NOT TO WORRY, GOD WILL PROVIDE Set amid enchanting mountain scenery, Mae Sot has the distinction of being the centre of Thailand’s flirtation with Burma, and vice versa. Only seven kilometers from the Moei River which separates Burma from Thailand, this city is a multicultural melting pot, best exemplified at the bustling day market, where a wide variety of ethnic foods are sold by vendors dressed in all manner of clothing and speaking several different languages. The Moei River takes an another role as a smuggling route between the two countries. Just as dusk is approaching, the would-be smugglers are seen dashing across the shallow river with their load of Burmese craft, jewels, and other commodities. The friendship bridge, straddling the two countries, sits almost empty, like a monument to uncertainty, with only a handful of locals making the crossing. Back in town, jewellers from around the world descend upon the gem shops with their emeralds, rubies, jade and other precious stones and deals are made. Tourists mull around the few craft shops where Thai cloth, wooden Buddhas with inlaid stone, Burmese teak furniture, and elegant wall hangings, again of inlaid colour stone, usually of an elephant motif, are sold. One of the busiest spots in town is the bus station, a gathering of farangs or foreigners heading to Bangkok or north to Mae Hong Son, or of Burmese refugees heading away from the border area to find work. Mae Sot is also a jumping off place to Um Phang, further south, a jungle paradise along the border. Mae Sot is also an area in deep trouble. Close to Burma, it is a beehive of international intrigue. The oppressive military government of Burma makes frequent raids into the refugee camps which stretch for hundreds of kilometres along the border. In February, 1997, Burmese troops crossed the border into Thailand and burned down several refugee camps. One night I was there, in the near-by camp of Huay Kaloke, a rumour of such an impending attack spread like wildfire. The whole population of 7,000 slept in the rice fields behind the camp. Number Four Guest House was my headquarters. A not-too-imposing all-teak structure, with dorms and rooms (I chose the dorm), with squat toilets, and a small common room, No. 4 is actually the international hub of the city. This hostel on Intirakiri Road has been visited by hundreds of backpackers for many years. It’s not hard to be drawn back to the place with its amiable owner, friendly staff, and the prices can’t be beat. A Danish tourist operator uses No. 4 as a base for treks to the Um Phang region. Foreign volunteer teachers in the refugee camps congregate here frequently as they discuss their experiences and recruit more backpackers to join their ranks as teachers. When I was there, Seth, from Rhode Island, Ronny from Israel, and Rebecca, from Australia convinced each other that teaching in the camps was a good thing to do. I found myself climbing a hill close to Mae Sot town. Perched at the top of the hill was a statue of Buddha, the sure indication that a temple was also at the top. Like the mediaeval church-towns in central Italy, where atop each mountain is a monastery or church, so too are the various hills of Thailand crowned by a Buddhist temple. Invited to swim at a lake at the base of the hill by some of my missionary friends, I couldn’t resist being drawn along the narrow dusty path as it wound its way upward. My swim could wait, I thought and left my friends to enjoy their cool dip in the dam-made lake. The air was somewhat cool and fresh, and as I rounded the final curve of the path, I was drawn to a virtual Eden of bourganvillas and hibiscus tended by the monks that lived in a temple adjacent to the Buddhist statue. A much larger Buddha was being constructed next to the old. In awe, I sat on the edge of the precipice as the glowing sun slowly set somewhere over the distant bluish-grey mountains of Burma, the clouds mystically transforming themselves into a smoky montage of reds, orange, yellows and blues. The golden hues of the Buddha statue gradually diminished as the sun disappeared. The lake far below was beginning to disappear as darkness swept the countryside. Come, have some coffee, a voice said in broken English. A young boy, dressed in the brilliant orange robes of a monk beckoned me to the house of the monks. And some supper with us? I gratefully declined, but he pressed on, joined now by two older, possibly full-time monks, stay for the night? A brief discussion followed; no, I must go back, but thank you. They asked me to pay homage to the Lord Buddha; hands clasped together they taught me, three prostrations to the floor, 2. the metal image looking down at me. A third noviciate prompted me to do the same to the two older monks and the boy-monk as well. It was a strange feeling, and I felt somewhat hypocritical, having espoused Christianity and my Lord Jesus. But what struck me was the incredible outpouring of hospitality and grace, and that in sense we all worship the same Creator, and desire the same Peace for mankind. The glow of the sunset acclaimed the two cultures and two religions coming together in the name of brotherly love. As I left, I felt warm all over. The quiet walk down the path in the stillness of the coming night to my waiting hosts below was a time of spiritual reawakening. In spite of all this, I had an ominous feeling that all was not well down below. For over forty years, the Karens in Burma have been waging a guerrilla war against their military government basically for an autonomous Karen state. Since the 1988-9 riots throughout Burma, many pro-democracy freedom fighters have joined the Karen forces (and other ethnic groups) in their fight against the oppressive military regime. In 1994, a Buddhist faction of the Karen National Union, (KNU) the Democratic Karen Buddhist Army, (DKBA), broke away and joined forces with Burmese troops to overrun the land base of the KNU in the Moei River area and thousands of Karen civilians sought refuge in Thailand, joining the tens of thousands already in camps there. As more persecution takes place in Karen Burma, more refugees cross the border. The Thai government, as may be expected, has been terribly concerned about these displaced people being on their soil and apprehensive at the military might of its neighbour. Raids on the refugee camps by Burmese forces and the DKBA haven’t helped matters. About a year ago, Huay Kaloke camp was torched to the ground leaving thousands homeless. Rebuilt soon afterwards amid fears that is was located in a vulnerable position, the camp has always been under the threat of being attacked again. Huay Kaloke didn’t look like much in the oppressive heat, and the wind squalls that blew the dust through the bamboo slats in people’s homes. At a distance, it looked like a village for midgets. The land in the dry season matched the appearance of the bamboo homes, sandy and grey. The intense heat was only relieved by the breezes which swirled around each home, and kicked up a dust cloud wherever they went. There were small stores, several churches, a Buddhist temple, a mosque and a clinic. In spite of the uninspiring look of the place, it was home to seven thousand refugees trying to hold their dignity in check. I met seventeen-year-old Running, and his mother, Paw Ray Htoo. They have hopes of going to Canada since they were sponsored as refugees under Canada’s resettlement programme. I think of them often. Three weeks ago just a week after I left Thailand, the mortar attacks from across the border sent the camp residents fleeing to the rice fields once again; the DKBA troops burned down the camp. I am trying to imagine what Running and his mother might be feeling. Yesterday we had so little...a bamboo shack with a roof made of leaves to keep the sun off, a few items of clothing, a couple of buckets to carry water and a pole to carry them. Two blankets, two pairs of slippers for each of us to keep our feet safe and a guitar that allowed us temporary escape. A few baht for emergencies or to bribe the Thai police, we did not have much. Now we have nothing. We are not citizens of Thailand, and the Burmese forced us and our family to leave our village. The rest will join us soon if they can cross the Moei River safely. We were forced to live like animals in the jungles. If they don’t force us to move, then they force us to work alongside criminals doing manual labour. We cannot refuse or we will be imprisoned, tortured or killed. We have little here but its better than what we had in Burma. We are not called refugees, because Thailand doesn’t recognise displaced people from Burma as refugees; we are simply illegals. Now we will have no food; we have no water to drink because it will make us sick without boiling it and now our family has no gas. Our pots and pans are useless. We have no shelter from the oppressive sun or winds driving the sandy dust all afternoon. We have no blankets at night when it gets cold. 3. It was my new-found friend Seth, that e-mailed me from Mae Sot. He described the scene. I was just laying down to sleep, around l2:30 am when I heard a woman across the driveway saying something about the camp burning and that the sky was red. She said she was going there in a few minutes. I went down and my friend Tim had an extra space on his motorbike. He said he was going too. I only had a T-shirt shirt and I was shivering on the back of the bike the ride was so cold. Smoke reached high into the sky and was glowing red illuminated by the flames. We had heard shell blasts. As we got closer to the camp, the Thai people were out of their houses standing in the street and on top of cars to get a better look. Everyone was awake. The sound of the bamboo exploding from the heat continued unceasingly. At one point we heard automatic fire. We saw Stephen, the camp leader and stopped. Earlier that day, after lunch, we were sitting in his house while he showed us pictures of last year’s fire. Sunshine and Kuler were there too- they taught me how to play chess.. Now here they were, dressed only in shirts and longees. They had lost nearly everything. I was feeling emotionally very strange. The Buddhist temple in the camp was spared, and some, including Stephen and his family were huddled there. Seth asked him what he would do. Not to worry, Seth, God will provide. These were not happy people but they were not bathed in self-pity, Seth thought, admiring that quality in them. When Seth had been talking to Stephen, Tim, the chap who drove Seth to the camp left. Stephen asked Seth how he would get home, God would provide, came the answer, and as Seth later commented: He did, because some Thai people picked me up ten minutes later and drove me all the way home. I decided to rent a bicycle at the No. 4 guest house for my final day in Mae Sot. As I cycled along the highway toward the Burmese border, I felt somewhat like Leonardo Di Caprio, who with arms outstretched standing on the brow of the speeding ship Titanic felt the cool breezes flapping at his shirt, and weaving through his hair. The fields were still lifeless in the dryness of the season, and the vast flat expanse of the Thai countryside allowed the winds to blow unimpeded across the road. I felt like a careless sparrow. But I was unaware of the impending disaster that would befall the refugees, and for that matter the people of Mae Sot. I passed Dr. Cynthia’s clinic, the mother Theresa of the Karens. Cynthia’s a quiet dignified lady, around 45, who has spent these past few years caring for her people on Thai soil. One of the doctors, Kate, emailed me after I had been home for three weeks: Last night the Thai police came to the clinic and warned of an impending attack. They are now coming every day. It would be unlikely that the DKBA would come as they would have to get through a lot of Thai border police and the military base. The effect though is significant as the medics have had very little sleep and are a little anxious. At about 22:30 the shelling started. We at first thought it was aimed at Huay Kaloke but it was right on the other side between the KNU and the DKBA. We have yet to hear reports about this. The shelling could easily be heard from our houses. On my last night in Mae Sot, someone left me a video. Three gentlemen, Miles, Brian and Ceri, decided to form Borderline Video to document the human rights abuses both in Burma and in the refugee camps in Thailand, and so I watched as the story unfolded. Twenty or so people were travelling through the woods when the Burmese army came upon them and killed them all, except one woman who had a baby. The commanding officer had left, the second in command took pity. The video showed the dead decomposed bodies at this massacre, mostly skeletons with clothes on by this point. I remember Seth’s comment after watching the video: It really puts things in perspective when I think I have it bad. As I left the next morning for Chiang Mai and Bangkok, I felt I was leaving Mae Sot behind. But the ominous drama continues for that little town and its refugee neighbours and the memories follow me even to Canada. I can only be comforted by the words of Stephen, the camp leader, Not to worry, God will provide. Lloyd Jones 30/3/98