The Saga of Sidoktaya
How I found myself in a remote, flood-ravaged Burmese village on the same day as the Lady Herself, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi
Traces of mud on the ceiling betrayed the truth — this temple had been hastily prepared for what was about to happen.
On the streets, the mud was impossible to scrape off. In a country where dirty feet are the norm, nobody seemed to mind. Especially considering the circumstances.
As far as the eye could see stretched the crowds, villagers who had come from miles away to see the spectacle, on motorbikes and on foot, through floodplains and dirty mountain passes. Seemingly everyone wore red bandanas and hats, waving the flag of the fighting peacock. The excitement was palpable.
They had survived three days without food and water, days more with only emergency supplies. They had slept on rooftops, evidenced by the pillows and blankets that remained visibly stacked on huts and shops. They had lost their rice paddies and livestock to flood waters that came in the middle of the night, and they had lost their livelihoods.
But She was coming, and that was all that seemed to matter.
THIS is the story of how I found myself, through providence and good fortune and one death defying bus ride, in a small, flood-ravaged Myanmar village called Sidoktaya in the year 2015, on the same day as Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, Nobel Laureate and leader of the National League for Democracy.
It begins, naturally, in the newsroom.
It was a Wednesday afternoon when my editor mentioned a potential story; how were impromptu volunteers organizing the delivery of emergency aid to flood victims throughout Myanmar? In the streets of Yangon, it had become impossible to go more than a block without running into them, youth groups and student organizations wearing T-shirts emblazoned with the words “#SaveMyanmar.”
[If you’re not caught up, a brief recourse: In July 2015, Cyclone Komen generated huge winds and rains over much of the western part of the country. The typical, seasonal flooding that locals expect swiftly grew to unmanageable levels, and by July 31, the government had declared 4 of 14 regions to be in crisis state. In total, 12 of the 14 regions have been severely affected, and at the time of this writing, the United Nations has predicted that the waters wrought $47 million USD worth of damage. More than 2,500 schools are still closed or destroyed, half a million people are fighting food insecurity, and more than 15,000 houses have been swept away. More from the most recent UN report, here.]
The Myanmar people have responded to great disaster with great charity, in keeping with the fundamental principles of Theravada Buddhism that believe dama, or charitable generosity, is key to making merit. In 2014, Myanmar ranked #1 among all countries on the World Giving Index, and during my first two weeks here, it’s been easy to see why. These youth groups in the streets are passionate about helping their countrymen, and many have taken to Twitter and Facebook to amplify their message.
That’s how my story began — an assignment on how social media is enabling Myanmar people to support flood victims. In a country where SIM cards have depreciated from $150 in 2013 to $1.50 in 2015, mobile penetration is at nearly 50 percent. Everyone has smartphones, and therefore, a Facebook profile. Virtually, everyone can donate.
Through the pursuit of that story, I met Soe Htet, an aspirational young man with dreams of running for Myanmar presidency someday. His father, a major National League for Democracy (NLD) supporter, raised him via regular visits to the Aung San Museum in Yangon. The family is pretty well off, and Soe is able to attend university in America, studying mathematics and getting pretty damn good at English. The kid is passionate about education the way most Americans his age are passionate about fantasy football. It’s his dream, to bring Myanmar into mainstream democracy. This semester he’s taking one class at Southeast Missouri State, and you know what he wants to do in his free time? Research alternative fuels… in order to make them viable in his homeland.
Home for the summer and horrified by the floods, Soe organized a Facebook group that raised a little over $4,000 USD in less than a week. With additional material donations, that sum equated to more than 7,000 water bottles, 100 hundred-pound sacks of rice, and 10,000 cans of food (not to mention a handful of lifestraw community water purifiers). I wrote a story for the MMT on their group and others like it; thrilled, Soe Htet invited me to come along to Pwintbyu, in Magwe, to observe and report on the relief effort.
My editor was all for it, and he left the decision up to me. For two days, I panicked. What if the flooding worsened (which it has)? What if I got malaria or some other mosquito-borne illness? What if I got food poisoning, eating out there in the middle of nowhere? What if our bus crashed on the treacherous roads?
But I wanted to see the flood zones, and maybe even help out a little with the relief effort. I wanted to get an idea of how this underdeveloped country was handling the disaster. Soe said that, if I was lucky, I might get a chance to see Daw Aung San SuuKyi, who was scheduled to be in the same area to deliver speeches to flood victims.
This was my first chance at real, on the road, adventure journalism. When else in my life would I have a chance to tell people, “So… I was traveling to this remote village in Burma…”?
Interesting things are often terrifying, and I began this experience with a Why not attitude. It was time to put up or shut up.
At 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I packed a bag full of journalism equipment and anti-malarial medication and got a cab ride to the bus departure point.
I was going.
RATTLING around the bus on the expressway to Naypidaw, I almost immediately regretted the decision. The hastily-constructed road is known as “Death Highway” and I could not imagine a more appropriate nickname. Riddled with potholes and ruts and frequently doused with monsoon rain, the way north is treacherous; in 2014, 147 people died and 797 were injured in 408 separate accidents on the 370 mile stretch. The fatality rate of this country hovers around 15 per 100,000. (Which, shockingly, is only five more than the United States. And they don’t even wear seat belts over here.)
Three hours in, we stopped to stretch and get a bite to eat. I asked if we were almost halfway; the group laughed and told me we were not yet a third of the way there.
Settling in for the long haul, I began to get to know my comrades on the journey. Everyone in the group spoke English, having been educated in Western universities, and everyone was about my age. They teased me for being scared of the road, telling me to focus on something else. In was then that a great Asian stereotype emerged to be true — they truly loved to gamble.
I produced a pack of cards and we played a game of Nine (somewhat like Blackjack). At 100 kyat (10 cents) a hand, I was never out more than a dollar and ended up ahead by a few hundred kyat. The constant jostling of the road made playing difficult, but it was a great relief to focus on something other than pending mortality.
That is, until we got off the Death Highway. Then the real fun started.
From Naypidaw we turned west, up into hill country and mountain roads. No longer the only one feeling queasy, I laid down across an entire row, gripping the handle of the seat in front of me as the bus grew silent. We could not have been going more than 30 km/hour, but after every uphill climb came a terrifying downhill plummet. At some point our precious air conditioning went out, and the windows were shoved open. Bugs began to zip in and out, hovering around my face all too often. I miss Tennessee, I thought.
I don’t know how long it lasted, that moment of homesickness, but eventually the driver pulled over to replace the engine coolant. We all stepped out of our collective prison to deeply gulp the fresh air.
Leaning against the bus and relishing the shade, I noticed a woman holding a child across the street. Not far from her, a cow grazed. For a moment I forgot all about the terrible journey I’d begun, or the disaster zone that waited at its end. For just a moment, there was only the idyllic countryside and simple lifestyle it provided. Up on that mountain, all the problems of Myanmar seemed far away.
EVENTUALLY, after God knows how many more hours in that bus, we pulled into a rest stop (read: wooden shack off a dirt road with an outhouse squat toilet and a lazy dog sunning himself). Soe Htet’s parents, who were riding in a minivan behind the bus, unpacked dinner. A true Myanmar feast of curries, shrimp, tea leaf salad and tea was served up, but I noticed Soe wasn’t eating. He stared into the distance, silent.
I approached him, and before I could ask, he looked at me.
“She’s going to be there,” he said solemnly. “You should know what questions you’re going to ask.”
Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, the Lady herself. Admittedly, I did not know who she was until I went to Princeton in Asia orientation earlier this summer; I suspect most Americans don’t know who she is. (Here’s a profile of her from the BBC.)
Essentially, the Lady — as she is known around Myanmar — is the only national hero to come out of Burma in the last half century. Think of American heroes, influential people who inspire millions: Steve Jobs, Oprah Winfrey, Barack Obama, Bill Gates come to mind.
In Myanmar, they have one.
She is the daughter of Aung San, the man who negotiated Burma’s independence and is considered by most to be the father of modern Myanmar. He was assassinated in 1947 by political opponents and became a martyr (think, JFK). Suu Kyi was a toddler at the time.
After attending Oxford University and living abroad for most of her life, Suu Kyi returned to Myanmar in 1988 to care for her ailing mother. It was a tumultuous year to come back, as students were rising up against a lunatic dictator who had rendered all the currency worthless because it wasn’t divisible by his lucky number. (No joke, read more.) Monks and housemaids were protesting in the streets but the movement needed a true leader, a symbol.
The people wanted change; Suu Kyi, in the spirit of her father before her, emerged with a message of democracy, speaking in front of half a million people at Shwedagon Pagoda on August 26. She became the Harry Potter to the General Ne Win’s Voldemort.
The military ruthlessly squashed the movement less than a month later, murdering 3,000 people and imprisoning thousands more, but they promised a democratic election in order to appease the public.
Shockingly, the junta made good on their word, allowing a free and fair election in 1990. But after Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy swept the contest with 80 percent of the electorate, the military disregarded the results completely and put her on house arrest. Too afraid to speak out against the ruthless generals, the national democratic movement would go underground for the next 15 years.
For her efforts and emphasis on non-violence, Suu Kyi won the Nobel Peace Prize a year later, though she would spend the next two decades in and out of house arrest. Like her father before her, she became the icon of national hope and unity, and in 2010 she was released six days after Myanmar’s first true election. She was elected to Parliament in 2012 and is once again the leader of the NLD.
For Soe, the prospect of meeting her was almost too much to handle. I couldn’t will myself to point out that she was probably too important to talk to us, no matter how much his father had supported the party. He had so much hope; so much faith that she would appreciate all the charity he had achieved on behalf of his countrymen. Who was I to tell him he was wrong?
SOMEHOW, we made it to Magwe and parked our bus amidst a great crowd of people. Everywhere I looked, people wore red bandanas and raised red flags with a star and peacock on it, the NLD symbol. The excitement surrounded Her hotel, which had a massive banner of her likeness strung across its face.
Swiftly, we were ushered to the front of the crowd, right up against the gate. Soe Htet spoke rapid Burmese to the men on the other side, explaining our presence and making his case. He even gestured at me, the token white guy, as if to say, “We have a journalist too! We’re legit!”
After twenty minutes, a crowd of NLD delegates emerged from the hotel and the onlookers grew even more excited. Soe was ushered through the gate to talk to someone in the NLD, and we all pressed closer to see where he went.
This is it, I thought to myself. I’m going to interview a Nobel Laureate and the leader of this country’s democracy movement. In my second week in Myanmar.
Suddenly, an officious woman emerged from behind us. “Who are you guys? What do you want?”
I explained that I was with The Myanmar Times, that I wanted to ask the Lady three questions about the relief effort.
“That’s a lot of questions,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Is this lady joking? I thought.
“Well, she’s very tired,” said the woman. “You can’t see her tonight.”
Two of the girls in our group turned to her, agitated and speaking quickly in Burmese. The woman listened, tilting her head. Later I found out that the girls were asking if we could bring our donations to the Lady the next day, to add to the amount Suu Kyi was already donating. The woman directed us to the NLD headquarters.
Soe emerged from the hotel, having received the same message from someone else. Visibly dejected, he slid through the gate and listened half heartedly to the NLD representative.
She finished her remarks and the whole group retreated to the bus. We would not be meeting Suu Kyi that day.
THE next morning, we beat the sun out of bed. A late night meeting at the NLD headquarters in Magwe had changed our plans, and we were no longer headed to Pwintbyu. Because that town was already inundated with flood relief volunteers and supplies, we would be making the slightly longer and more treacherous trip to Sidoktaya, a remote township further west. It was there that Suu Kyi would be delivering 500 sacks of rice through her charity, the Daw Khin Kyi Foundation, and it was there that we could hear her give a speech to the flood victims.
After a few more mountain passes and dreadful hours in the bus, we reached flood zone. Rice paddies completely browned by mud and pools of standing water preceded the first dilapidated houses and underwater fields on the outskirts of Sidoktaya. It was exactly what I had imagined — buildings made entirely out of wood, situated in a flood plain directly next to a large dam. Not exactly a recipe for security.
The water had receded from the “downtown” area, leaving room for the streets to fill with NLD supporters and villagers from up to 20 miles away. Everyone had arrived to catch a glimpse of The Lady, to hear her speak. Nobody paid heed to the mud still splattered 12 and 14 feet high on the buildings around us.
We were ushered into a Buddhist temple filled with rice sacks at the center of town, and I realized for the first time that everyone in the village was staring at me. I asked Soe what was up; he pointed out that I probably was the first white man many of these villagers had ever seen in person. Shocked, I looked around.
He was right. The poverty these people lived in did not lend itself to frequent travel to Yangon (where most American and European ex-pats congregate) let alone travel to other countries. Not only was I white — I was easily the tallest person there. With my camera in hand, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Any sense of self-importance was quickly dashed as the crowds began to swell in anticipation of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s arrival. Within thirty minutes, there were at least 3,000 people lining the street and standing on walls and sitting on the rice sacks around the temple. The Lady was close, and the NLD memorabilia was coming out. Flags, hats, t-shirts with her image and the words “Our Leader” all seemingly appeared out of thin air. The air crackled with excitement.
I left my spot at the front of the stage and leapt across a swath of mud in order to sit side-saddle on the wall. Sweating profusely in the morning sunlight, my foot slipped and I almost fell off my perch; several Myanmar men caught me, proving again how friendly the people here truly are.
Re-situated in prime view of the path she would take, I watched as NLD officials formed human barricades. She emerged from the shadows of a house and the mass of humanity erupted, crushing forward and shoving camera phones over the bracing bodies. Moving swiftly, the 70 year old woman smiled and waved, a regal queen. In seconds, she was inside the temple.
Miraculously, nobody stole my spot at the front of the stage and I was able to scurry to my seat. She grabbed a microphone as I was sitting down not more than eight feet away and we made eye contact. I saw her wonder, “Who is this kid and why is he here?” but she soon shifted her gaze to the people she’d come to see and inspire. I whipped out my recorder, pressed the red button and began snapping photos.
For the next 25 minutes, she spoke masterfully to the crowds. Everyone hung hungrily on every word, laughing at parts and cheering regularly. I obviously understood nothing, and it wasn’t until I read the translation two days later that I fully understood how political she has become.
She spoke, surprisingly enough, almost entirely on the election, and how important it was that everyone vote for the NLD candidates. Though she began with reminders that everyone should work together to overcome the crisis at hand, she shifted within minutes to campaigning. I should not have been surprised; many observers have criticized her silence on the ongoing Rohingya humanitarian crisis (long story short: the 90% Buddhist country is really awful to a minority Muslim group in the poorest state of Myanmar), but political analysts point out that it’s a savvy move from an increasingly able political candidate. She doesn’t dare risk her image for a powerless group that is nearly unanimously prejudiced against, not in an election year. Instead, she sticks to her strong suit, preaching on education and rule of law and improved healthcare. And she’s not afraid to flout campaign regulations to do so. The Lady has a plan.
Watching her speak, I couldn’t help but notice her distinguished beauty. With dark hair only slightly white at the temples and a face largely unlined by age, it’s hard to believe how long she has been this country’s rallying point. Having led rebellion and endured persecution, she might understandably be tired and ready to hang up her soapbox. But watching her speak, I could understand why people have followed her for all these years. Her eyes still burn with the fierce idealism that inspired a generation.
She finished her speech to tumultuous applause and posed for a photo opportunity with a local villager. And then, unexpectedly, an NLD official directed her to Soe Htet. They shared a few words and she shook his hand; then she was off, headed to another village and another speech and another day in the life of a rebel leader.
I asked Soe Htet what she said to him, and he admitted that he froze in the moment. “She asked what group I was with, and I just said aid and pointed at my shirt,” he said wryly. “But she thanked me for my donation.”
He was beaming.
IT was still morning, and there was much work to be done. I interviewed a local man with Soe’s help, finding out that the village had gone three days without support. When aid finally did arrive, it was not from the government or the UN — it was from a nearby village, groups with boats and whatever they could cobble together. Once again, the Myanmar people epitomized the generosity they are famous for.
Then I packed up my journalism bag and got to work unloading our supply truck. We formed an assembly line, unpacking all the water and canned food within 20 minutes. The much heavier sacks of rice were considerably more work intensive, and the group of volunteers dwindled to a few men taking shifts.
As I lugged the rice into the temple, I couldn’t help but think about all the mission trips I’d participated in back in the States, and all the criticisms I’d heard/read about “voluntourism.” Turns out, the desire to help for help’s sake is not a uniquely American quality or aspect of White Saviorism. Many of the Myanmar girls who had ridden all the way up here with us were more focused on taking selfies than they were with unloading the truck, and frankly, all of us were unnecessary. The villagers could have unloaded the truck themselves. It made me feel good to feel like I was helping, but the reality of their situation was that I was just a body on the ground, and an untrained one at that. More than anything, I was merely another guy carrying rice: entirely replaceable.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Once Suu Kyi left, I became the biggest celebrity in town. One local after another approached me shyly and asked to take a picture, and soon a queue formed. It wasn’t like they were all teenaged girls or little kids — the curious old men were the ones most excited to take a picture with the Tall White Guy. Quickly, I realized that I was becoming disruptive to the unloading process and retreated to the temple.
Inside, Soe Htet was explaining to a community leader the ins and outs of the LifeStraw Community Device he had brought. They regarded the large tub strangely, and I could tell he was struggling to explain the water purification process to people who had little concept of bacteria and filtration methods.
All of a sudden, I realized that this village would probably be wracked by floods again in the next 3–5 years, if not sooner. Myanmar is uniquely situated for negative climate change, and Suu Kyi herself had just repeated the predictions of scientists who foresee increasing natural disaster for this area of the world. We had come all this way to deliver food and water to people in need, but what these people really needed was the education to cope with the perils of their homeland. The rice would be gone in a few weeks or months — the water bottles would be littered away even sooner. But the underlying problems these villagers faced… no volunteer could fix them. They needed education, and infrastructure, and a healthcare system: the kinds of things stable governments provide, not a bus full of twentysomethings. They needed more Soe Htets, educated idealists with a mind for practical application, and they needed them to be elected to civil service.
It dawned on me: democratic progress was their only hope. This election year could make or break the country I now called home.
Myanmar needs Aung San Suu Kyi to fight the dirty, political fight.
FOURTEEN hours later, we arrived in the rainy streets of Yangon. In a whirlwhind of two days, I had: conducted four interviews in a language I didn’t understand; taken close to 400 photos (and about 30 good ones); unloaded countless bags of rice and boxes of food; made new friends over card games and authentic Myanmar food; and survived what is, at this point in my life, the scariest bus rides of my life.
Exhausted, smelly and sleep-deprived, I said my goodbyes to my new friends, promising to see them soon. After stumbling down my quiet street and past the watchful street dogs, I fumbled with the apartment lock, trudged up the stairs and dragged myself into the cold drip of my wretched shower.
It had been almost exactly 48 hours since I last stood in that shower, a nervous young man about to embark on his first big-boy journalist assignment. As I shivered in the chill water, I began to laugh.
I still have more than 50 weeks left in Myanmar, I thought to myself.
How am I going to top this?
ADDITIONAL PHOTOS:
