Cell

Bloggosphere:

I write to you from my beloved desk with the electricity flickering in and out and a deluge pounds my roof. The only consistent light is that of my laptop as it relies on its battery for survival, its neglective attendant (me) typing away and crossing her fingers it won’t die before I get my thoughts down on its electronic surface.

And in the meantime all the bugs in the house are magnetized to this very computer screen, preening themselves and flexing their back legs in what I assume to be some animal kingdom mating ritual.

It’s nearly midnight and I am scrambling like mad to impart my words to you, for fear all my thoughts will leave my head if I go to sleep now.

Things here are, per usual, beautiful, rewarding, rainy, sunny, hilarious, surprising, fascinating, and inspirational. They are also confusing, and raw. So raw that I don’t know what to make of it at times.

Tonight is one example. The “social life” to which I was accustomed in my first month here, consisting of a great British dude taller than Pinnochio’s nose is long, a German man who shadily shares his home with his “woman” and engages in some sort of “importing and exporting,” and a man named Jimmy with the largest girth I have seen on this side of the planet, (Jimmy hails from America, of course, and is an ex soldier who first came over this way as a confused and rebellious 17-year-old during “‘Nam.” He is intensely convinced that all of Thailand and Thai people are going to hell in a hand basket, and emphasized his rationale with the ever convincing and frequent use of the word “fuck.”), has given way to a more consistent and optimistic crew, marked mainly by their shared desire to advance human rights.

I joined a group of 8 or so for an incredible dinner. We meandered down to one of the “houseboats” populating the shoreline here on Sangkhalia Lake (the lake around which my town is centered) and sat down there for some delicious Thai food.

After consuming chunks of a fish so large that it warranted a Kodak moment, wading through the grease-infused omelet and inadvertently sucking down two chilies, my friends and I delved into conversations more indulgent than the food we had just eaten during which we discussed development, opportunities, human rights, independence, cultural differences, the paths that had led us to this table and more. While the houseboat swaying led some to near seasickness I settled on a feeling of absolute contentment and amazement that I had arrived at this moment surrounded by a group of open-minded, interested and interesting individuals who look at the world as something larger than themselves and take action to be a part of that world.

Bellies full, we paid our bill and wandered back towards home, laughing and making snarky comments as one individual shared an anecdote of a near death experience on the NYC subway.

And with that I felt this scene of my dreamlike lifestyle here had ended and would pick up again in the morning. At least this is what I thought.

It’s funny how when you run into a person you know randomly, or see something crazy you think that if you hadn’t done this or that that you would have never seen that person, never witnessed that thing, never heard that cry.

So there I was walking home—not biking like usual, delayed just so due to the time I took saying goodbye, turning the corner, etc., doing all these things that determined the very second I would walk by this random house and see what I would see.

And this is what I saw: a man dragging a woman on the floor. And this is what I heard: yelling. And this is what I did: I stood, watching, in front of their house, paralyzed. I did not ignore it because of my outrage, and I did not run towards them for fear of this abuse and my place as a total stranger who does not belong in it. And in five seconds the yelling was over and I could see the woman getting to her feet, and I hide behind a nearby fence and listened.

And then she emerged from her house into the drizzle and dim light on the street and she was crying and holding the back of her head where a huge welt had formed.

At this point I had turned and feigned walking as though I’d heard nothing. I approached her as she gasped for air through her sobs and began to speak. I spoke in English, in broken bits and pieces of Thai and Mon and it seemed none of these words had an effect. So I just did what I could—I took her hand and walked with her away from her house, going to wherever we were going—friends by accident, by odd fate.

She looked like a teenager and I would have assumed it was her father who had done the beating if it weren't for the wedding ring on her left hand. After walking for a bit and feeling the back of her head swell larger we sat on the side of the road. She wasn’t bleeding, but she kept running her hand through her hair, checking for blood, and when she did not see it seeming unconvinced. I tried to think about the last time I had hurt my head so badly that I was bleeding or at least thought I was. I determined it was never.

Eventually an acquaintance of both her and her husband drove by, speaking in Burmese to her and saying something about English to me. He left and returned five minutes later with a woman who spoke perfect English and served not only as a translator between me and this woman—who’s name is pronounced Eh-Kaa—but also an informant on the general situation of domestic violence among Burmese ethnic groups.

As for Eh-Kaa’s situation, she and her husband are natives of Burma, hoping to be in Thailand for a brief time during which they can make money to support their parents back inside Burma. Both Eh-Kaa and her husband work extremely hard: a 14-hour shift each day at a clothing factory for her and a different factory job for her husband, who also drives a motorbike taxi at night for extra cash. They have been married for one year and have no children. Eh-Kaa explained tonight’s situation honestly—she had come home from work to a dinner her husband had made. She tasted it and told him it was bad and that he should throw it away. He took her suggestion, throwing the curry and then throwing punches at her.

The abuse in their relationship is regular. Tonight’s, however, was worse than normal. Embarrassed and angry, Eh-Kaa’s husband had taken to his motorbike after hitting her and fled to his parents house nearby.

As for violence among the Burmese population, the English-speaking woman reported that physical violence is common among husbands and wives and ingrained in the culture. She informed me that the best thing to do for Eh-Kaa and her husband was to tell the neighbors to keep an eye on the couple, and if the beating is really bad—life-threateningly so—we will find a way to help Eh-Kaa out of her situation. It kills you to hear something like this. And it also kills you to know that at the moment, this recourse is probably the best thing to do. Tonight I felt helpless.

The evening ended as we dropped Eh-Kaa back at her home, an austere two-room cement block. Her husband was still gone, and Eh-Kaa reported she would lock him out this evening if he did attempt to come home and I believed her.

Eh-Kaa’s face was stained with tears and the ugliness of fear and unhappiness when I said goodbye to her. She looked young and small in her concrete apartment. Her door isn’t what we think of as a traditional door, but more of a heavy, metal garage-like door and she struggled to close it by herself. I lent her a hand and as I watched her face disappear from my vision and listened to her deadbolt her door I couldn’t help but feel she was locking herself into a prison cell.