Uttama
At 4:30 AM this morning, Reverend Uttama, the abbott at the Mon monastery here in Sangkhlaburi, died. This incredibly respected man had spent the last two years in Bangkok being treated for various ailments and finally passing away at 97.
Within moments, cell phones began to ring and stirred hearts and minds to an unusual awakening here in Sangkhla and in the Mon community in general. The moment I entered the office my students informed me of this news. Mon websites, lacking the technical abilities available in more developed areas, were flooded with news flashes. Proceeding with class felt unnatural really, and an impromptu lesson based on one of the many news flashes about Uttama dictated our day. The usual cheer and vigor of my office was replaced with a general awkwardness, and a welling-up of tears in the backs of my students eyes, causing two students to break down and let drops cover their faces in the middle of a vocab review.
Prior to resuming class after the 12-1 lunch hour, one office staffer called the students together with a voice of urgency. She spoke rapidly in Mon and the students began clapping and yipping excitedly in their adorable method of expressing joy. "The monk's corpse is coming here!!" one student beamed much in the way one replies when granted a pony, or being called down to the contestant area on The Price is Right, the earlier odd expression wiped from her face (note: we had just learned corpse earlier in the day and the proper use of the word is still a bit abstract).
What followed was excited blabber about viewing a monk's "corpse" and a general giddiness that caused no one to fall asleep despite the 100 degree weather and grammar review which followed.
We then loaded into a car, crowding into the flatbed of a huge silver vehicle and travelling Mon-style (crouching with our flip-flops under us so as not to dirty the rears of our sarongs) and hauling over to the Mon side of town. We unloaded and entered a scene I've grown steadily more accustomed to here in borderville: endless waiting in the heat with absolutely no diversion or productive activity to occupy our time. We heard Uttama's "convoy" would be approaching in an hour so we twiddled thumbs, bullshitted about the innumerable boyfriends we all have waiting to share their undying love with us, and threw rocks at the stray dogs looking for scrap food, only to then be scolded by me, the sole animal rights advocate in all of Sangkhla.
After much crouching and reminding myself not to smell the candles or incense occupying my hand (so as not to steal a wiff before offering these things to Uttama's body-- a true sin), the funeral procession passed on by. It was similar to what are used to in America: a long line of cars, lights on, speeding down the street. The main difference were the endless people lining the street, clad in their white shirts and red sarongs (the true Mon "suit"), kneeling and holding their hands in prayer-position before them.
The strange sense of what it must feel like to lose a role model or parent accompanied us still as we then climbed the sweaty hill on our way up to the Mon monastery, Uttama's creation and place of residence for years. He had come to Thailand in 1956, you see, during the civil war when there was much strife between the ethnic minorities and the Burmese (which has persisted to this day). Through his amazing kindness, wisdom and powers, Uttama gained the trust, friendship and loyalty of numerous folk, among them the Thai King. Through a remarkable agreement the King/ Thai authorities/ the grace of g-d created a legal means for Uttama to establish a place of refuge for the Mon refugees, persecuted and oppressed by Burma's military regime until the present day. What started as a community of hundreds blossomed to thousands and now has created the beautiful, vibrant cultural center that is Sangkhlaburi, a slice of a (mostly) peaceful Burma here in Thailand. Uttama even secured land rights for his people after his death, and access to identity cards for those who fled persecution in Burma through initial illegal means.
The masses of people we trekked with to the temple were greater than any I had seen before. Suddenly this town where I seem to recognize every face became strange and new. It dawned on me that most of these new souls kept generally to their own homes for fear of Thai police and military, most likely due to their illegal status. It was remarkable to see the true population of Sangkhla come out in droves, all slapped with a face of confusion, excitement, deep mourning, and celebration rolled into one.
We dropped our shoes at the pagoda doors and proceeded into a sweaty, crowded monastery interior. Police officers attempted to bring order to the masses through a high-tech hand-holding formation (note: sarcasm), but we slipped through their grasps to come face to body with Uttama, pouring scented water before him and donating the candles and incense which we earlier turned over and over in our palms and had since absorbed sweat, dirt and emotions.
Uttama's body was the second dead person I had ever seen in real life, the first being my own grandmother. Like her, he lay in a strange and peaceful stillness, belly protruding, lips the very same color as the rest of his skin. My moment in front of this man I had heard so much about (really, SO much) was brief, and I wished I could have had a true interaction with him. His kindness and peacebuilding savvy seemed above this world, and many believe it was...
As I walked away from Uttama's body and thus the crowd that accompanied it, I felt a deep debt to this man. Unreligious in many ways, for the first time, I turned, kneeled, and sincerely prayed to this man in the true Buddhist style. It felt right and real to BOW to this person, to put my hands before me in prayer, to touch the ground with my forehead. I closed my eyes and I thought-- rushing thoughts darting through my brain like small bugs in front of a street lamp on a summer night-- how lucky I am right now to be exposed to the people I am, how lucky I am to be fulfilling such an incredible chapter in my life, how lucky my students are to have a place to come to safely outside of the cage that is Burma, how lucky my one student who has a Thai ID card is to have the opportunity a flimsy, 2 by 4 inch piece of paper can yield-- and how this all was possible because of this one body before me.
And tomorrow brings another day, another heat spell, another grammar lesson, another plateful of fried rice for breakfast. It will all almost be the same. Somewhere, though, there will be a sneaking sense of discomfort and confusion, of sadness and loss, of happiness and thankfulness for his existence in the first place.
Thank you Uttama.
Within moments, cell phones began to ring and stirred hearts and minds to an unusual awakening here in Sangkhla and in the Mon community in general. The moment I entered the office my students informed me of this news. Mon websites, lacking the technical abilities available in more developed areas, were flooded with news flashes. Proceeding with class felt unnatural really, and an impromptu lesson based on one of the many news flashes about Uttama dictated our day. The usual cheer and vigor of my office was replaced with a general awkwardness, and a welling-up of tears in the backs of my students eyes, causing two students to break down and let drops cover their faces in the middle of a vocab review.
Prior to resuming class after the 12-1 lunch hour, one office staffer called the students together with a voice of urgency. She spoke rapidly in Mon and the students began clapping and yipping excitedly in their adorable method of expressing joy. "The monk's corpse is coming here!!" one student beamed much in the way one replies when granted a pony, or being called down to the contestant area on The Price is Right, the earlier odd expression wiped from her face (note: we had just learned corpse earlier in the day and the proper use of the word is still a bit abstract).
What followed was excited blabber about viewing a monk's "corpse" and a general giddiness that caused no one to fall asleep despite the 100 degree weather and grammar review which followed.
We then loaded into a car, crowding into the flatbed of a huge silver vehicle and travelling Mon-style (crouching with our flip-flops under us so as not to dirty the rears of our sarongs) and hauling over to the Mon side of town. We unloaded and entered a scene I've grown steadily more accustomed to here in borderville: endless waiting in the heat with absolutely no diversion or productive activity to occupy our time. We heard Uttama's "convoy" would be approaching in an hour so we twiddled thumbs, bullshitted about the innumerable boyfriends we all have waiting to share their undying love with us, and threw rocks at the stray dogs looking for scrap food, only to then be scolded by me, the sole animal rights advocate in all of Sangkhla.
After much crouching and reminding myself not to smell the candles or incense occupying my hand (so as not to steal a wiff before offering these things to Uttama's body-- a true sin), the funeral procession passed on by. It was similar to what are used to in America: a long line of cars, lights on, speeding down the street. The main difference were the endless people lining the street, clad in their white shirts and red sarongs (the true Mon "suit"), kneeling and holding their hands in prayer-position before them.
The strange sense of what it must feel like to lose a role model or parent accompanied us still as we then climbed the sweaty hill on our way up to the Mon monastery, Uttama's creation and place of residence for years. He had come to Thailand in 1956, you see, during the civil war when there was much strife between the ethnic minorities and the Burmese (which has persisted to this day). Through his amazing kindness, wisdom and powers, Uttama gained the trust, friendship and loyalty of numerous folk, among them the Thai King. Through a remarkable agreement the King/ Thai authorities/ the grace of g-d created a legal means for Uttama to establish a place of refuge for the Mon refugees, persecuted and oppressed by Burma's military regime until the present day. What started as a community of hundreds blossomed to thousands and now has created the beautiful, vibrant cultural center that is Sangkhlaburi, a slice of a (mostly) peaceful Burma here in Thailand. Uttama even secured land rights for his people after his death, and access to identity cards for those who fled persecution in Burma through initial illegal means.
The masses of people we trekked with to the temple were greater than any I had seen before. Suddenly this town where I seem to recognize every face became strange and new. It dawned on me that most of these new souls kept generally to their own homes for fear of Thai police and military, most likely due to their illegal status. It was remarkable to see the true population of Sangkhla come out in droves, all slapped with a face of confusion, excitement, deep mourning, and celebration rolled into one.
We dropped our shoes at the pagoda doors and proceeded into a sweaty, crowded monastery interior. Police officers attempted to bring order to the masses through a high-tech hand-holding formation (note: sarcasm), but we slipped through their grasps to come face to body with Uttama, pouring scented water before him and donating the candles and incense which we earlier turned over and over in our palms and had since absorbed sweat, dirt and emotions.
Uttama's body was the second dead person I had ever seen in real life, the first being my own grandmother. Like her, he lay in a strange and peaceful stillness, belly protruding, lips the very same color as the rest of his skin. My moment in front of this man I had heard so much about (really, SO much) was brief, and I wished I could have had a true interaction with him. His kindness and peacebuilding savvy seemed above this world, and many believe it was...
As I walked away from Uttama's body and thus the crowd that accompanied it, I felt a deep debt to this man. Unreligious in many ways, for the first time, I turned, kneeled, and sincerely prayed to this man in the true Buddhist style. It felt right and real to BOW to this person, to put my hands before me in prayer, to touch the ground with my forehead. I closed my eyes and I thought-- rushing thoughts darting through my brain like small bugs in front of a street lamp on a summer night-- how lucky I am right now to be exposed to the people I am, how lucky I am to be fulfilling such an incredible chapter in my life, how lucky my students are to have a place to come to safely outside of the cage that is Burma, how lucky my one student who has a Thai ID card is to have the opportunity a flimsy, 2 by 4 inch piece of paper can yield-- and how this all was possible because of this one body before me.
And tomorrow brings another day, another heat spell, another grammar lesson, another plateful of fried rice for breakfast. It will all almost be the same. Somewhere, though, there will be a sneaking sense of discomfort and confusion, of sadness and loss, of happiness and thankfulness for his existence in the first place.
Thank you Uttama.
posted by Laura @ 7:56 AM
1 Comments:
At 11:35 PM,
Hugh R. Winig, M.D. said…
Sounds like Uttama was bigger than life! To live to be 97 with such limited health care suggests leading a pretty healthy life style, as well.
What is it that someone like that has, that makes them rise above the ordinary humanity that the rest of us struggle with?
Bhuddism certainly has such a peaceful iconology as opposed to Christianity--it's a religion which has elements worth adopting. Are you learning about Bhuddism beyond your exposure to your students?
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