Bamboo People Read online

  “I will, Father,” Win Min answers, jumping to his feet and lowering his head. Why does he call that man his father? “You won’t try to escape, believe me. You’ll be guarded until your training is finished, in case one of you is stupid enough to try. The six of us are the captain’s best men in this platoon. He counts on us like sons. A few of you could rise through the ranks and join us. If you’re brave enough, that is.”

  The boy beside me grunts. “We’re going to a military camp,” he mutters. “Ready to be a soldier?”

  A soldier? Me? No! I can’t fight! I have to get off this bus! But we’re already miles from the city, climbing higher into the mountains along the border. I swallow hard and rest my head against the glass.

  A voice whispers near my ear: “We’ll escape. I’ll find a way.”

  If I weren’t so anxious, I’d laugh. Escape? With soldiers everywhere, assigned to watch us day and night? Is this boy really that stupid? I turn away and close my eyes.

  7

  After what seems like endless hours through the dark mountains, the bus stops with a jolt. The driver turns off the engine. The captain and his soldiers climb down first.

  “Recruits out!” someone shouts.

  One by one we emerge into the cool night air. The captain watches us disembark, and a shiver runs through me as I feel his keen gaze. I pull my jacket tightly around me and follow the others. The street boy stays close to me.

  It’s hard to see anything in the dark. All I can make out is one wide, low building, another smaller one, and a muddy, open field between them. We enter the larger building, with the soldiers filing in after us and the captain bringing up the rear. About two dozen other soldiers are milling about inside, but they stiffen into attention as soon as the captain enters.

  This place was once a gym, and two netless rims stand like sentries at either end of the hall. A few kerosene lamps spill pools of yellow light onto the hard floor, and blankets are piled here and there. A large poster is taped over the entrance. Military Training Centre, it declares.

  A short, squat man walks over. Like the captain, this man is older, and the younger soldiers lower their heads before they salute him. In turn, he bows and salutes to the captain. “I am Sergeant U-Tha-Din,” he tells us. “I am in charge of this platoon’s training. We specialize in jungle warfare and search-and-destroy operations against insurgents and narcotics-based armies. Two sections have already almost completed their training, and you’re next. Any questions?”

  “I’m hungry,” somebody behind me calls. “When do we eat?”

  “Tomorrow,” answers the sergeant, receiving a loud groan in response.

  One of the soldiers who captured us speaks up. “You spoiled city brats don’t know the meaning of the word hungry. But you’ll find out. Right, Father?”

  Their “father” is standing in a corner. The word still sounds strange, but so many boys my age have lost their real fathers. Maybe they’re looking for a replacement.

  The captain nods, his eyes searching the room. They find the wiry boy beside me and then move over to measure me. I feel pinned under his cold stare; a wave of nausea rises through my stomach. Why is he focusing on us?

  The street boy yawns. I can hardly believe it. Here I am, trying to keep from throwing up, and this kid is about to take a nap. Doesn’t he realize the man has singled him out?

  “We’ll fit you for your uniforms in the morning, but for now you each get one blanket and a longyi to wear at night,” the sergeant says, pointing to two piles on the floor. “You’ll store your belongings beneath your blankets during the day—there is no stealing in this camp. Why? Because everyone joins in when we beat a thief.” He holds up a battered tin cup. “There’s one of these for each of you, too. Get water from the river across the field. It’s well past midnight already, so make it quick, and don’t use the river for a toilet. Go into the trees behind the field for that, at least for now. Part of your training will include building latrines for the camp. The bell will ring at five thirty.”

  Three soldiers with flashlights and rifles lead us to the river. The rest of them disappear into the smaller building. I lose sight of the captain, which worries me. My instincts warn me to keep him in sight.

  As I dip my cup into the shallows, I think of the times

  I complained about pumping water from the well in our garden. If only I could be there right now, with Mother waiting inside the house. If only this were all a bad dream.

  The bus that brought us here starts up, and I listen until the sound of it disappears. Around us the jungle looms, dark and dangerous. I stumble back across the field into the gym after the other boys, who scramble for the blankets and longyi. There aren’t any left by the time I get there.

  8

  The tanaka boy has managed to grab an extra blanket and longyi. He tosses them to me, and I take them reluctantly. Is this tough-talking kid going to stick to me like the paste on his cheeks? It’ll be easier to stay safe if I keep to myself. One day at a time, Chiko. That’s how you’re going to survive this. Mind your own business. And stay out of trouble.

  Somebody locks us in from the outside, and three soldiers, all “sons” of the captain, stand guard by the doors. I find an empty spot along one wall, and the street boy arranges his blanket right next to mine. I turn and study the wall. A small

  plaque is attached to it. The words are inscribed in an unfamiliar script. They look like some kind of tribal language, but there are English words below them that I can read: Karenni Bible College Gymnasium, Dedicated to God, January 1984.

  So this once belonged to the tribal people. What happened to them? How did the Burmese army get the gym?

  “I’m getting out of here,” my neighbor whispers. “Want to come with me?”

  “We’re locked in,” I mutter, keeping my back to him. Not to mention that soldiers are leaning against the door, rifles propped beside them.

  He grunts. “I mean tomorrow morning. They won’t lock us in during the day. Doesn’t seem like there’s a fence around the camp.”

  I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “They don’t need one. This place is surrounded by jungle. We’re miles from anywhere. Besides, he’ll have other ways to keep us in—” I can’t finish. Fear coils in my stomach at the thought of the captain’s sinister glare.

  “I’ll find a way out. I have to get to my sister.”

  The urgency in his voice is so intense I turn to face him. The outline of his body seems small in the dim light of the gym. “You’re in more trouble than your sister,” I tell him. “She’s probably safe at home by now.”

  A shudder goes through the boy’s body. “I have to get out of here,” he says again. “I have to get to her.”

  “She’ll tell your parents what happened.”

  The boy is quiet. Then he says, “We have no parents. It’s just the two of us. On the streets.”

  I can’t think of anything to say. Yangon is full of orphans who work or scavenge for food by day and sleep on the streets at night. They roam in pairs as protection against robbers and kidnappers. What will his sister do now that she’s alone?

  “What’s your name?” the boy asks, breaking the silence.

  “Chiko.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “So am I!” he says.

  I can’t believe we’re the same age—he looks so much younger.

  “I’m Tai,” he says.

  We’re quiet again. Mother used to give food to street kids who came to our door. She might even have fed these two.

  “Your sister—she didn’t seem scared,” I say. “She called those soldiers some interesting names.”

  Tai snorts. “She’s crazy. Not much I can do to stop her when she gets angry.”

  “She’s smart, too.” I add.

  “You’re right. She’s always been smarter than me, anyway. Well, worrying all night won’t help anything. I’ll need a good night’s sleep if I’m going to esc
ape. See you in the morning, Chiko.”

  Before I can answer, he pulls the blanket over his head. In a minute or two I hear steady, even breaths beside me. A street boy can fall asleep anywhere, I suppose. The floor is hard, the air damp, and the blanket doesn’t cover my whole body. I shift around, trying not to think of my own bed at home.

  After Father was arrested I used to have nightmares. As soon as she heard me shout, Mother would come rushing to my room. How I wish I could feel her cool palm on my forehead and hear her soft voice singing me back to sleep! What am I doing in this godforsaken place? How will I survive the “training” that starts tomorrow?

  Shifting again, I feel something dig into my chest. It’s Father’s photo; I’d forgotten all about it. I prop myself on an elbow, keeping a wary eye on the guards. There’s just enough light from the one kerosene lamp still flickering nearby. But as I reach inside my pocket, my fingers find two small squares of cardboard, not one. Suddenly I remember how Daw Widow patted my pocket just before I left. She must have added something else. What in the world could it be?

  I study both gifts in the dim light. One is the photograph of Father, of course. The other, to my amazement, is a black-and-white version of Lei, staring solemnly out at me. I can’t believe it! Daw Widow must know how I feel! And she doesn’t mind—in fact, this surprise is like getting her blessing. And wait—Lei must have known about the gift, too. Didn’t she say they went together to pick up the photos?

  I gaze at Lei’s picture for a long time, my heart racing. Her face is still and serious in the pose, but it’s easy for my imagination to add the sparkle in her eyes, the shimmer to her clothes, that sweet, light scent of jasmine, her teasing smile. Desire for the flesh-and-blood Lei slices through me like a sword. Now that I know how she feels, I won’t be so shy when I get back. If I get back.

  I study Father’s photo again. There he is, a few years older than I am now, gazing steadily into an unknown future. Try hard, my son, he used to say before our study sessions. That’s all I ask.

  I put the photos back into my pocket. The light flickers and goes out, and the gym is dark. Taking off my glasses, I cradle the puffy side of my face in one palm and try to fall asleep.

  9

  Someone yanks the blanket off my body.

  I jump up, startled. Where am I? Where’s Mother?

  My heart sinks as I recognize the soldiers who brought us here. So yesterday wasn’t a nightmare. I fumble for my glasses, change into my trousers, and put on my jacket.

  They lead us out to the field, into a misty, gray dawn. Shivering in my thin clothes, I notice Tai beside me. He’s wearing only a longyi and a torn T-shirt, but he doesn’t even look cold. Instead, he pats his belly and tips his head in the direction of a tarp, under which a few soldiers cluster around a cooking fire. My own stomach rumbles in reply; the last meal I ate was lunch yesterday, with Mother.

  I look around while we wait for the food. We’re in a valley shaped like a flat-bottomed bowl, with dense, green slopes curving up on every side. Roosters crow in the distance. The river where we filled our cups the night before cuts the valley in half. Beyond it are paddies and a farmhouse nestled at the foot of high hills. Jungle covers the hills behind us, swallowing the dirt road that leads back up the mountain.

  The sections of trained soldiers eat first, under the tarp. Soon, though, they come to the field and hand us cups of weak tea and bowls of steaming rice. I devour my food, but I’m not as fast as Tai. He’s licking the bowl clean with his tongue before I’m halfway done. I glance at my bowl once I’m full; there’s still some rice stuck to the sides. I’ve probably got a lot more stored inside me than this street boy. I hand my bowl to him, and he flashes me a grin of gratitude before licking mine clean, too.

  After breakfast we’re fitted for uniforms. The jacket and trousers are made of faded green cloth and look ancient, with buttons missing and patches here and there. Mine smell like somebody died in them, but I put them on. They’re warm, at least. They don’t give us shirts, so we have to wear our own. And there aren’t enough boots to go around, so half of us don’t get any. Of course, I’m one of the new recruits who stays in sandals.

  We hear an engine in the distance. I tell myself I’m crazy to hope, but maybe they realized they made a mistake. Maybe the bus is coming to take some of us back. Instead a jeep screeches to a stop, and the captain gets out. The sight of his angular face makes the hair prickle on the back of my neck. Where has he been all night? Why didn’t he stay in the barracks with the others? And I don’t like the look of that bamboo stick he’s carrying—the end is sharpened like the tip of a spear.

  The soldiers prod us into a 3–3–4 formation, almost a square. It seems to me that I’m one of the older boys in this section. A couple of them can’t be more than twelve. We look different now that we’re in uniform, more like one unit, despite the variances in height and weight.

  After returning salutes from the sergeant and the other soldiers, the captain approaches us with a smile, swinging his stick with each step. He’s flanked quickly by six of the soldiers who captured us in the city.

  “You were hoping to serve your country, boys,” he tells us, his voice smooth and kind. “Well, you’ve been accepted. Each of you will receive monthly pay for your service, money that will either be sent back to your family in Yangon or given to you here.”

  My heart skips a beat. If only what he’s saying is true! If we do get monthly pay, I’ll be able to take care of Mother, just as Father asked.

  “I hope they pay us soon,” Tai mutters. “I’d like to take the money with me.”

  The captain turns to Tai. “You said something?” His voice is low and controlled, but a muscle in his cheek twitches.

  Tai lifts his chin. “I was wondering when we’d be paid, sir.”

  The captain’s mouth keeps smiling, but his eyes are steely. “That’s a reasonable question. You’ll be paid after one month of service. Your term of service is three years unless you’re wounded in battle.”

  Three years? How will I survive three years? I try to focus on the fact that we’re actually going to be paid. Mother will be able to give the landlord the rent we owe for the past few months and buy meat, fish, eggs, and milk. She’ll be able to send more for Father’s upkeep, too. And all I have to do is survive. Stay alive. Keep out of trouble. One day at a time. The words could become a chant, like the ones the Buddhist monks use to ward off evil. Mind your own business. Keep out of trouble. Stay alive. One day at a time.

  The captain is pacing around our square of ten recruits. “Beloved sons of Burma,” he says. His voice is rich and deep, the timbre reminding me almost of Father’s. “Why does your country need you to fight on her behalf?”

  Good question, I think, but I don’t let it show on my face.

  “You could be home, safe and sound, studying, working, teaching”—here he pauses and looks directly at me—“were it not for the tribal people. They want to break our country apart and divide it among themselves. Their whole mission is to destroy our peace. If we succeed in defeating these insurgents, we can return home to care for our mothers and sisters.” He flicks Tai a glance before continuing.

  “You may have heard that the rebels who call themselves the Kayah are among the most evil of our enemies.” They call themselves the Karenni, actually. Father used to tell me about a good Karenni friend he had in school.

  I’ve been taught not to believe anything the government says about the tribal people. But the other new recruits didn’t have someone to tell them the truth. All they have is this captain’s version.

  He’s still talking and pacing, smiling, his voice calm and kind. “Many have turned away from the teachings of the Buddha to embrace Western religions, in the hope that they can gain weapons from America to attack us. They are ruthless killers, men and women alike, and they despise our Burmese language and our Buddhist religion.”

  He tells us about a pair of elderly women who were killed by rebel wa
rriors. “They were minding their own business, like grandmothers do, sewing and chatting in the shade of a mango grove, when a pack of rebels stormed out of the jungle and …”

  Except for Tai and me, the other boys are nodding, listening, spellbound. I should stand and challenge his version of the truth; I should tell them not to trust him so easily. But I stay where I am, slouched and low. Next to me, Tai yawns.

  The captain notices. He and his soldiers are quite close to us now, so I catch the quick look he gives his “son” Win Min. Then he lowers his head ever so slightly and leaves his bamboo stick at Tai’s feet.

  Immediately Win Min goes into action. “What happens if you don’t complete your three years?” he asks in a loud voice, his face inches from Tai’s.

  “I’ll be punished?” answers Tai.

  “You’ll be severely punished,” Win Min says. “Do you understand?”

  Tai shrugs. “Yes.”

  Win Min glances at the captain before picking up the stick. “Say that like you mean it, boy,” he says, whacking the bamboo across Tai’s legs.

  But Tai is ready for the blow. Just before the stick makes contact, he leaps back and cries out as if he’s in agony. The stick lands lightly, thanks to Tai’s move. Glowering, Win Min raises his weapon again and steps forward.

  “That’s enough, my son,” the captain says, reaching for the stick. “Nobody is going to try to shirk this duty. Why would they want to? It is an honorable service, we take good care of you here, you have plenty to eat, and we’ll be sending money to your families.”

  I take a quick look at Tai’s shins. No sign of blood. As Win Min steps back, blocking the captain’s line of vision, Tai winks at me. My heart lifts. That street boy’s so good at deception, it’s scary. I’m glad he’s not hurt.

  10

  A truck roars down the hill, coming to a stop behind the captain’s jeep. The bed is full of cinder blocks, lime, and other building materials I don’t recognize.