On 28 November, Partners held a press release to publicly present its first official human rights report titled Crimes in Northern Burma: Results from a Fact-Finding Mission to Kachin State. (Unfortunately, this link is no longer available.)

Partners has begun human rights documentation in active war areas inside Burma, and is publishing these reports in an attempt to reveal what is going on behind the pseudo democratic reform in Burma. The European Union has already dropped some of its sanctions this year, and Hillary Clinton has just visited Burma to see what options there are for the United States to partner with Burma in the future.  One article states that the changes “are significant nonetheless” because the government has “recently released more than 6,000 political prisoners” and “in an uncharacteristic move…thwarted the Chinese-funded $3.6 billion Myitsone dam project in the state of Kachin, relenting to continuous pressure from the Burmese citizens in that region” (John Feffer, Burma: Engagement or Appeasement?).

And though it is all appearing optimistic, it’s falsified and construed. There weren’t 6,000 political prisoners released, namely because there were no more than 2,000 political prisoners incarcerated this year. A mere one hundred of the released prisoners were actually politically related; the rest were simply prisoners, most of which were very near the end of their term or near death. And the $3.6 billion dollar dam?  It was a disaster for many, and would have forcibly removed thousands. But in the same area where these people won’t be removed, they have been attacked by the government, and is precisely where Partners’ human rights documentation took place. People were forcibly removed from their homes, but not for a project; for war.

Conversation implies that everyone is on the brink: the camps are on the verge of closing; the United Nations is considering its removal from the issue, including huge amounts of funding along the border; Mae Sot is ready to purge itself of the migrant community and crack down on legal cards.

And honestly? We’re hopeful.

Stephen & I are hopeful, dreaming of how we could be a part of rebuilding, rather than picking up the pieces now.

But even in our hope, the international conversation continues, and we wait. We hear deliberations on secure borders, appearing strong, and helping people that are now free to return to their newly “democratic” homeland; such large-scale perceptions of the situation.

Everything seems to be discussed from a distance, and we forget that these big concepts–sometimes even considered “problems”–of democracy, refugees, migrants, development: these are people. People create a democratic country; democratic rights are for the people. The big “problem” of refugee camps and migrant communities are working fathers, young mothers, ambitious students, and newborn babies.

How do we forget the lives behind the masses?

And what do we do to remember them?

Currently we have two ideas for you.

First, write or call your local senator. Send the Partners’ human rights report; encourage them to hold Clinton accountable for what she’s seen and what she knows about human rights in Burma. This is an easy, tangible opportunity, and I know the whole group of children playing Go Fish outside of our door would be really thankful.

Second, can we please pray?  I suppose we ask this always, and we should never stop believing that “God will give justice to his elect, who cry to him day and night” (Luke 18:7). Even so, please join us to pray now more than ever. We are seeing hope fill this place in a way it hasn’t in so many years, and we are praying that justice comes speedily (v.8).

Here’s to hoping, that it may never disappoint us.

We came home yesterday afternoon from Noh Poe and slipped inside quickly, shutting the gate behind us, to get things unpacked and sorted. When we went to leave for a run/bike later (I run, he bikes, we chat), one of the little kiddos, Yuh Meh Oo, was standing outside the gate waiting for us.

I ran up and peeked through the slats to smile at her. She started jumping, so I slid the gate open to see her. She immediately pointed down at her new, clean shoes. She then turned to the side and stomped to show me how her little sandals had heels that lit up red and green.

She was so proud. We marveled at the shoes a few minutes, and then we ran to show them off to Stephen, too.

“More and more, the desire grows in me simply to walk around, greet people, enter their homes, sit on their doorsteps, play ball, throw water, and be known as someone who wants to live with them. It is a privilege to have the time to practice this simple ministry of presence. Still, it is not as simple as it seems. My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up by meetings, conferences, study groups, and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause, and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress. But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn’t be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own, and to let them know with words, handshakes, and hugs that you do not simply like them, but truly love them.”

–Henri Nouwen

My thoughts exactly today. The words of Nouwen capture it so well.

I desire more and more the simplicity of loving the neighbor kids; it’s so simple, but I can see the power of it here every day. But it slowly becomes clouded–by me: by my desire to have value, to have a place; to feel like I’m a part of a cause for social change.

Recently, I have been getting more and more excited about Christmas at home with our families. Really excited. So much excitement, that I’m getting nervous about January.

I know we should be here; I know this is right. But it’s been so hard.

I’m scared that three weeks with family and friends–just enough time to love it and celebrate each little thing, but not enough time to get tired of any of it–might be hard to leave behind.

I began to think today: is it worth leaving all of that behind for this? We’ve been here a year, and there are so many things still…out of place. Still out of place of where I envisioned it.

(Therein lies the problem, I suppose: where I envision it.)

But as I began to think of this today, I realized that most of the ways I envisioned this included me having a clear place and clear purpose, and then seeing that purpose carried out.  My vision involves me making a valuable difference; being a part of the solution.  It’s hard to find significance in the little smiles on children’s faces, the little prayer for a weary mother, the persistent request for Burma to be free, and countless emails to volunteers.

I begin to wonder what I’m contributing, and if it is meaningful enough to turn around and walk into this all over again.

Nouwen’s words pull me back here. They remind me that being late for the meeting isn’t nearly as important as hearing out the woman speaking to me passionately in another language. They remind me that I’m called to nothing less than loving the person in front of me, whether I’m in Mae Sot or Chicago.

There may or may not have been a small mix up in our visas.

I can’t go into too much detail, but I can say that we’ll be making a quick trip up to Chiang Mai next week to sort it out, and that his is just one more trip amidst three others in the three weeks before we leave for the States.

We are now looking at six nights where we’ll actually be at home before we fly out. And we’re not leaving for 19 days.

We are also looking at 600 baht bus tickets to sort our visas out at this point, but if things don’t sort out easily? More expense that I’d like to mention, and difficulties in flying home.

I’m nervous.  Feel free to say a prayer for things to work out!

One of my dear friends at university was an international student from Japan, and she is just finishing up her degree and graduating this month. I just chatted with her online and discovered that, although graduating in December, she won’t be heading back to Japan until January, which means: I’ll get to see her when we’re in the States!

I’m really excited to have coffee and exchange stories; she’s so lovely.

And I’m thankful our paths will cross again, as that’s a little bit of a rare chance.

Some days I hate where we live.

[Such an optimistic opening line; let’s just consider that your warning.]

I hate that there is always suffering on every turn: that there is the child outside my door that needs love, that there are budget cuts taking away medicine and soap, that there are children asking for money while I buy groceries.

We learned this week that the organization that provides food to all the refugee camps just can’t get out of the economic crisis. They will be reducing the rations to each refugee by one kilo of rice per month to try to balance the budget.

One kilogram of rice being cut from a person who is already receiving predetermined amounts of rice, yellow bean, fish paste, chilies, a nutrient cereal, and salt.

I wrote in my journal a few weeks back:

“I figured it out: it’s the word ‘rations.’ It brings it all back–that its a prison, that they can’t go home, that they can’t pick their foods, that they can’t choose a day to go grocery shopping. It’s rationed. Maybe just a fancy word for being hungry.”

I found this article recently on the beggars in Mae Sot. (Unfortunately, this link is no longer available.)

That’s my town; those are my streets and markets; I am the white foreigner they are hoping will give them a larger sum.

That same journal entry continued:

“He knows them. He knows the hairs on their heads. He knows the hairs on every head of every student at the dorm. He knows the hairs on the heads of every person in the jungle tonight. And more than that–he knows their hunger pains. He knows that they are scared for their babies. He knows which families will make it to safety. He knows which families won’t.

And He’s good. He really knows us. He really loves us.”

———————–

In moving here, in falling in love with these people, and in aching for this country, there was a certain burden that was taken on. Sometimes I call it a burden; sometimes just “gray”; sometimes a gulf. We didn’t know it was coming, or at least not with such force. And now that its there it can’t be shaken off.

I remember as we were preparing to come to Thailand, we met with a man who had lived in Kenya with his family for about ten years. They had all been back for nearly ten years, but as he spoke to us, it was like he was aching for us. He was encouraging; he listened to the story that brought us here. We could see him resonate. He didn’t try to dissuade us from coming; but it was as though he ached for us.

We didn’t know him too well, really. And as we left, I remember discussing it with Stephen–how he seemed to hurt for us, and how I didn’t understand it.

A few months into living here, we discussed it again. This time, we understood it. We understood his ache, and that he knew far better than we did what we were walking into. I think it was this ache, this burden, this grayness: he knew he couldn’t explain it, nor did he really want to stop us from experiencing it. But it made him ache, too, to know that we’d be taking this on.

In the movie The Matrix, Morpheus offers to show Neo the truth of the world he lives in. He says it this way,

“Unfortunately, no one can be told what the matrix is. You have to see it for yourself. This is your last chance; after this there is no turning back.

You take the blue pill, the story ends. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe.

You take the red pill, you stay in wonderland; and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

…Remember, all I’m offering is the truth. Nothing more.”

I guess I write this knowing full well that it won’t be understood. I don’t think it can be, honestly. And I don’t think that’s better or worse of any of us; it just is.

Stephen and I experiencing the last year together has brought us closer in a way that many things couldn’t. I guess we both took the red pill at the same time, and we’re falling through the rabbit hole together.

We still don’t know how deep it is. And I don’t spend too much time dwelling on that.

———————–

Later on in The Matrix, after Neo has taken the red pill and has begun to experience the worst of things, he asks Morpheus,

“Can’t go back, can I?”

“No, but if you could, would you really want to?”

And knowing full well that I can’t go back — that even if we were living in our tiny little studio apartment in Oklahoma City, if I worked with Kim every day and made beautiful handicrafts with my favorite girls in the afternoon, living within in five hours drive of a family holiday, it wouldn’t be the same — sometimes I wonder if I would. Would I go back to not feeling the hand pulling my arm and asking for money? Would I go back to not hugging the little girl with lice? Would I go back to not knowing that there is war, that there is running, and that there is a strong hope that permeates the blood stained lives?

I don’t know.

I know that now, I ache for something greater. I ache for the cease fire to be signed; I ache for the landmines to be removed; I ache for the medical system to be rebuilt; I ache for equality.

“But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us to consummation: trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.”

1 Corinthians 13:13, The Message