The teaching day for kindergarten children commences at 9:00 am. I will be working along with two Shan women who each have young children to care for. As I arrive on the back of a motorcycle, I find myself being stared at by 45 young children who share a mixture of delight, confusion and fear upon seeing me, a white guy dressed in Shan State Army clothing.
The children are of a mixture of nationalities, including Shan, Lisu, Pa-O, Muse and Chinese, but under the Shan definition, all of these group are considered equal or are a part of the Shan nationality. Most of them live in the IDP camp itself. Some kids are dressed in traditional outfits, while others wear discarded Western clothing that has been delivered by various organizations able to truck in supplies.
A few boys and girls even wear U.S. Army khaki caps, t-shirts and shorts or long pants. I immediately wish that none of these children will ever have to personally enter into a warzone environment when they are older.
Normally, the class size is approximately 60 children, but with frequent border closures and parents fearing the possibility of retribution if either they or their children are caught crossing onto the Thai side of the border, some parents choose not to send their kids to school.
Upon receiving the greeting of respect, mai soong khaa, collectively we proceed to enter the classroom. Each child seems too shy to approach me or say hello, even upon their teacher’s instruction. Looking into the box of toys, I decide to pull out a stuffed toy rabbit and use him as a communication tool to my audience of pre-schoolers. I use simple actions, noises and word to tell a story before launching into singing and repeating If You’re Happy and You Know It Clap Your Hands.
The difficulties of working with children who grow up surrounded by the stench of war, grief and isolation are all too obvious. One little boy who arrived late came in kicking and screaming with his father and older sister. It was a distressing moment to say the least. He was restrained by 2 teachers who stopped him from reaching the door in desperation to follow his Dad. At that point, my heart nearly ate itself and coughed up the remains. Only the presence of his older sister, who deemed it necessary to remain behind, quelled his chilling screeches. Later, I would learn that his Dad was on his way into the forest to search for vegetables to put on the family dinner table.
Lunch is eaten at 11:00 am, and all of the kids and teachers gather together on long wooden benches. Children bring in their own cooked rice from home and the cook provides them with a mixture of vegetables and fried soy bean. On rare occasions, small chunks of meat are available, depending on whether any forest animals have been killed when male villagers have gone on their hunting expeditions the previous day.
From 11.30 am until 2.00 pm, children take a nap before taking the opportunity to go use the outside toilet, a hole in the ground inside a wooden cubicle that is in the line of sight of the Thai border post. Because there are only two toilets, the children simply find a place in the open and squat to relieve themselves.
Before commencing the final hour, the kids are allowed to have a snack of a soy milk drink and chocolate wafer before I launch into some group games.
The day’s end is reached at 3:00 pm, when parents and grandparents collect the children as they line up single file, excited and ready to exit the gate. One by one, each child places their palms facing inward, raise the tips of their fingers nose height to the heavens and say to me in Shan language, “Mai soong khaa.” It is an awkward feeling for me to think that I deserve this, for I have done, and will probably do little to improve their lives. I admire the teachers in the kindergarten, for they work tirelessly for little in return.
The people of Shan State look east to Thailand for its influence and hope, dream of democracy, and worship the Thai King. However, the population is firmly entrenched in what can best be described as an Orwellian nightmare. In Loi Tailang, so many men, women, boys and girls of all ages have endured a lifetime of nightmares in getting to this sanctuary of relative safety.
Far too many people have been forcibly relocated between villages and towns and are now at the edge of inhospitable rural Burma, yet unable to enter Thailand and gain refugee status. They have abandoned their farms, livestock and relatives for the sake of finding security and peace. Just about everybody has experiences of torture, rape, summary execution, and the fear of not knowing of the fate of loved ones left behind.
The junta has taken fathers and sons to become human mine detectors and porters. Everybody, it seems, is a slave to the army when captured, or a slave-in-waiting, living on borrowed time if they do not flee for a life of further uncertainty.
Amidst this backdrop, my education in Shan State is only just beginning.
