She will be spending the next few weeks working on a photo-narrative project with our young students, asking them to take self-portraits and consider their biggest dream. We are so excited to see the final product!
I've had some incredibly powerful experiences throughout the past week -- experiences of profound human connection across barriers of language and culture. I live for the moments when we are able to achieve such connection, despite the countless obstacles and distractions that stand in the way of our doing so. I hope that any art I create embodies the idea of this connection ... of the beautiful meshing and intertwining of two human souls bonding over something much more raw, much more in-line with the spirit, than the insufficiency of spoken words. As I seem to move towards an all-encompassing, spiritual understanding of the world, I know that those I encounter have not wandered across my path by chance. No, there is surely something much bigger, something outside of myself, which ever conspires to bring me to the right people at the right time. It has bridged oceans, countries, languages, and cultures, bringing me face to face with kindred spirits all over the world. There are so many people here on this earth ... nearly 7 billion, the last time I checked. With so many people to meet ... how is it that we manage to meet the right ones? The ones with souls we resonate with, the ones who make us feel lighter, the ones who make us feel ... home? Isn't it miraculous?
Last night, I stopped to say a 'quick' hello to P'Dam, the owner of my guesthouse, as I was heading back to my room after a long day. Last week, P'Dam and I bonded over an impromptu English/Thai lesson over my morning coffee, and I later accompanied her to her daughter's dance performance in town. Because P'Dam doesn't speak any English, we sometimes run into communication barriers, but we have forged a rather unique, and special, friendship. She is quiet and soft-spoken, and ever eager to make others feel comfortable. Last night, what I thought was going to be a quick hello turned into several hours of deep conversation. Before I knew it, we had shared much of our past and present lives with one another. It just so happens that we have quite a lot in common. We share characteristics and bear similar scars -- she, a middle-aged woman who grew up in the mountain ranges of northern Thailand, and me, a young American woman still fumbling to find her feet. Considering none of you reading this know P'Dam, I believe it's safe to share a bit of her story. P'Dam's parents divorced when she was only a year old. After this, her mother left, seemingly disappearing into thin air. P'Dam didn't see her again until she was 16. While P'Dam managed to attend the local elementary school, the high school was located too far from her home for her to attend. Her father was not well, and she had no means of transportation. As I understand it, P'Dam knew a teacher who would often supply her with books that she could study at home. Because she didn't attend formal school, P'Dam never really studied English. Whenever we talk, she often pulls out a children's English workbook, well-worn and used. She endeavors to learn a little bit here and there, mostly so she can communicate with the foreigners who rent guesthouses from her. While she knows the alphabet somewhat, she has trouble remembering the sounds, and reading. I have found that she knows a lot of vocabulary, though she is quite shy to speak, and far too humble to acknowledge how intelligent she is.
I asked P'Dam if her and her mother were 'sanit' (friendly, close) with one another upon her return. She hesitated, pursed her lips, and glanced away before replying, "A little." I told her that if my mother removed herself from my life, I would surely feel resentful and angry. "I'm not sure I could be friendly with her again," I said. She nodded before saying, in her customary soft voice, "I wanted a mother." I saw something quite vulnerable within her at that moment. I pictured her as a small child, aching desperately to be embraced by the warm, loving arms of a mother. I asked P'Dam if she is still 'sanit' with her mother today, and she replied that she provides her with a home nearby. "So, you take care of her?" I asked. P'Dam nodded and replied, "She doesn't have anyone, you know?" Then, she repeated, "P'Dam yaak mee mae." (I [still] want a mother.) I felt that salty tingling begin behind my eyes and thought, we never stop wanting that, do we? "You have a good heart, P'Dam," I told her, and she shook her head in protest, too humble to accept such a compliment. When I finally looked at the time, I realized it was after midnight. P'Dam and I had gotten lost in conversation, spending hours navigating our lives and endeavoring to put our experiences in words that the other would understand. I walked back to my room feeling light, reflecting on the bond we have managed to forge. We are two unlikely friends, floating in a sea of nearly seven billion people ... and, somehow, we found each other.
I had a similar meaningful encounter with a 20 year old Shan Burmese girl named Nuan. Nuan is the first student that the Burmese Refugee Project is sending to university. She will be leaving in May to pursue a degree in business and Chinese at Chiang Rai university. She is incredibly smart and eager to learn, and has a real knack for foreign languages. When I asked her how often she wanted me to tutor her in English while I am here, she replied, "Everyday, teacher." "Well, okay!" I said, excited to work with such a bright young woman. I had read Nuan's profile on the Burmese Refugee Project's website, though I had no idea how difficult her life had/has been. When another BRP volunteer and I ventured to Nuan's house for the first time, we ended up having a conversation about the complex conflict going on in Burma, and what her life was like there as well as here in Thailand. She was quite open with us, and we ended up spending several hours at her home, talking late into the night. Nuan was born in Burma, in what is considered (unofficially, I assume) Shan state. Her father abandoned her family shortly after Nuan was born, and her mother died when she was only three years old. She then went to live with her grandparents and several other family members, none of whom particularly looked after her. She told me that she began working at a young age. "Doing what?" I asked. "Everything," she replied -- taking care of the other children, tending to the garden, trekking to get water, and selling coal on the streets of her town. Her family was very poor, as were/are most in Burma, and soldiers could come raid their home at any time. Even the food they grew themselves wasn't truly their 'own' -- all was at risk of being seized by troops. This isn't the only danger Nuan faced in Burma, of course. In villages closer to the border, particularly, young boys were often kidnapped and forced to serve in the army, and young girls, "if they were beautiful," Nuan informed me, were often raped and even killed. Though this wasn't as likely to occur in Nuan's village, she and her family nevertheless lived in fear, and struggled with poverty. She had to take care of herself as a child, and it is obvious that she didn't feel loved or cared for by her family in Burma. When she came to Thailand at eight years old, she lived with her sister and her sister's husband. Life there was somewhat hard for Nuan, and it seems as if they perceived her as, for lack of a better term, a nuisance. Now that her sister's ex-husband is gone, things are a bit better between them, though there is still palpable tension there. As we were talking, Nuan's eyes eventually welled with tears. "I think I will cry now," she said, as she shyly put her hands to her face. I tried to assure her that it was okay to cry, to let herself feel that hurt that is obviously still very poignant. "You can trust us," I tried to assure her. I felt simultaneously heartbroken, humbled, and honored. Nuan is very vocal about her gratitude towards the BRP for giving her a chance to pursue an education. "In Burma, we are not free. In Thailand, we are not free. But, now I have a chance." A chance to be reborn, in a matter of speaking, I told her. She has lived a painful life, but she is now at a crossroads of sorts, with people who care about her cheering her on. She is so motivated and strong. My heart swells with pride and hope in anticipation of all she will accomplish, and what she already has.
Nuan has expressed an interest to study grammar and writing, so I am meeting with her each day to help her write her story. Today, as she told me about her mother's death, her eyes again welled with tears. "Nuan, please tell me if this makes you feel uncomfortable, or if this is too hard for you," I told her. She wiped away her tears and shook her head. "No, teacher. I want everyone to know my story." Me too, I thought. Me too. I am incredibly excited to take her portrait, and to help her put her story into words. Though the process is, and will be, painful, I think it will also be cathartic. Plus, I want her to be able to communicate to the world, to everyone willing to listen, "I am here." The Shan are a stateless people, plagued by a lack of belonging and of recognition. The average person has never heard of their existence. But, they are here, and they are beautiful, talented people with incredible stories to share.
I intend on keeping my relationship with Nuan after I leave (in just two short weeks). I have become her pii sao (older sister) in a matter of days, and though I cannot stay for long, I want to prove to her that people do stick around, that all is not impermanent. Today, as we parted ways, we shared a long embrace.
I am beginning to despair over the fact that I only have two weeks left here. Perhaps it's in the cards for me to return to Pai ... I am certainly beginning to feel that way. I am trying to remain open to all this crazy world is tossing my way, while remembering that it is okay (and perhaps even liberating) to let go of one's plans and expectations.
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