s happened?”
“The streets…Hotel…sealed off.”
“What are you saying?” The static on the line was unbearably loud.
“…never…”
“Hello? Thar Thar?”
“…not worry…not…Hsipaw…”
“Thar Thar,” she shouted into the phone. “Why? What’s wrong? For God’s sake, Thar Thar?”
“I…you.”
She heard an unfamiliar voice, urgent shouts, a busy signal, and then lost the connection.
“Thar Thar?” she whispered, knowing she would get no response. “Thar Thar?”
I…you.
A short while later she heard on the radio that military trucks had been posted around the Shwedagon Pagoda. Soldiers were patrolling all the streets. According to reports, the monks were not backing down. Again there were thousands in the streets.
She heard nothing from Thar Thar the next day. Nor the next.
Julia followed the news on television and radio around the clock. The BBC reported that the military had imposed a curfew. In spite of everything, tens of thousands led by monks and nuns had again taken to the streets in Yangon. Without any kind of warning, the military had opened fire on the demonstrators. Even on the monks. There were many dead and wounded. No one could give an accurate count. The military reported eight dead; the opposition in exile claimed the number was in the hundreds. Radio Free Burma said it was thousands. The crematoria in the city were reportedly working around the clock.
Soldiers throughout the country were now raiding monasteries and taking monks prisoner. Thousands were loaded onto military trucks and carted off. Only the army knew where they were being taken or what was happening to them.
Where was Thar Thar?
Julia tried to reach him at the last number he had called from, but the line was dead. It was the only number she had. Who could tell her anything of his whereabouts? The American embassy in Yangon said they were not responsible for him because he was not an American citizen. She got the same answer from the State Department in Washington.
No one was answering the phone at the Burmese consulate in the United States. The delegation to the United Nations refused to make any comment.
There was no phone at the monastery.
She could only hope that he had gone underground and found a safe hiding place and would call when he could.
I…you.
I…you.
I…you.
Chapter 26
JULIA WAITED. She stayed close to the phone, ate little, and tried to sleep during the morning and afternoon so that she could stay awake during the night, when it was daytime in Burma. But that was not easy; the child inside her was becoming restless. It kicked and elbowed so boisterously that it continually woke her. As if it sensed precisely what was going on out there in the world.
She started to have terrible backaches that reached right down into her thighs. Light bleeding. The doctor was worried. She was in the thirty-fourth week of the pregnancy. The baby, from all they could see on the ultrasound, was developing normally. It would survive a premature birth, but that was always fraught with risks.
Was anything bothering her? Stress can be a significant factor for premature deliveries. Julia shook her head.
The doctor ordered bed rest. She needed to watch herself, to avoid all excitement. He assumed there was someone who could look after her for the next few weeks. She nodded. The baby’s father was on his way back to New York. He would be landing at Newark in three days.
In two.
In one.
Today.
Despite the gynecologist’s warning, she drove to the airport. She left plenty of time to spare in case the flight from Frankfurt should arrive early.
All around her people were falling into one another’s arms. Two little children ran toward their mother. An older couple kissed intimately. He wiped the tears from her eyes. Beside her a young man was holding a heart-shaped balloon and chewing nervously on his fingernails. Julia held a long-stem rose.
The first passengers from Frankfurt came walking down the long corridor into the concourse. She could tell by their luggage. FRA-EWR.
She was nauseous with worry. She had to sit down. Her child was kicking ferociously. Nothing got past him.
Maybe he was having troubles at Immigration. On bad days it could take two or even three hours for a foreigner. Or maybe his baggage had not arrived.
She waited until the flight had disappeared from the arrivals board and she had not seen an FRA-EWR sticker for a long time.
She waited until it got dark.
He’s dead.
It was not a voice talking to her, more an inner conversation. A suspicion, an intuition. A thought on an infinite loop replaying itself in her mind.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
A woman asked with concern whether she was feeling ill. Did she need any help?
Yes, thought Julia. “No,” she replied. “Thanks, it’s just poor circulation.” She pointed to her rounded midriff. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” The woman led her to a chair and brought her a cup of water.
She did not know how long she had been sitting there. Eventually she drove back home and went to bed. Her body felt as if someone had poured lead over it, or pulled out a fuse. Every ounce of energy was gone. She had not even enough strength to cry.
He’s dead.
She had no idea how she would get through the next weeks and months. How she would be able to care properly for her child.
How thin is the wall that shields us from insanity? No one knows how much strain it can bear. How much pressure it can handle. Before it yields.
He’s dead.
We all live on the edge, she thought. Some of us realize it. Others do not.
It was just one step away. One small step.
