This story contains descriptions of violence and suffering. It also contains some basic sexual activity. Please consider yourself warned.
"Hard-hearted you are, you gods! You unrivaled lords of jealousy - scandalized when goddesses sleep with mortals..." Calypso of Homer's Odyssey
Stepping into the tea shop from the busy sidewalk of Yangon. I glance around to see if someone matching the description of my contact is sitting at any of the tables. I am early and no one is wearing a black jacket. My contact will wear a black jacket. With only a couple of other patrons during the middle of the afternoon, I can choose from several of the open tables to sit at. I carefully walk toward the back of the shop where I can observe everyone in the shop and have a quick escape out the kitchen if needed.
A school aged boy comes over to put a tea pot on the table and ask my order. I order milk tea with some patongko (fried dough). Eating this reminds me of coffee and donuts back in the US. Having finalized the inspections at the factories this morning I have the entire afternoon to myself. The clothing company I work for has received some bad press at continuing to use factories in Myanmar, but unbeknown to the activists, it provides us a secret way to support the disobedience movement. Had we cut off production in Myanmar, travelling to Yangon would have been blocked.
The sugary milk tea comes with the greasy fried dough. Dipping the dough into the tea I slowly chew off bite after bite. Hot tea on a hot day, such is the way of Burma.
A short man in his twenties comes out from the kitchen asking something of the boy waiting tables. The man is wearing gray pants instead of a lungi and a black jacket. He takes only a second to spot me and sit down at my table but not without carefully looking around to see who else is present.
"Mingalarbar" (Hello)
"Mingalarbar, I am Tin. You had messaged about a car repair." Car repair was our code sign.
"Yes, it seems the computer no longer is connected to the engine." I answered with the counter sign.
"Here is the number to someone who can help." Tin hands me an envelope with a phone number written on the back. The phone number scribbled on the back covers the real reason for handing me the envelope. I will empty the contents soon as possible but not here in tea shop. I want to finish my sweet milky tea but it was not worth the trouble. We should not be seen together any more than is necessary.
"The money and items are in the bag on the seat next to you." I tell Tin plainly. "Please do not touch it until I have left."
I stand grabbing my bag from the back of my chair. "Jiisehbleh, thank you for this advice. I will call to see if they can fix it for me." I hold up the envelope indicating the phone number pretending we are just talking about car repair and walk out. As I walk down the street toward my hotel, I dump out the envelope inside of my pants pocket. It kind looks like I am scratching my balls while I have my hands in my pockets. What must be micro SD cards fall out. Those will hold information for my manager. She has developed connections with human rights activists and intelligence agencies that will want that information. So much for the days when business trips were about following up on garment tech-packs and quality check sheets.
I act like I am inspecting the phone number before placing the now empty envelope into the front pocket of my currier bag. On the raised curb, a woman begs with her shrinking child in her lap. By her clothes she looks like she comes from a rural farm area. The rumors about farmers being forced to sell at less than market prices must be true. I briefly wonder how long before the child dies.
Five military trucks are parked along the road and the police check people. Back in 2019 avoiding check points was easy, but now there is no way back to my hotel without a check point crossing. I walk up to the police as the soldiers mill around with their rifles in hand. A couple of the soldiers look like they should still be in school. A policeman asks for my passport. I hand it to him. A woman cries as the police drag what is apparently her teenage son into the back of a truck. Foreigners such as I do not have to fear random arrests like that of this teenage boy.
"100,000 kyat." I turn to see a middle-aged man in light green button up shirt and checkered lungi. He holds out his hand indicating that I am supposed to give him money. I turn back to the policeman pretending that I did not understand the man's poor English pronunciation.
"100,000 kyat," the man in the checked lungi repeats.
The policeman looks up from my passport to the man and back to me.
"Give him his money," the policeman orders. Shocked I stand there for a minute trying to understand what is happening. The policeman lowers my passport and looks at me like I am an unruly child not obeying his parents. I pull out my wallet and extract ten 10,000 kyat bills. The man in the lungi grabs the bills. The policeman, pleased with my obedience, hands back my passport and waves me through. Can I write extortion off as a travel expense?
Boom!!!
An explosion rips the sunny afternoon apart. I hunch down, not knowing what is happening. The first army truck has blown up and is now burning. People start to scream in agony. Others just lie on the ground. As I partially crouch trying to understand the situation, it happens again.
Boom!!!
An explosion knocks me to the ground, blackness swallows me. The dust and debris momentarily block out all light. Aside from the dirt and the feeling of being punched, I am ok. Stunned I stand back up. I brush my clothes off to check for any injuries, no injuries. Glancing around I see a couple of the soldiers thrashing about as they burn in a puddle of fire next to the remains of a truck. Those poor fellows will not be alive long. I gag trying not to vomit. The attackers obviously targeted the first and last trucks aiming for the soldiers, probably avoiding the middle vehicles with prisoners.
No shooting, if there were shooting, I would seek cover, but since it is just two explosions, I should distance myself from the attack site. I stumble down the street to get away from the carnage.
Right then she enters my life. Running out from a stairwell onto the sidewalk, a slim young woman less than 50 kg (120 lb) trips and falls flat on her face dropping the remote for a toy car. The remote slides off the curb into the street. Her hair which normally reaches to her butt spills in a black mess on top of her. Horrified she looks at the police and soldiers coming from up the street. Fear freezes her.
Toy car remote, detonated bombs, stairwell leading to a view of the street, young woman running, my mind puts the pieces together. Thinking quickly before anyone else notices, I snatch up the remote and hide it in my bag. Sliding my arms under her, I pull the young woman up, dragging her down the street with me. As a foreigner I would not normally touch a woman in public but the current situation is not normal.
"Come with me, we have to get out of here," I tell her. Fortunately, she understands English and nods. My arm wraps around her to support her, she leans into me. The results of the explosions have shaken her. Evidently no one warned her what would happen when she pushed the trigger, the regret, the shame, the realization. This must be her first-time taking life. Soldiers push past us rushing toward the scene. For two more city blocks she holds onto me, her head against my chest. Into the third block she pulls away.
"You cannot go with me," she says. "Thank you for helping me. You cannot know where I go."
We walk a couple more blocks in silence. Bowing slightly, she indicates she is leaving me. She starts to turn down the alleyway but stops. Police vehicles with their white and dark blue colors cluster not halfway down the alley. She stares at the police running into a building. Standing there stunned she does not move except to cover her mouth in horror. Somehow the police knew about her hiding place.
Taking hold of her tiny waist, I push her thin body out of the alleyway back onto the street. The police that look our way give us only a passing glance. Hopefully they think we are a couple out together.
"Aswii... Aung... Tun," she mutters names in shock.
"No going back. We have to keep on going," I tell her holding her against my body again. We eventually make it to my hotel. At the front desk I release my arm from around her but she remains clutching on as if I am the last thing she has left.
"Room 310," I ask the desk clerk for my key. The clerk gives me an odd look because of the woman hanging onto me.
"We were right next to the trucks that blew up! I thought we were going to die! My interpreter is very scared. We will have to wait to get her home." I make up a story for us. The desk clerk's face changes to sympathetic and slides the room key over.
"Bombs? You were there?" the desk clerk asks.
"Right there! The police were checking my passport when everything started to blow up! O God I have to call my home office right away!" I scoop up the key. My new "interpreter" never loosened her grip even as we enter the elevator. Thankfully the hotel generator keeps the elevator, air conditioning, and other necessities going. The key is one of those regular pin and tumbler locks with an extra big plastic card to slip in the slot turning on power to the room. The air conditioning clicks on indicating that power for the room is on.
The click of the air conditioner flips an emotional switch for the young woman, she starts to cry, her arms wrap around my body. Her face buries into my chest as tears soak into my shirt and tie. I have the sense to kick my shoes off before sitting her on the bed. She cries in my arms releasing her fear, grief, shock, trauma.
"I don't know... I didn't know... I don't know..." she mumbles repeatedly as if she is trying to say something but does not know how to say it. I listen and hold on.
