One Day the Soldiers Came - Charles London [41]
Later that day, most of the organizations aiding the Burmese destroyed or encrypted their files. One woman was asked to shut down her operation by the Thai National Security Council because of her involvement with the “terrorist” ethnic groups in Burma. She also learned on the same day that there was a price on her head. Someone did not like what she was saying about the military junta. The SPDC sees aid to the refugees as aid to their enemies, and this threatens trade with Thailand, which cannot be seen as harboring its neighbor’s enemies. Powerful people want the refugees to vanish.
The children on the construction sites are vanishing. They live in hiding. With the few exceptions Siha mentioned, they do not go to school. They have little contact with the outside world.
In Bangkok, I had more luck talking to some of these hidden children. An NGO agreed to take me to see some families in their homes, provided the families were willing. We would have to travel very low profile. Of medium height, white, and not speaking a word of Thai, I was not sure how I would maintain a low profile in the slums of Bangkok, but early on a Tuesday morning I found myself on a narrow street beneath a massive concrete building. A variety of smells overwhelmed me: sandalwood, sweat, excrement, exhaust fumes.
We walked through a shop of some kind. Two men and an older woman followed me with their eyes as I passed, bowing my head respectfully. A blind dog rested by the door. An old television blared. A shrine to the Buddha sat next to the television, its face partially obscured by the rabbit ear antenna. As in most Thai businesses, a photo of the king hung on the wall. They turned back to their television as I walked out the back door without a word.
We emerged onto another street below an even more ominous concrete building. A whole gang of mangy dogs waited by the front door. Their skin hung off their faces; their ribs were visible and their fur was matted and bald in patches. One of them looked up at me with bloodshot eyes, raising its muzzle from the dirt and growling as I passed the entrance to their building. The way their thin limbs twisted and splayed together made me think of Cerberus guarding the gates of Hell. This building was not our destination either, and the dogs did not bother to follow us. We slipped into a narrow alley. There was a small Buddhist shrine at the entrance to the alley, decorated with flowers and burned-out candles. Just beyond it, two red-faced Americans in dark blue jackets were speaking to a man about the Book of Mormon. They must have sweltered under their blazers. I nodded at them, acting as if we knew each other and creating a credible alibi if someone became suspicious of my presence.
Through the alley was another building, more decrepit than the two before it. This was our destination. Again, sickly dogs acted as sentinels. A woman standing in the shade of the doorway came over to us. My guide and translator, himself an illegal refugee, spoke to her very quickly. She joined her palms together in front of her lips in greeting, and I did the same. Then she shuffled us inside and up to the twelfth floor. It was very quiet.
The last door on our left opened to an unfurnished room lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. We removed our shoes in the hallway and entered. There were mats on the floor to sit on, and I could see a small kitchen and bathroom. Compared to the privations of Africa, this urban refugee setting seemed almost desirable. Five children assembled in front of me with their parents. Their father’s right leg was made of plastic. Very quickly, soda and crackers were brought in. The family welcomed me gracefully. No one seemed