No Rohingya

Followed by

Crabs of Nargis and Monastic Robes

Yves Bourny

Fiction

This is a work of fiction. However, names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or not and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales may not be purely coincidental

The translation from the French version was done by S.Au, Audrey Boddington, Julie McLaughlin and Amy Bourny.

Special thanks to S.Au. for being much more than a translator, to Helen Jarvis and Michel Testard for their permanent support and advises.

Arakan

With each step she took, she sank further into the mud. She could then feel, from the tips of her toes, the little shoots that would soon bloom into a fine green carpet covering the path. She was bent from age and the heavy weight of the bamboo on her back. The water, dripping from her cargo, slid down her back. The dark shawl wrapped around her head was soaked and, resembling a helmet, entirely covered her grey hair. The elderly woman advanced slowly. Unsticking her feet from the mud one after the other. Forging ahead at a calm and constant pace. From afar, it appeared as if a large bundle of bamboo was moving of its own volition, bit by bit, creeping towards the huge pile lying on the edge of the rice paddy. The sky was grey, almost black, and one could only guess whether it was morning or evening.

A little further on, beside the road, a hut sat on six large posts, deeply buried in the soft earth. The stilts elevated the small shelter above the reach of the sudden rising water during the height of the monsoons. Beneath the hut, large flat rocks covered the mud to create a somewhat dry space to store firewood and tools. Above, the dwelling was covered with a thick blanket of palm leaves that stopped the rain and sent it streaming off to the sides. The walls were made of woven bamboo slats. The bamboo braiding was wide, permitting the light to pass through. The loose weaving of the walls was sufficiently fine to block the rain but wide enough to let the wind pass through, making windows unnecessary. The hut had two rooms separated by a simple bamboo partition. One room for eating and one for sleeping. The floor was also made of bamboo, but a sturdier bamboo that had been tightly laid to prevent rodents and snakes from slipping in during the night. In the second room, not visible from the exterior, a few mats were rolled in the corner. Two dirty mosquito nets hung from the ceiling. They were tied at mid height to make space during the day. A small metal trunk, rusted on all side, held the family belongings: a few toiletries, a stack of well-worn clothing, a roll of bills in an elastic band, and a tired leather bag that protected a handful of photos and precious identification documents. A small Koran in Arabic sat at the bottom of the trunk, pages stuck together by the humidity, still unread. It was all they had. Still, they had neither more nor less than the families who lived in the neighboring village. And it was enough. As long as there was enough rice and no sickness.

The old woman slowly approached the imposing stack of bamboo. She would soon be able to unload her burden. And begin again. This would be the sixth time this morning. And the rain hadn't stopped, sometimes pouring violently or, as now, coming down in a steady drizzle. During this season, sometimes it rained an entire week without a moment of respite. The old woman was accustomed to living in the wetness. Clothing no longer dried. Every day, she had to don still-wet clothes and go out in the rain, walk through the viscous mud, and resume the previous day's chores. Until the monsoons finally stopped. It was her daily life and she had done the same job for countless seasons, never complaining.

Her son and her three grandchildren worked a little further on, in the rice paddy, turning over clods of thick soil to shore up the dikes. Their tank tops stuck to their bodies, the dark mud that was soaked into the fabric blended with the color of their skin. Once the dikes were secured, they could plant, transplanting the shoots of rice that, bunched together in their small nursery beds, now made green stains along the edges of the field.

A metallic roar suddenly overwhelmed the monotone murmuring of the rain. In unison, the four planters stood up straight, legs apart and feet firmly sunken in the mud. The noise roared again, and a dark green truck appeared, jolting down the village road. An old Burmese army truck, with a dented fender and no front bumper. The tires were so bald that the wheels had little traction on the wet earth and the vehicle slid every ten meters or so, each time coughing up a dirty black cloud. The men in the rice paddy did not move. They waited, watchful.

The bundle of bamboo, further down the road, continued on, neither speeding up nor slowing down, as if the old lady had not heard the sound of the motor. She advanced towards the road, one heavy step after the other.

The truck stopped, the motor still running, grumbling ominously. The peasants in the rice field remained immobile. Their stares were frozen. Their eyes were fixed on the menacing machine that settled its huge gloomy headlights on their house. Nothing moved, except the load of bamboo continuing its approach from the road at the same slow pace. Finally the motor stopped. The rain resumed its low murmur. The sweeping windshield wipers continued to diligently clean the front window of the truck. But nothing could be seen inside the cabin, as if it were empty.

Nothing happened for a long moment. Nothing to accompany the back-and-forth pulsing of the windshield wipers. The old wipers still couldn't make the window sufficiently clear to see if something was behind them. Someone who was watching from the cabin.

Nothing moved in the field either. The four soaked men were still frozen like statues, legs planted deeply in the dirt.

Finally, the cabin door opened with a creak. Then the tarpaulin that hid the taillight lifted. Six soldiers jumped from the back of the truck. Helmeted. Each one with a gun. Strangely, they were not wearing boots but plastic flip flops.

The soldiers positioned themselves in front of the hut on stilts. From a distance, they watched the peasants, who had suddenly started to move, approaching with slow strides across the wet rice field, like clay golems. The father was first. His three sons followed, slightly behind. The peasants alternated their gaze between the approaching bamboo bundle and soldiers who now stood immobile and seemed to be waiting for them.

Both extreme nervousness and disbelief could be read in the eyes of the soldiers. Normally, these people fled at their arrival, but not today. What was happening? Why were they not following the normal script?

Finally an officer came out of the cabin. He wore a cap, and gold chevrons on his shoulders. He was a stocky man, about fifty years old. He had a long vertical scar under his left eye, giving him a permanently sad expression. He yelled an order in Burmese. Two helmeted soldiers put down their guns and advanced towards the hut. The four muddy statues continued to approach, still with long slow strides.

The soldiers grabbed the long hook that usually could be found outside all the houses in Burma. It was obligatory to own one, by law. The long hook was intended to tear down the palm shingles during a fire. Removing the palms by tearing them to the ground was the most effective way to stop the spread of fire. The precious palms were assembled in overlapping thatches covering the roofs. It was the most expensive part of the construction of the house, at least if good quality was important. And here in North Arakan, good quality was needed to counter the constant rain, so as not to be soaked during the night.

The first shingle made a heavy thud as it crashed to the ground. Two infantrymen pulled their loot towards the back of the truck. The light rain continued to spray a somber veil through the air.

In the rice paddy, the four men had started to run from the moment the first palm fronds, heavy with water, had hit the ground. They were now only twenty meters or so from the soldiers. The oldest son, the largest as well, was the first to arrive.  He picked up a long beveled bamboo stick and continued to advance towards the group of soldiers, menacingly.

A rifle was raised, put into play. The father screamed. A hoarse, guttural bark. Short and icy. The world froze again. Only the rain continued to fall, as if nothing existed beyond the water rolling down their faces. A long moment passed. No one moved. Tight masks, completely still, faced each other. Then the officer with the scar spoke rapidly in Burmese to the soldiers, who had all cocked their rifles. Two long staccato sentences which momentarily eased the tension. But no one dared move. The young man, armed with his sharpened pole, continued to defy the soldier, who continued in his turn to threaten him with his rifle. They were face-to-face, five meters apart. He was a young soldier, about the same age as the peasant he was facing, the peasant who was perhaps going to rush and pierce him with his long pole. It would then be necessary to shoot. And one could sense that the young soldier did not come to kill. He was not ready. He hesitated. He would have liked to be somewhere else, far away. In his hometown, near the capital Yangon, more than five hundred kilometers away. Three days on unpaved roads. And now he was in the middle of nowhere, in this lost hole where no sane person would want to go. He had enlisted recently. Like many other young people in his village, his family was unable to pay his school fees. Army enlistment was the only way to avoid becoming a burden to his family. That or shaving his head bald and becoming a monk. He chose the dark green of the uniform, and the life far from his friends. His brother chose the saffron red of the monk's robes and was meditating somewhere near Mandalay, learning by heart the Buddha's precepts. His family was happy, having produced a soldier and a monk. It was a good balance and they had fulfilled both their civic and spiritual duties. When their son left for North Arakan, they had reassured him as much as they were able, in congratulating him for going to protect the border. But the young recruit had sensed behind the words of his parents that they were secretly sorry for him. And relieved too, because, although bad luck had thus fallen on one member of the family, the others no longer were at risk. The young soldier would have still liked to be somewhere close to Yangon, or even Mandalay or Bago, among the Bamars, the original inhabitants of Burma. Not here, far away from everything, in a hostile environment, facing savages who would gladly slaughter him if they had the chance. The glimmer of hate that he saw in the peasant's eyes started to panic him. The young soldier had a pit in his stomach. He didn't want to kill. Not today. Also, it was Wednesday, and he had made a vow not to commit violent acts on Wednesdays. It was his day of birth, a sacred day for him. But he knew if the other man took one more step, he would be able to pull the trigger. To protect himself. Out of fear.

A strange piercing voice suddenly rose behind them. Attention was suddenly focused on another target. It was a small nasal voice speaking quickly in a language full of choppy words that crackled like hail on a tin roof. The old woman, scarf wet on her head, had just slid between the soldiers and planted herself in front of their leader. She was at least 20 centimeters shorter than him. But she looked at him severely. Her frowning face and the noises from her throat seemed to reprimand him. As if he were a child who had committed a serious offense. The officer, bareheaded, stared at her in horror and surprise. Respect for the elderly was absolute in Burma. An elderly person could not be contradicted. Even less so in public. It wasn't possible. But here, in this situation, with these people, what was to be done? The old lady continued to scold him rapidly in a language he didn't understand. The Burmese did not speak ‘Bengali’. Absolutely not. It was the language of the Kalars, dark Muslims who lived on the other side of the border, in Bangladesh. It was also the language of the Rohingyas, the refugees who had settled on this stretch of land and whom nobody wanted. Those who had no rights on Burmese soil. Even if they claimed they did. They had to stay within the confines their villages until a solution for them could be found. This family had built its lousy hut beyond the authorized limits. This could not be tolerated.  Otherwise they would claim the fields a bit further on, and then further and further, and finally, the entire country. If they wanted to continue staying, they only had to obey. Or else go to Iran or Afghanistan!

The old woman continued to babble incoherently. The father took another step. He had come out of the rice field and had one foot on the road. He glared at the Burmese officer with eyes filled with a barely contained anger. It would be a true explosion of violence. The leader of the Burmese soldiers understood that if he were to make a hostile move in the direction of the little old woman who scolded him, this man would be at his throat in an instant. Bullets would not stop them, they would not be fast enough. The three others would leap as well, like angry dogs. Even the youngest had this murderous hatred in his eyes. The officer calculated the various options before him for a moment. He could have them all killed. Easy. But then there would be an inquest. This was standard procedure when death was involved, and always bothersome. There would be stacks of paper to fill out and embarrassing questions to answer in front of a commission. But he would get away with it easily. They were attacked; it was self-defense. Period. Nobody would doubt their version of events. No risk on that side. No, this was not what stopped him from the order to fire. It was more the knowledge that he, and undoubtedly one or two of his men, would be physically attacked and undoubtedly injured before they could stop their bestial attack. And he hadn't come to exchange blows. It was said that one day, one of these savages, with three bullets in his body, still had the strength to rip a soldier's ear off with his teeth. They had to bash his head in with the butt of a rifle before he let go. And even with his head crushed in, they couldn't find the ear. He had surely swallowed it! The Burmese officer did not intend to suffer the same fate. Especially with this rainfall and all the vermin that must be covering their dark and dirty skin. A simple scratch would get infected. He had already encountered similar situations. You had to be very careful when you came in contact with them.

Thus the officer made his choice. He was going to let this family of parasites live. This time. And there would be no damage in either camp. He threw his head back and shouted a brief order. The soldiers slowly retreated towards the truck, keeping their weapons aimed at the four men who glared at them, ferally.  They climbed into the back as a group. Relieved. The engine was already running. The rear door slammed. The officer was already in his seat. Through the window, he stared for a long moment at the young man who had dared threaten one of his men. His gaze was like a silent promise. He would come back. He would find an opportunity to trap him. It was only a question of time. So, he slowly dragged his index finger across his throat, a sign that the peasants understood perfectly.

The gearbox creaked three times, then the heavy vehicle, enveloped in a cloud of black smoke, moved away towards the nearest village. In search of easier prey. The father was now next to the old woman. They spoke at length, quickly. Still ignoring the light rain that continued to fall. They seemed to be disagreeing over something important. Then the old woman stopped speaking and shook her head heavily, lips pursed. They then turned to the oldest child. The one who had almost, stupidly, gotten himself killed by the Burmese soldiers.  The father walked to him and put his hand on his shoulder. His voice was heavy, as if he was about to utter a condemnation. Arun, come with me! We need to talk. The young man nodded. He understood. He followed his father with eyes downcast, saying nothing.

Tameema the storyteller

Old Tameema remained motionless for a moment, lost in her thoughts. Then she made her decision and headed towards their house of bamboo and wet palms. The two youngest boys had already repaired the bamboo thatches that the soldiers had tried to steal. The day was not yet done for the two boys and they had already returned to the rice paddy. There was still some time before nightfall. For the old woman, however, it was enough. It was time she returned to pray. She prayed while the father spoke with young Arun, telling him what they had decided. She of course prayed to their God, not the false god of the Burmese. She thought about the fourth boy, Habuzu. The eldest, repudiated by the family. Or, more precisely, forgotten, especially by his father, who wanted to hear nothing further about him. Still, he hadn't converted to Buddhism, at least to their knowledge, even if Tameema had her doubts. No, he had not converted; it wasn't possible. But, he had run away with a Buddhist girl. They ran away together because the girl had refused to convert. How would they live together? They fled together to the Burmese delta and made a living as crabbers, as far as she knew. Tameema would have liked to have news, especially because it was rumored that Habuzu had had an accident and could no longer walk. He was her grandson after all, even though he didn't respect their religion. Still, you could live quite well without it in the end.  She would have liked to see him again, or at least give him a message without his father knowing. Was Arun going to see Habuzu? After all, Arun was going to leave Arakan, they had decided. So maybe he would visit his eldest brother. Arun was a good boy; Tameema was sure that he had not really renounced Habuzu in his heart. She would talk to him, alone. He needed to go see Habuzu.

At the end of prayers, Tameema felt at peace with herself. Almost ritualistically, her thoughts turned to her own brother.  He had been