"Do these rights count in the home?"

The United Nations Human Rights Declaration: Article 5 - "No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment."

My students understood this article and were quick to state their need for it. They could think of countless examples.

But then one particularly astute student stumbled for his words as he said, "No, I don't know about this. These are all rights for out in public. What about in the home? Do these rights count in the home? If a husband is beating, even torturing his wife, can someone really intervene into the privacy of the home? Don't families have a right to self-determination?"

I held my breath and looked to the rest of the students, thinking one of them would speak. They looked back at me.

Kham Moen, my Shan co-teacher, and I had been teaching this class more in the role of facilitators than instructors, and despite the temptation, I did not want to stop this time. I wanted my students to come to make up their minds on tough ethical quandaries, because they had thought it through, not because an authority figure had told them "the answer."

So we made it personal. We came up with specific examples of domestic violence and sexual abuse. The students listed the rights (even sometimes conflicting rights) of every member of the family in these situations, and we talked about what was the right and moral thing to do in really difficult situations.

And then it continued... for the entire week of the Human Rights workshops. We could not simply talk about human rights in the public sphere, if we did not talk about human rights in the places closest to students' hearts: the home. So we did both: we had examples of government interactions with villages and more intimate interactions within the home. We engaged them both constantly.

I was fully invested in working through the material with my students for two reasons: 1) It is infinitely valuable for these individuals to think through the rights of others, 2) It is the last gift I can give my students.

You see, in two weeks, I will be moving and will begin a new job teaching a fantastic group of Thai second graders. It breaks my heart to think about leaving these Shan young adults, however, and so I've tried in one week to give them everything I could: a sense of compassion, empowerment, and responsibility. Before this class, only one student out of the eighteen had ever heard of the concept "human rights" or even the idea that all people might have certain rights. To talk about the international law, to which Burma is a co-signer, mattered to them.

When I asked the students what they found most interesting to study, I will never forget when a usually meek student, who keeps her head down and rarely speaks, spoke first in the class, lifting her eyes level with the others, "That my body belongs to me." This was in relation to our right to say no to unwanted sexual advances in a discussion the day before. This is what this girl remembered most of all. If that is all she remembers, we have one a huge battle in one young woman's life.

Now, over the next couple weeks, the other English teacher will be giving historic examples of non-violent resistance, as a means others have used to fight for those basic rights. Sometimes I look at my students and wonder if we're throwing fire at gasoline. They are tired of injustice already, and they are just so ready to do something. I can only pray they will have the wisdom to see when and what action is helpful. I also pray that the world will never be black-and-white to them and that they will always see the complexities, even in the midst of choosing action.

Truly I have been privileged to work with these students.

Talking about the Holocaust and reconciliation

Some days I am pretty sure I teach the most incredible students ever. Seriously.

Last week we had a conversation that I still have not gotten out of my head. You see, it started off by reading a story that just mentioned a "senator's wife." But these students are from Burma, and you can't explain even a simple political word without really talking about.

So we talked.

We worked through the different parts of government in the American system as a point of comparison, and then we talked about Burma. So far, I had not had any political conversation with my Shan students, and I was a little nervous about opening it up, but I also felt it was necessary. Because politics in Burma, to migrant workers in Thailand, means everything. It's what determines whether they ever return to the places where they were born.

Amazingly, as I began to ask about the constitution, my students demonstrated incredibly maturity and insight. I asked them what they thought would happen at the next election (when a majority of the seats are going to be contested), and they tackled the issues of whether Aung San Suu Kyi's NLD party might win and what that could mean for the country. They went on to discuss their fears and how sometimes they feel inside Shan State, Burma, as second class citizens.

If we had stopped there, I would have felt the lesson a great success. My goodness, they were incredible--seriously, incredible. They came from many different walks of life with so many different experiences, and yet they held a conversation with mild debate in a respectful and considerate manner.

But the story doesn't finish with talking about government.

One of the more thoughtful students had something he needed to tell the class: you see, on the way to class that day, he had seen a man stranded on the side of the road after a motorbike accident, and he stopped to help him, only to discover this man was Burmese. For my student, who has suffered deeply by the Burmese in the past, he had a decision to make. He wanted to turn away and leave this man to suffer alone, but this student really and truly is incredible. He did not turn away. He stepped in and helped him.  He looked at the class, fresh from the emotions and asked, "Did I do the right thing? I wasn't sure if it was right, because he was Burmese, and the Burmese have hurt our people so. But he was just a person."

The students stared back at him. They did not rush to tell him he had done the right thing, because I suspect all were wondering if they would have done the same thing. After a short silence, I told him that I thought what he had done was extremely brave and good, but I would tell them a story and see if my story helped them decide for themselves.

I told them about growing up, knowing of my Jewish heritage and therefore learning early on about the Holocaust and all those that died. Since my students did not know what the Holocaust was, I gave them a history lesson and showed photographs. As I paused, you could hear only the constant whir of the fans in the students' silence.

Then I confessed the fact that I came to know sometime later than I came to know my Jewish heritage: that's the Nazi war criminal past as well. That "other" cousin.

You see, I share in my blood the blood of many who died but also of one who did much to assure that more died. That's my heritage. Both.

I have since lived in Germany and come to speak German fluently, and my sister lives in Israel and has married an Israeli. We never walk away from the understanding of humanity's deep capacity for incredible good or evil, and, knowing that terrible evil has existed even within our family, we have no choice but to walk in forgiveness. That is why I went to Germany, and that is why I learned German. That is also why I chose to love what is German. Forgiveness is my heritage.

And it's precisely that understanding of my heritage which has translated into a passion for justice and reconciliation and sent me off to work with those who have suffered most by the Burmese regime's discriminatory and violent practices. I then turned to my student, who had helped the Burmese man, and asked him if he understood why I was telling the class this story.

"Yes," he responded and smiled. "I believe in helping him too."

The next day the class continued the conversation, adding that the only chance Shan State has for true freedom exists through forgiveness and valuing all people. I was floored. This is not normal Shan speech, and my students said it, not I. This may sound like ordinary Western meaningless fluff, but this kind of speech is completely foreign here and most definitely has meaning. We watched some videos about the Holocaust, and the students talked about both what was similar and different to what the Burmese have attempted against the Shan and the incredible risk of what the Shan could attempt against its minorities if ever given independence, if they do not first deal with their own hate, fear, and other issues. I. have. never. heard. anyone. actually. say. that.

I have hope today, because my students will one day be leaders, and these leaders will lead well.

As I said, I have incredible students. I am so incredibly privileged to be their English teacher.

Some heavy news

My heart is heavy today. I've been reading a lot of news lately:

"Zimmerman is aqcuitted of murder and manslaughter charges." - NY Times

• I don't think I need to explain this one... you all have been probably watching the story of George Zimmerman far more closely than I have on this side of the world.
• An interesting point of comparison from 2007 in the NY Times: Man Convicted of Shooting Teenager 

"Monk threatens politicians over interfaith marriage" - Irrawaddy News

• This is about setting up a law to make it difficult or impossible for a Buddhist girl to marry a Muslim man... or any other religion, though it's for the purpose of alienating the Muslim population. 
• It is referred to as the "national race protection" law.

"Police attacked with petrol bombs in Belfast" - BBC News

• That again? I thought this ended, when I was just a small child. Nationalists and Royalists.

And there's more, not to mention the number of fearful Facebook posts, from people who thought one way or the other about Zimmerman's verdict. People swearing that the only response is for every "responsible" human being to carry a gun. God, help us.

All I see is all of this is that the world is full of people who are afraid of the other. And it's a deadly fear. I pray we all learn to face our fears and see the human, the image of God even, in the eyes of those we fear.

The news I don't know

Right now I'm still in "jungle" mode. This trip in to Chiang Mai, I just haven't really gotten my mind around being in Chiang Mai. Maybe it's largely due to the fact that I've been staying with others with whom I generally see and associate with the jungle. Maybe it's just because I've crossed some critical threshold of time in the village. I'm not sure the cause.

But this time I've not checked BBC News once, even though it's my web browser's home page. I tried to read the headlines once, but my lack of background knowledge simply overwhelmed. Somebody told me there was a terrible shooting in a movie theater in Colorado while I was in the jungle. I'm really, really sorry to hear that. I assume it's probably old news for you, though. Neither have I watched an episode of Glee or The Office. Or surfed Facebook for updates on people I care about. Or even barely checked my e-mail. Or really remembered the full potential of Skype.

And that's actually all a problem, because I'm not in Chiang Mai often enough to waste the few precious opportunities for internet connectivity.

Sooo... needless to say, this blog entry will not be stocked full of helpful links to recent news articles or discuss these major events that we are supposed to all share in our human psyche. According to popular opinion, that makes this a pitiful blog. I suppose there are pitfalls to trying to write a blog while living in the jungle. You just really know way more about what's going on than I do.

But I can talk about life in the jungle. I do not know what Aung San Suu Kyi's most recent words were, which is something I miss, but I know it's the rainy season and that tomorrow begins the Buddhist Lent. I know that when I take a shower, my hair may take 24 hours to dry, and I can forget about having really dry clothes. I know that plants are the most vibrant shade of green right now, and my valley has simply sprung to life from the dry grave of the dry season. I know that it's not banana season right now, though every Farang seems confused that we are not eating bananas. I'm not sure why. I know that papaya trees are beginning to put out their new produce, which will be ready in a few months, passion fruit vines are in their growing phase, and many pineapples are ready to pick. I also know that the leaves of the sweet potato vine growing wild in the crevice behind my house are really tasty on ramen (mama) noodles, and my mint and lemongrass make my "teacher's throat" feel a tiny bit happier. I also know where to go to look for wood to build an arbor for my passion fruit vine (though admittedly I need my brother for success on such occasions), and I know how to collect morning glory leaves for soup.

I also know the other stuff. The stuff that's common in a community that's suffered trauma. And people coming out of communities destroyed by drugs.

And though I am not able to follow the news from my home and perhaps you might idealize the beautiful parts of my world (and that's fine, they are idyllic), I'm sending out a plea to all of you to follow the news for me and to keep hoping and praying. And asking good questions. Don't accept too quickly. Be cautious. Because we need people who care about this part of the world and who want to see the hope of full lives.

Tantalizing dreams of the future

Tomorrow I head back up the mountain to my Shan community after nearly a month in Chiang Mai. I had not planned on staying this long, but getting a work permit delayed me and caused a longer stay here. I cannot even say how much I have missed it and how much I long to return.

Which is odd, perhaps. The rainy season has begun, and everything will be cold and wet. Perhaps nothing will dry. Perhaps my underwear will grow mold like last year. Certainly my feet and ankles will be perpetually covered in mud, and sometimes I will have total wipe-outs on this slippery substance that will leave my entire body a red-brown color and force me to do laundry earlier than I planned, because I still cannot figure how it is that even five-year-olds in Shan State seem to walk in the mud effortlessly and cleanly. I feel like a total buffoon in the mud.

But this community is a part of me now, and all my hopes and longings ride with the people of this community. That's what all my more political postings lately have been about--that deep, deep longing for peace and stability.

Yet there's more to it than a longing for a peace deal and stability and autonomous rule and human rights, etc... What about education? I don't just dream of children being allowed to speak their own language in school (that would fall in the category of "rights"), but I dream of fourth graders reading on a fourth grade level. I dream of Shan State meeting the regional standards of education, maybe one day exceeding. I don't just long for women and children to no no longer fear that fathers will be taken away and forced to be porters (again a human right), but I long for women and children not having to fear that their babies will die due to poor nutrition and preventable disease. I long for systems to form in which to help families who have no water source during the dry season. I long for enough economic development that opium isn't the only way for a farmer to feed his family.

What am I saying? Yesterday I had a conversation with a woman responsible for a lot of the communications from Partners to rest of the world, and we discussed how frustrating it is when everyone thinks things are okay now. First off, the conflict isn't over, and human rights are not really being fully honored.... BUT it is reasonable to be excited by all the positive moves that have occurred in Burma. OF COURSE we should write about those and expect others to be as excited as we are. YET that's not the end of the story. We're talking about a country that's been devastated by over six decades of war... and before that was their independence war and WWII... and before that was colonization, which wasn't exactly the best rule either...

You don't rebuild overnight.

So I'm asking that you continue to remember Burma. Remember the Shan people, whom I talk a lot about, but also the Karen, Kachin, Chin, Lahu, Lisu, Mon, Rohingya, Rakhine, Burmese, etc. Remember all 135 ethnic groups of Burma. Hold us in your thoughts and prayers, because so many hopes and dreams are pinned on being able to finally approach the many development challenges.

And if you are in a position to be able to help financially right now, I encourage you to do so. The work is really just beginning.

But that's not the point. Remember Burma. Talk about Burma. Don't let us slip out of your daily conversation please, because that's what I fear. If Burma "democratizes," people will forget us. So, please, keep talking and reading and asking questions.

The Burmese Military apologizes.

Today, while sifting through the news on Irrawaddy and the SHAN Herald, I saw one that struck me. Recently in a staff meeting at Partners, one person lamented the destruction of the new peace agreement already.

You see, on May 19, the Shan State Army and the Union Peacemaking Work Committee (UPWC - the representatives of the Burmese government) came to what I would have called impossible nine months ago: an agreement, not merely to stop fighting as they had decided in December (with many skirmishes anyway), but to begin working toward a new future (see: The 12 Point Agreement). Everyone cheered, and there was a sense of breathless excitement (and also fear that it would all turn out to be a sham, because I think nobody ever loses that fear) among those of us working in Shan State, while waiting to see what the follow through would look like.

Four days later, the follow-through appeared to be more fighting.

And so this staff member lamented that the peace deal lasted a mere three days. That it was over.

Hearing those words really pained me deeply, and I went back to my room that night and remember feeling strongly that we, especially outsiders and guests, could not be the first to give up. If no official media was announcing that the peace agreement had already fallen apart, we had to be those that held it up in the greatest hope. I believe, we must be the last to despair and the first to hope, no matter how audacious, because truly no good can come without hope. That was Monday.

Today, Wednesday, I discovered the unthinkable: an apology  from the Burmese Army and a decree that went out to all its troops to cease hostilities toward the SSA. An apology!

Please be as excited as I am about this historic event. It's not perfect, but it's enough to keep hope alive. Nobody is ready to give up on the push for peace in the region, therefore I will not despair.

Maybe, just maybe, the time is coming when we can stand beside our Shan sisters and brothers in every way possible in the enormous efforts of rebuilding communities after decades of war. There's so much work ahead, but I wait expectantly for the day when we will be allowed to begin this work.

It's a failed system, not an isolated event.

First of all, thank you, everyone, for how much attention you have given Tsam Hurng over the last couple days. I did not imagine that response. Thankfully, I have also been sent several sources of numbers, so I can correct my statement about the under-five mortality rate.

Thankfully the numbers I had previously read were based on much older figures, and all the work of clinics on the border regions does appear to be making a difference, though the numbers are still quite horrible. The current mortality rate for children under the age of five in Eastern Burma is 138 for every 1,000 births. Taken this way, a child born in Eastern Burma (technically this is not limited to only the border regions, but the study focused largely on the border regions) has close to a 14% likelihood of not making it to his/her fifth birthday. These numbers are from "Diagnosis Critical: Health and Human Rights in Burma" ( http://maetaoclinic.org/publications/health-and-human-rights, click on "Diagnosis Critical" to review the document), who used many of WHO's finding and some original research.

As a point of comparison, babies born in the rest of Burma have only 66 deaths before the age of five to ever 1,000 births, meaning about 6.6% This number should still horrify you, as Thailand has only 14/1,000 (1.4%), and the USA has 8/1,000 (0.8%), and Norway has 3/1,000 (0.3%) (see http://data.worldbank.org/indicator/SH.DYN.MORT).

If you're not a numbers sort of person, I realize this post may not be the most compelling post ever. However, the point is, Tsam Hurng died because of a failing system, not in an isolated event. Poor maternal nutrition weakened him before he was ever born. His mother says that all her babies used to be born healthy, but since she had to flee her village (due to the war), she has never had quite enough food or the right food.

Moreover, the medics and doctors at our clinic have to tell mothers on a regular basis that there is absolutely nothing that can be done for the child who was born blind. Usually the cause was a virus, like measles, that the mother caught while pregnant, a virus that probably every one of my readers was vaccinated against as a baby. When a mother comes in with a blind child, I feel very grateful for my role as teacher, not doctor, because the job of telling this mother, who thought the clinic was the final bit of hope for her child, that nothing can be done is terrible. There's no school for the blind here. A blind child most likely has a very difficult future ahead of him/her. We need vaccines, but a quality vaccination program is difficult, complicated, and expensive. There are plans, but it's baby steps at a time.

So, please, choose to see these kinds of stories in their context. We're working in a land that will take decades to recover from the war that has ravaged it for decades, if that war finally ends. So please look at Partners' website (http://www.partnersworld.org/). Maybe you can get involved.

When child mortality rates take on flesh and skin...

Back in November, those of us staying in the village experienced what felt like a miracle. On vaccination day, a mother with an eight day old baby showed up at the clinic. The baby weighed only 1.2 kg and looked like a skeleton. The mother reported he had been born tiny (possibly a few weeks premature but not much) and was refusing milk. Thankfully, at that time, a Norwegian midwife was with us, and while the rest of us could at best make recommendations (a doctor present even nervously considered the pros and cons of putting a feeding tube into this small baby), Liv provided concrete help to the mother, working with her on how to extract her milk and put it into the very weak baby, who simply was not strong enough to latch onto the breasts.

Two weeks later, the baby was still alive. Still small, still weak, but alive and struggling to live. The mom appeared tired, but she did nothing else in the day but attend to this child, and the baby lived.

Then the baby made it to the one month mark, which is important in Shan culture, because he received a name: Tsam Hurng. He was a live, and he had put on another 100 grams, and he weighed 1.6 kg, still far too small, but he was making it.

Then in February, I went to visit the mom and baby again and was amazed by what I saw: a healthy, thriving little boy with an extraordinarily devoted mother. I sent these photos to Liv, the Norwegian midwife, and felt so proud to have witnessed something so good and extraordinary happen. I thanked God.

Then yesterday I received a phone call from my Shan brother (I'm in Chiang Mai right now, waiting on a work permit). Tsam Hurng had caught chickenpox and died.

Everyone had worked so hard to watch this child live and grow to be a man. His mother had devoted herself to him, and he had seemingly come out of the woods and was okay.

But he died. From chickenpox.

I feel angry at the injustice. Children living on the Thai-Burma border have terrible mortality rates. Unfortunately, I cannot find an online source for the actual mortality rate, but I've seen in print anywhere between 1/3 and 2/5 children die before their fifth birth.

As I share the joy with many Shan friends of mine who are about to have babies or just had theirs, I feel the shadow of the mortality rates. I suspect they're a little better in the village where I live, because we do have a clinic with a mother-baby department that works tirelessly to combat many common causes of death in children. Still, Tsam Hurng reminds me of how far from perfect the situation is.

Please pray for and remember Tsam Hurng's family, and do not forget Burma. Do not think for one moment the struggle for the ethnic regions is over. Some things are improving, but the work is just beginning. And some places, like Kachin State, still wait to see any improvement from the government changes.

America, please reign in the optimism...

A gold rush of massive proportions for all the natural resources and business opportunities will likely begin... now. I want economic development for this country, more than words can say, and I wish I could simply rejoice at the news of new opportunities. Reality and history, however, tell me that business in Burma has often been born on the shoulders of ethnic slave labor and horrific oppression. Today I grieve the decision of my country.

President Obama, why did you lift the ban so quickly and with so few restrictions? Did you not hear the thousands of people who have been abused, displaced, tortured, and even murdered thus far in the name of economic development?

http://uscampaignforburma.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/dangerous-optimism/

Burma is changing

I increasingly find it difficult to write here. Oftentimes I cannot tell every interesting story I encounter, as I would like to, because they involve real people who have real stakes in the world. I'd like to tell you about the guy I know who has gone to Yangon in hopes of applying for a passport so that he can study, but that will have to suffice. I'd like to tell you about the girls I know, who are trying to decide when the right time to return their villages is and how best to use their medical skills. I want to tell you the stories that these one-liners encompass, but all I can give you are on the one-liners... which is nothing. But they do show something: people are thinking about going home. People are gaining rights.

And then there's the generalities. It used to be so much easier to talk about the facts of life in Burma, but now... no fact remains steadfast. Everything is changing so rapidly. Two words describe the situation better than anything else I know: hope and fear. And I suppose I can only write on the juxtapose position of these two ideas in the day to day reality so many times, before you know what I'm wanting to say even before I put it on paper. We wait, and we pray.

Please do not misunderstand me. Life in Burma in the ethnic areas is yet to be "good." BUT life in Burma is changing. There's a real (albeit still small) NLD presence in parliament, who will create a very public opposition to the old military rule. Outsiders are being very hesitantly invited in to do NGO work. The ceasefires are not instantaneously disintegrating, though they're not necessarily being followed quite ideally either. And people are beginning to talk about what they would do if... if they have freedom, if a real democracy rises out of these murky waters, if they can go home.

My own hopes and dreams are changing... because Burma is changing. I have this new dream of putting my Shan language skills to use in its own homeland.

Sometimes a few of the more skeptical people around me remind to keep a reign on my optimism. I don't know if I'm honestly optimistic or merely hopeful. I hope. I don't know if I believe yet, but I hope. And that's what keeps the possibility of a better reality alive. It's the only thing worth writing about that I have said for the last five months, and I don't intend to stop: I hope.

Whispering to a migrant worker

A couple hours ago, I went to Chiang Mai University's dental hospital to get my teeth examined, and I was given the bad news: I have my first ever cavity. Actually, though I had made it 25 years thus far without that diagnosis, apparently a rice-dominant diet has turned my pretty teeth into a hotbed of six new cavities.

While that was mildly disturbing, the good news was they could get back to me the same day to fill them. That has meant I've had an odd number of hours in which I do not want to go too far, because I will be coming back to get my teeth filled, but I also do not have a whole lot left to do on this part of town (besides either sit at my guest house eating mango, as I am doing now, or sit in a cafe). So I decided to explore a little market I had only brushed past previously to fill up some time, hoping I might find some tea, a pillowcase, or a bath mat, the three things I'm currently looking for.

I'll try to go by again tomorrow or the day after and take some pictures of this market. It's really quite small compared to most similar markets, but it holds all of what I love best in a market. The stalls crowded close together. The smells. The snacks. The colors. The spices. Everything. And then random bath-related products in the back. That appears to almost always be the case in every market.

As I was looking for a bath mat, I decided to go check out some of the random bath-related stalls. To my surprise, one of them also had an array of yarn, so I decided to ask if they had crochet hooks, something several girls at the clinic had requested. Unfortunately, at about this point, my Thai began to fall apart, and all I had left was the random assortment of words in Shan that I knew I could use to ask my questions. Of course, Thai and Shan, while overlapping 30%, are rather like English and Dutch... similar, yes, but that doesn't mean speaking one means understanding the other.

But the girl helping me understood me... I saw it in her eyes. I knew I had used the wrong words, but she pointed me immediately in the right direction. I tried to speak again in Thai, but once again failing, a mishmash of Thai and Shan tumbled out of my mouth, and I felt a gentle arm suddenly pulling me further into the shop as she put her finger to her lips.

Finally her own words came out in slow, deliberate Shan for me, so that I would understand, "Older Sister, why are you speaking Shan?"

"I don't know Thai," I answered. "But you know Shan too then!"

Again, she hushed me with her finger to her lips, and added, "Older Sister, there are two of us who are Shan here, but be quiet. There are Thais walking around. Nobody knows."

I looked at her and comprehended for the first time what it really means to not have papers. No ID. To not exist in the eyes of the world.

We went on to chat some more, and she asked me why I knew Shan and was quite happy to learn that I lived in a Shan border town she knew quite well and had even lived in. She craved any knowledge I could give her about her Shan community, but my own linguistic abilities only allowed the most basic of knowledge. We whispered a little longer in a corner of the store, then after verifying where I could get what I was looking for, I left.

And I reflected.

Earlier today my usual "breakfast shop" gave me some extra soup for "being Shan." In fact, they never call me the Farang anymore, only "Miss Shan" (Sao Thai Yayy), a name actually given by the very kind Thai owner and repeated by the Shan workers.

Because I believe in the power of language, I have not yet figured out what it means that when I come to Chiang Mai, the language I speak is the language of the lowest tier in Thai society. The undocumented workers. Individuals who have left their homes for a combination of both economic and political reasons. Individuals who feel no other options left. And find the struggles of life in Chiang Mai to be their only chance at survival.

And I find myself whispering in corners of little bath product stalls, while a young girl calls me older sister and asks me for the news.

The real news is that this young girl is just one of 1.44 million unregistered migrants in Thailand. See: http://www.un.or.th/documents/TMR-2011.pdf

If

I've been thinking a great deal lately about what it means to live well in the midst of stark uncertainty. Right now, my entire community and world exists between two radically different possibilities. IF there is real peace. IF the fighting returns more intensely than even before. It seems one of these two will happen. It seems there's no in between.

IF there's peace, we can move on a vaccination program and start talking about what education in Shan State might look like one day. We can discuss development and consider sustainable agriculture. We can even use buzz words like micro loans and agriculture co-ops.

IF there's fighting, we'll need every available blood donor. And aide. Delivering food. And love for every traumatized victim. And we will face still further daily uncertainty.

I know, I'm using the word "we," because I live in a community that faces this existence. And this future is, in part, my future. But I won't ever go to the front lines to defend my village. And I'll be allowed to leave whenever I decide all the uncertainty is just too much. And I will get away regularly to reconnect with others, skype my family, who are all safe and sound, and drink iced coffees in cafes while writing blog entries with soft jazz music in the background.

When I think about all of this, the longing for peace, which I find myself repeatedly writing about in every letter, becomes almost overwhelming. The second "IF" emotionally overwhelms me for all my friends. Though 90% of the time, every friend and loved one surrounding me is Shan, it is I in the end who can escape the pain, and I find I cannot stand that reality. I want my community, my friends, those I love to have the same ability as I... but I have a passport, and that changes everything.

So, please, pray as all of us as we live between this shaky reality of what could be and what might be. We live with the dreams and fears entangled together. The hope of one day returning home for those I love is beyond words. But the other IF... All I ask is that you pray. That you remained concerned with our little corner of the world. That you read the news about Burma. That you write any and every politician you find when campaigns are run for the sake of Burma. For we live in uncertainty, and the answer to all of our questions about what might be lies in the hands of a few government and military figures... and I'm naive enough to believe that maybe the rest of the world will influence their decisions. So pray. And act. And read. And talk.

And check out Partners: http://www.partnersworld.org

Or the Campaign for Burma: http://uscampaignforburma.org/

Waiting for peace

A  few days ago, a thirteen year old girl at the school lost her entire family to the SPDC. Her parents were shot, and her four year old little brother was kidnapped.

Meanwhile, we have a ceasefire... even a peace deal. And all that people really want is to go home.

We wait. We hope. We pray.

And this thirteen year old and her parents' friends mourn.

The Narrator Voice

While occasionally people thank me for writing, the truth is that writing exists mostly as a compulsion for me. I think in terms of writing. I call it my "narrator voice." I reflect and think and dream in this narrator voice that is always communicating... perhaps merely to myself, but I feel the tug of my fingers toward the keyboard when the narrator voice is at its loudest or most passionate. I rather think it reflects an incredibly narcissistic side of myself, a side that actually believes others care or might benefit from hearing these reflections. Yet, I cannot turn off the narrator voice, and I feel compelled to put it on paper. Mind you, I do not always share the writings that result from this inner voice, but I have to write. And when this narrator voice is at its most prolific, even the small minority that gets shared with others adds up to a sizable amount.

Yet there are these other strange times, in which that voice suddenly turns off. In these times, suddenly as I walk through life, my thoughts make only silence. They do not string themselves together into words and paragraphs in my mind. To write is to struggle, and what I write frustrates me, for it is not coming from that place deep within where the narrator voice resides. It feels forced and for someone else, not out of my own desires or passion.

I tell you all of this, because I have not been writing for several weeks. I have not written any group e-mails. I've hardly written any individual e-mails. And I have not written any blog posts.

I apologize. To those of you who are so faithful to read all that I have to say, I am providing absolutely no further knowledge about life in the Shan village I love so much, and I am sorry for that. Moreover there's absolutely no reason for my silence. There's no bad news or good news that has overwhelmed me and thus silenced me. There's been no sickness or other strangeness. There's only been so very much of the ordinary beauty that I usually revel in and which inspires pages upon pages of contemplation on an ordinary day.

But my inner voice has become oddly quiet, as it will occasionally. Without it, I don't know how to stream words into sentences. Without that voice, my thoughts can only burrow deep, deep within me.

Perhaps I am coming out of it, as the ability to write this post may hint at. Still, if this is all I find myself able to write for now, I only hope you understand. I am trying. I want to tell you lots. I only need time to pull my voice back out of the folds of its hiding place. I simply do not wish to write you merely an "update" of life, factual without any heart. So please be patient and wait.  In telling you even this, I am waking up my narrator voice again, and I will speak. The words will come. I want you to know about the place I care so much about. And I want to talk about all my hopes and fears and dreams when it comes to potential of peace in Burma. I want to tell you all these thoughts, but these thoughts do not exist in words yet. So know that I will write again soon. For now, all my love goes out to all of you who have been faithfully reading my words.

The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

Yesterday I found myself rediscovering Switchfoot's Nothing is Sound album.

This morning I woke up early due to digestive needs and found myself facing the most beautiful sunrise I have experienced here thus far (and I have experienced many, many sunrises here). Directly horizontal and above me the sky danced in shades of pink and orange, and below me, I looked over the ocean of clouds, dimly reflecting these beautiful colors. Every tree and object sticking up cast long, eerie shadows over the ground, simultaneously creating striking silhouettes against the sky. Yet nowhere could the sun be seen. I realized another mountain peak blocked this orange ball of fire from my sight. I looked around at the shadowy state of my home, where I yet required a flashlight to see around, and smiled. The shadows proved the sunshine.The day was breaking, and shadows were cast everywhere.

 Relying on an old-fashioned piece of technology called the radio, we are hearing rumors that Aung San Suu Kyi has been entering into some potentially meaningful peace talks with the ruling regime of Burma. Right now, everything seems hopeless when I think about the things the SPDC does to the minority groups here. The other day I heard a story about the SPDC, who occupied a town in the Shan State, one day randomly kidnapping a little six year old girl, raping her, and then sealing her in the town's pagoda alive, for no other reason than that they could. This little child died a slow death of starvation in the pitch black, nobody hearing her cries, nobody coming to her rescue. Her mother went a little crazy afterward, never quite recovering.

It's hard to imagine that those who do this to such pictures of innocence might really every making peace with those they've been attacking and torturing for decades. Yet it's possible a little hint of pink dances on the horizon, as we look around the shadowy, gloomy landscape of this earth. With that in mind, I leave you the words of Switchfoot's "The Shadow Proves the Sunshine."

 Switchfoot - “The Shadow Proves the Sunshine”

 Sunshine, won't you be my mother?
Sunshine, come and help me sing.
My heart is darker than these oceans.
My heart is frozen underneath.

 We are crooked souls trying to stay up straight.
Dry eyes in the pouring rain.
Well, the shadow proves the sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
Too scared it'll run away.
Hold fast to the break of daylight.
The shadow proves the sunshine.

 Oh, Lord why did you forsake me?
Oh, Lord, don't be far away.
Storm clouds gathering beside me.
Please Lord don't look the other way.

Crooked souls trying to stay up straight.
Dry eyes in the pouring rain.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
Too scared it'll run away.
Hold fast to the break of daylight.
The shadow proves the sunshine.
The shadow proves the sunshine.

The heritage that drives me.

In the last three weeks, I've been asked a dozen or so times why I care... why I care about the Shan... why I care about the victims of this genocide... why I care enough to move around the world to teach in a relatively remote location. Each time I've basically stumbled through this answer, mumbling something about the last time I was in Thailand and visiting a refugee camp and memories that stay in your head... etc.

But something absolutely fundamental is missed in this answer. Why do some memories stay forever in one's head? Why do some life experiences become the driving force of direction in one's life, while others pass away with only a gently nagging tug of guilt? It's not merely the idea of responding to the other in compassion, because I have seen suffering in many places around the world, including my own country. For me, it's this soul-sickening word called "genocide" that grips me.

You see, my response is fully rooted in the narrative into which I was born. Much literature has been written about the sense of guilt many children of the Jewish diaspora feel for surviving, for living, in light of the Holocaust and the pogroms of the 20th century in Europe. I have also witnessed the shame and guilt that is expressed in German culture over the Holocaust. As a product of American culture, where old world family histories do not determine new relationships, the memory of both types of guilt run deeply through my veins and perhaps more intensely than usual. It has always felt easier to claim solidarity with those that died (the distant Jewish relatives and the not so distant Bohemian relatives) than to recognize the ugly history of a few times removed cousin, who stood beside Hitler as one of his right hand men and directed the murder of millions. I am Bohemian, Jewish, and German (and by this I do not mean German Jewish, rather the relative a Nazi war criminal), and the histories of each have gripped me and caused me to wonder how it is that entire people groups can turn to hatred. It is what forces me to respond and to refuse to passively ignore genocide as it exists in this world.

I suppose this is not an easy answer to give when someone asks casually (as if any answer can be casual) why I care, and I will probably continue to mumble and stumble through in response, but here's the truth: I care, because the blood running through my veins dictates only two options in response to the face of genocide, either an actively compassionate response or a sickening hardening of heart. I choose the first.

"Are you afraid to return to your village?"

I've learned a lot in the last week. I had no clue that I could begin learning a language, particularly a non-Germanic or tonal language so quickly (thankfully this one is closely related to Thai, which I had studied in the past). Yet I have found myself in those wonderful moments in which 25 or so "teachers" sat around me pointing to objects, telling me their names, correcting my tones, and repeating questions multiple times until I learned how to answer them correctly. I felt like a real linguist, trying to quickly scribble things down in IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet) until eventually the Shan alphabet began to unfold itself into consonants, vowels, and tones to me that actually made sense and which I could read. Don't get me wrong, I can only utter the most basic phrases, but this last week caused me to learn more and quicker than I ever imagined. In this regard, I give all the credit to my teachers, the young female community health worker and medic students at the clinic, who took me under their wing. These girls, valuing education highly, know how to study, and they know how to guide studying. They will go hours with me, without pause, studying, reviewing, laughing, and studying more. We've now entered the stage, where they will allow me to play games with them as part of my learning, but they never ease up on their intensity regarding my own learning of the Shan language. I cannot even begin to express my gratitude enough for these girls (most of them between the ages of 16 and 21). They look out for me, and because of them, I am learning to express myself in their language.

One particular lesson stands out to me however. I had previously learned the word "afraid," and they just taught me the words "return" and "village." I took a risk and attempted to ask them if they were afraid to return to their villages. I must have succeeded, because, without any hesitation, all four girls sitting around me nodded their heads. Then one girl (my closest friend of these girls) went a bit further and told me in Shan (and lots of hand motions) that she's not afraid if the Burmese military never knows she was here, but if they find out, they will shoot her. I asked them then if the military had ever attacked their villages, she drew a map and pointed to one dot which she told me was her village. She drew a line and wrote "3 miles" over it and connected it to another dot, which was another village. She then said that her village had not been attacked, but this other one had.

Every one of these girls intends to take their medical training back to their villages. I'm selfish and wish they were a little less brave so I would fear for my friends a little less.

Where I start and end...

I'm in DC, and tonight I get on a flight that will begin the journey to the Thai-Burma border.

Documents and anxiety...

Today is my final full day in North Carolina. It frightens me to think that tomorrow I load my suitcase into a car and drive with my parents to DC. Thankfully, nearly every new life experience (minus just a few) has started in DC for me, and the ritual will bring about its own calmness.

At the moment, however, I don't feel the calmness of my DC ritual. I keep staring at my duffel bag and thinking I've got too much stuff and thinking about weeding out still a little more. Then I run through my list of documents that I need on the airplane: Qatar Airways itinerary, Qmiles membership card... wait, what airline is it that I'm flying from Bangkok to Chiang Mai? My mind freezes and for a few horrible seconds I wonder if it's all in my head that I've even purchased a ticket from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Being stuck in Bangkok without any plans sounds horrid, but, good news, I'm flying Bangkok Airways. I will also need the paper with my membership to that airline's frequent flyer list. Additionally, I need the address of the couple I'm staying with when I get to Chiang Mai, and I should probably have the address of Partners. Oh, and my virtual insurance card. I definitely need to print that. Somehow, all of this makes me feel slightly anxious that I might forget any one of them and then reminds me that I'm not coming back, which scares me, even as I'm simultaneously so excited to be going.

Of course, there's also all the things I'd like to copy for my parents before I leave (passport, itinerary, vaccination records, etc.), and still all the other things I'd like to accomplish. For example, I'd really like to see my mom's new food blog set up and ready to go: Grandma's Gone Global (she's hasn't written anything yet, but I cannot imagine a better chef for a global food blog).

And then in that rare moment, when my thoughts are not focused on all that I must accomplish, I remember why I'm doing this. I'm going for people like this one:

Not So Different from Partners Relief & Development on Vimeo.

And these:

War Refugee from Partners Relief & Development on Vimeo.

The first video is of a Karen girl, and the next video is of a Kachin refugee camp, which are both different than the Shan, with whom I'll be working, but I cannot find a better way to explain why I'm going, because all three groups have been victims of the same military regime. And when I remember these, I feel strangely very focused, and all anxiety about the details of this document or that falls away in light of the purpose of going.

Who loses under sanctions?

Sanctions have always been one of those tricky subjects. In my mind, there has to be a place for the tools of soft diplomacy... and, yet, what do economic sanctions actually accomplish?

Today I stumbled across this article from the Financial Times, titled "How sanctions made Burma's richest man." Referring to a man too close to the Burmese government for American interests, it describes,

"European and US nationals are banned from doing business with him – and his estranged wife, oldest son, mother, brother or sister-in-law. Yet his wine cellar is stocked with a series of vintages from Chateaux Petrus and Margaux, while a Rolls-Royce and a Lamborghini stand next to the Ferrari. His palatial Rangoon home sits down the street from the dilapidated villa where Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi spent more than 15 years under house arrest."

If only the powerful, well-connected, and government officials have continued to be able to profit while under sanctions, one can't help but wonder who are they hurting? Is it just those who would have made up a middle class through trade and foreign exchange?

I am neither for nor against the sanctions, because I do not have the economic background to really examine whether they are successfully impacting the intended individuals, but articles like this one make me nervous and frustrated. I want there to be some sort of soft diplomacy magic pill that puts all the right pressure on regimes that abuse their people.