Burma - One

Burmese government
troops...

The message came over the Internet one morning last February, a few sips into my first cup of tea:

"Burmese Relief Center -- Japan has just received information SLORC (the Burmese military) occupied Chogali yesterday morning."

As I read it, the little girls appeared again, shoulders hunched, scared. I wandered around the newsroom, unsure if I could finish writing an article on mutual funds.

Suddenly, I was back in Chogali. This time, I was surrounded by artillery, exploding bamboo, snakes wriggling in the heat, ash settling on empty huts. At least I hoped they were empty. I hoped the village people had all escaped, scattered into the jungle. I recalled a human-rights documentary in which a former Burmese soldier, in tears, admitted raping village girls.

I thought I saw the little orchid girls hiding in a grove of banana fronds. I felt relieved they were malnourished, too light to crunch the bamboo leaves underfoot.

I hoped they were together. I hoped the soldiers would not find them. I wondered if they were cold.

I wondered what I could do.

I turned to the only thing I know how to do: I dug out my passport and went back to the Thai-Burma border, this time as a reporter.

I realized the war in Burma might seem as distant to most readers in Seattle as it once did to me -- just another of the many confounding "ethnic conflicts" smoldering around the globe as the century closes. Bosnia, Rwanda, Chechnya, Congo, Cambodia -- news we struggle to understand, news we struggle to ignore.

The problem isn't that we don't care. We're rarely given the chance.

Most of our news about war is dominated by quotes from pundits, debate about economic sanctions, dispatches on the latest counteroffensive. But war is not only about weaponry and economics and aging generals grasping for more power. War is about little girls playing in a village.

I returned to the Thai-Burma border as a journalist, but I wanted to write a story of the heart.

I longed to find those two little orchid girls. They were real. They haunted me. I needed to know what war had done to them, what it was doing to me, what it can do to us all.

Secretly, I hoped I might save them.




Burmese government troops...		The message came over the Internet one morning last February, a few sips into my first cup of tea: "Burmese Relief Center -- Japan has just received information SLORC (the Burmese military) occupied Chogali yesterday morning." As I read it, the little girls appeared again, shoulders hunched, scared. I wandered around the newsroom, unsure if I could finish writing an article on mutual funds. Suddenly, I was back in Chogali. This time, I was surrounded by artillery, exploding bamboo, snakes wriggling in the heat, ash settling on empty huts. At least I hoped they were empty. I hoped the village people had all escaped, scattered into the jungle. I recalled a human-rights documentary in which a former Burmese soldier, in tears, admitted raping village girls. I thought I saw the little orchid girls hiding in a grove of banana fronds. I felt relieved they were malnourished, too light to crunch the bamboo leaves underfoot. I hoped they were together. I hoped the soldiers would not find them. I wondered if they were cold. I wondered what I could do. I turned to the only thing I know how to do: I dug out my passport and went back to the Thai-Burma border, this time as a reporter. I realized the war in Burma might seem as distant to most readers in Seattle as it once did to me -- just another of the many confounding "ethnic conflicts" smoldering around the globe as the century closes. Bosnia, Rwanda, Chechnya, Congo, Cambodia -- news we struggle to understand, news we struggle to ignore. The problem isn't that we don't care. We're rarely given the chance. Most of our news about war is dominated by quotes from pundits, debate about economic sanctions, dispatches on the latest counteroffensive. But war is not only about weaponry and economics and aging generals grasping for more power. War is about little girls playing in a village. I returned to the Thai-Burma border as a journalist, but I wanted to write a story of the heart. I longed to find those two little orchid girls. They were real. They haunted me. I needed to know what war had done to them, what it was doing to me, what it can do to us all. Secretly, I hoped I might save them.