Pens to Guns

by B. Erickson | October 2008

As the mist rises—snaking through the adjacent valleys and stalkingly approaching like a patient tiger—I feel calm. It rises to and over our pre-dawn, hodgepodge assembly, all disciplined and standing at attention, the boys listening to the commissar-esque speech of their commanding officer. It has that kind of energy that's reminiscent of a Thai massage in which you really fear the initial discombobulating pop but the energy and tranquility that flows afterwards reminds you why you're here at all.

This is a disciplined, die-hard and ready-to-die group of guys. You can tell by the 30 baht sky-blue rainboots, plastic slippers, mismatching uniforms and NGO-donated t-shirts of varying colors. Ironically bearing inspirational text such as a few articles of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

But this dossier speaks louder than the average Western may realize.

These are men of the Karen, an ethnic minority group here along the Thai-Burma border, who have been oppressed by but have actively resisted the Burmese military junta and its forces for over 60 years.

While Mr./Mrs. All-principles-and-empathy-Westerner may scoff at the idea of armed resistance, there's still that perhaps unrecognized (and certainly unadmitted) mental moment of comparing this group to our idea of an effective fighting force. It seems hopeless for a moment. But, if you squint really hard, your eyes can translate these images into the understanding that these are some of the most dedicated, selfless and effective protectors of a group, their group's, their people's, right to exist.

As I observe them with recognition and familiarity, I try to remember how it was that I ended up here at base camp, a guest but over the experiences of the next few days, an extended brother.

I had embarked on my "trip" of sorts into Burma with the intention of writing to inspire, not report, which has been done again, and again, and again.

What I mean by this is that the human rights abuses that are committed here in Eastern Burma with continued impunity are well documented. Please search "Karen Human Rights Group," "Free Burma Rangers," "EarthRights International" and a whole host of other publications and organizations that have risked much to bring details on these abuses to the international public so that they can be accessed with ease and ideally, for advocacy use and just as significant, fundraising for the victims.

So from this perspective, I am not interested in developing reports as there are more informed individuals working on this with established sources. Rather, I would hope to give the average person a general outline of the history in this area but only so far as to help them see how the current offensives by the Burmese military (the Taw Ma Daw), and a renegade splinter group called the D.K.B.A. (Democratic Karen Buddhist Army, a huge misnomer if I've ever heard one), truly mean for the very existence of the Karen people.

The situation is dire enough that they face the loss of all territory or sovereign control under which rape as a military/repressive weapon, the burning of villages, landmining corn fields and rice paddies, etc, will continue without restraint.

They are facing total displacement, and the threat of both cultural and actual genocide. An ultimatum that, in their experience, left no choice between fight or die. Where passivity and hoping for the best guaranteed oppression, rape, torture, forced labor and imposed famine and taxation, their people were left with the singular alternative of armed resistance out of defense of their people and their way of life.

But I digress. This if not where my own experience began.

Rather, my trip began after a brief toast of Beer Chang to "Los Hombres" (myself and two friends with which I shared these experiences) along the Thai-Burmese border after stocking up on various supplies: pens, pencils, school books, clothes and food (the most significant provision, frighteningly).

On our way in, we stopped to see the wife of Gen. Bo Mya (the recently deceased father figure of the Karen Revolution who had helped to expel the Japanese invasion of Burma in WWII and had then turned to resisting the newly formed military government). Otherwise known and referred to as "Karen Grandmother".

We arrived at the house of the General, which at first seemed to be depreciating, like the approx. 60-year-old resistance itself (though not in spirit). But thinking about it later, I found it instead to be unpretentious and reflective of an overall respect and dedication to their people.

In contrast to many "leaders" of various ethnic militaries inside Burma, this place was not fancy nor gaudy which says to me that resources were instead prioritized for the people and for the movement. The compound was surrounded with family and ex-soldiers, some with hip-level, quasi/ad hoc replacement legs, no doubt the victim of a landmine. However, these men were nonchalant and serene, as if this wound was unsurprising or to be expected given a long enough timeline in and the nature of this struggle...

Having never met this woman and being taken on our friend's word, we were ushered upstairs to meet Karen Grandmother. She's a soft spoken woman with the weight of generations of struggle in her voice. She was quite honest about the flux of the current situation and was amazingly humble and willing to meet with us despite the fact that I'm sure she's seen many gallowahs ("foreigners," in Karen) come and go with promises of help over the years.

Despite our meager efforts, she was still genuinely thankful, and despite her seemingly ailing health, she still met with us, strangers, but strangers united in our dedication to help where we can and fight injustice which understandably makes people extended family already.

But what do you ask an unpresumptive icon like that?

This woman was the founder of the Karen Women's Organization and had the foresight and lack of hubris to turn over leadership as her health developed as an issue. I suppose the status of the situation is made most clear by her response to my question as to what we can do, what we can provide:

"Baby clothes, for ages 0-5"

The barest of necessities, the most basic of needs but with a clear rationale to it:

"We must continue to struggle to maintain a future for the next generation"

After our brief conversation, we left the house with thanks moving in both directions. We left in our friend's car, to a cacophony of deafening reverberations, that toxic perfume, the infamous CO smell.

My friend's driving became the jokingly first test of our brotherly relationship but we made it eventually, and I couldn't help but notice his progressive seriousness and professionalism as we neared closer to the border and an uncertain next few days...

When we left off, my two comrades and I were speeding towards the Thai-Burma border in our carbon monoxide-saturated vehicle, me gripping the seat-with-no-seatbelt. Funny thing is, the driver, a good friend, is someone that I would--both in the abstract and in actuality later, over the next few days--trust with my life. Yet, his driving...

Man.

I'll never get used to the driving "style," or lack thereof, here in Thailand and Southeast Asia in general. Though there is a strange method to the madness, I think the fact that Thailand has one of the highest rates of traffic fatalities says *something*, even if there is some strange pattern or predictability to the bad driving.

In other words, one can predict that a driver ahead or coming towards, especially, will make this (in my driving opinion) bad choice, or that bad choice. And it doesn't surprise me albeit I'm still left confused, often.

Anyhow, again, we take a side road, then another side road off that, and yet another side road off of that, until we get to a dirt path where we kill the lights and our voices, and simply wait. Wait for our "escort," if you will, who will march us in under the cover of darkness and by the light of the moon.

And, like apparitions, they slowly and silently appear and emerge from the black, which has a strange, almost congealed quality to it. As if you are not able or allowed to sense through it unless you are Karen and have necessarily had to confront it regularly. To a point where it's become your ally.

We trek through, jokingly keeping track of the number of times us, the gollowahs, almost slip as we slip through the jungle, up, down, around, through fields and across rivers on rickety bamboo bridges. We sweat up a storm while our friends and guides are dry, but nevertheless supportive as seen in their pace—since they, and we, know that we're not in the same league. Really, it's not even the same fucking sport.

Eventually we arrive at "base camp," which is a "collection" of three huts or so, altogether. Two shelters and a spot for cooking and washing, which doubles as the incessantly-meowing-base camp cat's home. Like any reputable Karen base camp, there's guns lying about, all sorts of current and outdated models, an RPG idly waiting to be shot next to our meal, tea and checkers table, Karen-made landmines hanging in bags from the rafters like chilies drying in the sun.

There's an M-16 lazily slung over a shoulder and when things began to get hairy, resting in my lap. All the while the base camp cat is purring loudly atop it as I pet it towards its version of heaven.

But there's so much... waiting. There's a saying that's been passed to me, that life (or an experience in our case) as a soldier, is 80% being bored out of your skull, 10% having fun, and the final 10% being scared shitless.

And it's true.

Though we didn't experience the latter until the beginning of the next night, and progressively the dawn and dusk of each day that we remained there.

But despite all this, we had fellowship--we laughed, sung--"the answer my friends, is blowin' in the wind".

They laugh at us, we deserve to be laughed at, our amateur asses, but it's always in a brotherly humble sort of way. Joking without condescension.

We're singing to the enemy--an amassed combo of D.K.B.A. and Taw Ma Daw soldiers, literally surrounding us along the hilltops and adjacent valleys. And yet, despite the gross outnumbering, we sing.

Cause there truly may be no tomorrow. Or at least a brief tomorrow.

If anything, this experience of joy and comfort despite the imminent threat and shit situation truly demonstrates the truth and soul of this fight, this resistance for the purpose of survival and freedom. You sure as hell didn't hear singing coming from the opposing camp (though I hope they didn't hear ours, tactically speaking).

As we sing, my final educational lesson of the night is how to arm, load and fire an M-16.

"American, good, no?"

"Yeah, good..."

Ironically, this whole thing began with my own intentions of coming in to teach, to give educational supplies among other things including morale boosts. But life, and life on the border has a funny yet predictable habit of changing your plans for you.

So, I learned out of necessity, and had a new, steal-coil bedmate for the next few nights. Though it would be at least another day before I started sleeping with my boots on...

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