‘Hkun Pa-O’ is in Burmese lettering on the author’s bag.

By early evening, the vendors in Chiang Mai’s night bazaar are already chatting amongst themselves, their words and laughter floating back and forth between the crowds. Their covered metal stalls were wheeled out in the afternoon, and now they line both sides of the wide sidewalks; imprisoning us all in the still air of this makeshift corridor. The path is only two tourists wide, forcing sweaty strangers to squeeze and bump past each other. The confines of the stalls selling souvenir t-shirts, pillow covers, candle holders, and Diesel jeans extend for blocks, broken only occasionally by the glass fronts of air-conditioned shops like Boots and Swensen’s, or by the wide entrances leading to more shops within covered plazas.

My mission here is focused. I have perfected the look that says “save your breath, I’m not buying,” without being overly diffident or rude. At least, that’s what I like I think. I try to weave my way through with the grace of a seasoned expat, but am thwarted at every step. First a young tourist creates a bottleneck as she stands in the path, trying to squeeze in and out of a T-shirt one size too small. Next, a group of French people huddle around a calculator, haggling over the cost of a blanket. A compassionate stranger stands aside so I can pass in the other lane, but I soon become blocked by an old couple who refuse to walk single file. Shoulder to shoulder, they move at a snail’s pace. I think evil thoughts behind their backs.

Most of the shoppers pay no heed to the vendors, inching and pushing along, studying the goods, they don’t make eye contact until they are ready to bargain. Perhaps they are afraid of triggering an onslaught of sales tactics. But the vendors here are not so pushy. Some of them doze off in their chairs. They seem to be in their own world, but I can see that they notice the shoppers. I feel special when they remember me, and smile in recognition. I can hear their words following me, quiet comments and curious glances that fly ahead to catch someone else’s attention.

A man catches my eye and asks a now familiar question, “Where’d you get your bag?” The man is blind in one eye, and has a big smile; I’ve had this conversation with him more than once. “A gift from a student,” I tell him. He asks where I am from, what I do. Others who’ve stopped me before say nothing more, their curiosity guarded and their faces inscrutable.

I never ask questions in return. Simple questions could reveal topics unsafe for discussion, and I am reluctant to put them on the spot. Still, I know why my bag catches their eyes. It is like any other hill-tribe bag around here, but it is the Burmese lettering that people notice. It was a heartfelt farewell gift from Hkun Sai, a former student. The simple white letters spell out his clan name, “Pa-O.” From Burma’s Shan state, the Pa-O is one of the country’s smallest ethnic groups, and the one at the greatest risk of losing its culture to the encroachments of civil war. I don’t know how exactly the vendors can tell my bag is from Shan state, but they can. Some of the men volunteer with visible pride the information that Shan state is theirs. I wonder if they are disappointed when I tell them the bag was a gift, that I have never been to Burma.

The smiling vendor who always stops me is one of those men. He asks if I know about Shan state. When I answer yes, he gives a silent nod; I like to think it is one of approval. I am the one left with curiosity, about his life, his past, his injury, but I continue on my mission. I quickly cross the street, waving off the tuk-tuk drivers, pass a monotony of souvenirs. I head towards a glass case full of sparkling silver. There is a group of women in immaculate black burqas choosing their purchases with confidence. I peer around them politely, looking for Nang Nang’s familiar round face.

I met Nang Nang and Hkun Sai, classmates, when I first came to Chiang Mai last August. My arrival here was random and hurried. With a rapidly expiring Australian student visa, I had neither the funds nor the desire to return home. I had the general goal of building a career in human rights, particularly with refugees, but no job prospects. With two weeks to spare, I purchased a one way ticket to Thailand and sent an application off to the Burma Volunteers Program, hoping for a three month placement that would provide room and board. When they offered me a two-month paying gig at the School for Shan State Youth Nationalities, I didn’t have to think too hard. I set off for Chiang Mai, armed only with a contact number, and having never heard of Shan state.

The School for Shan State Nationalities Youth (SSSNY) was founded almost four years ago by Nang Charm Tong, a 24 year-old Shan woman and activist, who also founded the Shan Women’s Action Network (SWAN). The school provides post-secondary training to students of any ethnicity from Shan state, and they work to promote individuals’ right to an education.
Their location is not public, and for safety, the students are mainly confined to the school for the duration of the term.

There were 22 students when I arrived 7 months into the term. Most of them were younger than my own 26 years, and had names it took me a month to remember. Hkun Sai, at 33, was the oldest. He was the most outspoken about an individual’s right to their own culture and language. Although confident in his opinions, his inability to make a direct statement often borders on a stutter. He loves dancing, in the traditional style with dainty steps and graceful hand movements, even to his classmates’ bouncy pop music. He would sometimes express frustration that he wasn’t allowed to wear his traditional longyi, or Burmese style sarong; it might have aroused suspicion among the neighbors.

Nang Nang, 18, is ethnic Shan, and is one of three girls who went on to work in the night bazaar. She is cheerful, but often had to be coaxed to speak out in class. Like all the girls, though, she freely joined in arguments about women’s rights. Pan Pan, who is ethnic Karen, also went to work in the same shop. Recently turned 18, Pan Pan appears dainty and girly, but has no compunctions about stating her mind. Once when she spotted me in the night bazaar, she ran after me down the street to give me a hug and tell me she misses me so much she can’t stand it. Nu Lat, also Shan, was the youngest in the class, at 17. She’s confident, but not as gregarious as Pan Pan. She too went to work in the night bazaar, selling clothes.

Along a sidewalk of the night bazaar, vendors rest under cover from the rain.

When a refugee is not a refugee

Shan is the largest state in Burma, bordering the north of Thailand and the southwest of China. At least half of its 8 million people are Shan, but there are also Karen, Kachin, Mon, Wa and Lahu, and Pa-O. Its history as a nation is not well documented, and is often overshadowed by Burma’s. The state became a British protectorate in 1887, two years after Burma became a British colony. Between 1942 and 1945 the Japanese invaded with the aid of the Burma Independence Army. The British regained control after the Burmese forces switched sides. Shan leaders met with General Aung San of Burma and signed the Panglong Accord in 1947, whereby they agreed to join the Union of Burma when it gained independence the following year. In return, Shan state was given the right to secede after 10 years. After Aung San was assassinated, no government of Burma since has recognized the constitutional clause which grants Shan state the right to independence.

Burmese troops entered Shan state in 1952 and declared martial law, ostensibly to fight Chinese Kuomintang forces there. According to the Burmese junta, General Ne Win seized control of the government in 1962 amid the chaos of civil war. According to Shan sources, civil war broke out after Ne Win’s military staged their coup and tore up the constitution.  In the new constitution, there was no secession clause. Socialist Burma became a unitary state; Shan leaders and the royal family went into exile.

Since 1962, Shan state has been home base to no less than three major armed resistance forces at any given time, as well as smaller forces with shifting allegiances. With mergers and splinters, armies have changed names and changed leaders. At present, the Shan State Army (SSA) has formed the strongest resistance to the junta. It is one of the last groups to refuse a cease-fire agreement with the government.

In return, the people of Shan state have faced the greatest retaliation. Since 1996, more than 300,000 people have been forcibly relocated, their villages burned and surrounded by landmines or armed guards. Some of my students can no longer return to their homes. SWAN’s 2002 report, “License to Rape,” details over 175 incidents of rape and assault involving 625 girls and women. Perpetrated by Burmese forces over a 5-year period, 145 rapes were committed by commanding officers, and only one rapist was ever punished.

That the Junta uses forced labor is common knowledge. Firsthand accounts given to the Shan Human Rights Foundation (SHRF) reveal that men, women, and children alike are forced to work as military porters; they are often used as human minesweepers. The evidence points to a military campaign targeting civilians. With no where else to turn, people flee over the border to Thailand.

The Thai government limits refugee status to those who are “fleeing fighting.” The Shan are excluded from this definition. Thai Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra has stated that the Shan are “cousins” who can easily integrate into Thai society, and do not need humanitarian aid. Without legal rights or protection, they are left vulnerable. In April, 500 Shan were given temporary refuge inside the Thai border after their camp near an SSA base was shelled. In May, after the Thai Government announced a crackdown on illegal immigrants, the 500 were ordered to return. Although they were given a month to move, the army immediately began blockading their supplies coming from the Burmese side. Of the 500, half are orphans.

There are official refugee camps along the border for Karen and Karenni, which are supported by international non-governmental organizations. Groups like the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees cannot access the Shan because they have no legal recognition as “persons of concern.” Those Shan in unofficial camps along the border, estimated to be over 5,000, receive support and aid from grassroots organizations like SWAN, SHRF and the Shan State Army. The SHRF estimates there are more than 200,000 Shan seeking refuge in Thailand.

Although safer, life in Thailand is not easy. Many Shan work as fruit-pickers, often living with their families on the edges of the longan, mango, or strawberry orchards. If they are lucky, their children may attend classes taught by “barefoot teachers,” volunteers from NGOs or the SSA who teach secretly in the fields.  Although they can register as guest workers and obtain permits, this offers little protection from harsh working conditions. Agricultural workers are exposed to dangerous pesticides; factory workers are exposed to paint and chemical fumes. Many employers deduct the cost of the permit from wages already below minimum wage. Most families must live on much less than $100 a month, not enough for both food and rent in Thailand.

From a friend’s guest-house in the centre of Chiang Mai, we can see two families living on the open concrete floors of a building under construction. He’s been told the families are Thai, and will live in the subsidized housing when it is complete. I think they are Shan with no where else to go.

When a foreigner is not a foreigner

After their school term ended, many of my students returned to working for their own organizations, conducting research and human rights documentation. A few went on to further training. Of the three, Nang Nang is the only one who stayed at the night bazaar. Pan Pan, who loves languages and wants more than anything to study abroad, is now studying French. When I visit Nang Nang at work she is happy to see me, escaping from the dreary bored faces behind the counter to greet me with a hug and an exclamation of  “Ahh! Teacher!” There are a few other women working at the small shop front but I rarely see her chatting with them. A few of them are Shan as well. In my brief conversation with one girl, she plainly told me I’d gotten fat. Sometimes Nang Nang complains about gossips, but she doesn’t give details.

Nang Nang came to Thailand with her family when she was 16. When she first arrived, she worked briefly in construction and then at a restaurant. She says the job at the night bazaar is her favorite, but it hardly seems like much of a choice to me. As her teacher, I tried my best to convince her to attend a program for training in human rights education. She turned it down. Without any financial resources, she was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to find another job as good she has. Her pay is around $100 a month plus commission, working 70 hours a week. It’s a sum paltry by my standards, but fair in local terms. Most migrant workers get paid half as much for doing twice the work of their Thai counterparts and this employer, at least, pays everyone the same.

When I interview Nang Nang about work, Pong, also 18, comes along to help translate. Pong, a classmate, attended a journalism training course after the School for Shan State and now works as an environmental journalist. They both tell me that their favorite thing about the night bazaar is the people from many different countries. They prefer being around foreigners, they say, because Thai people often look down on them. Migrant workers have become a stepping stone for the quickly rising middle class here, providing cheap labor for construction booms, and servants for Thai homes.

For Pong, the worst thing about the night bazaar is the strange men who catcall her; for Nang Nang, it is the fear of immigration agents. They operate undercover, single men shopping on their own, and when they hear the telltale signs of an accent, they ask to see IDs and work permits. Nang Nang has an ID and a permit which she recently paid a month’s wages to obtain. But it makes no difference, she is still illegal. The law restricts migrant workers to menial service and construction work, retail is off limits.  

Nang Nang has yet to be carded, though, and it seems her employer has paid the more important “fee” which makes agents skip this shop. Allegedly, the unofficial fine when caught is 10,000 baht, which is more than $250. The official fine is three months in jail, a fine, and deportation. In an unofficial deportation, one is simply dropped on the other side of the border. More fees and bribes can be paid to get back across again.  In official deportations, individuals are put on a plane and handed over to Burmese government officials. Leaving Burma without authorization is a crime punishable by a year or more in prison.

Neither Nang Nang nor Pong can give me an idea of how many Shan are working at the night bazaar; they tell me that they hear “many many people speaking Burmese.” That everyone is forced to learn and use Burmese in school breeds resentment among many, and a general reluctance to speak it at all. Nonetheless, it is often the only common language available. Nang Nang and Pong, however, do not talk with the other workers they hear speaking Burmese. If there is a sense of solidarity and community among the Shan in Thailand, it is not aired in the public markets of Chiang Mai. Blending in and keeping a low profile is key to surviving as an illegal immigrant, and this is easiest done alone.

When Nang Nang and I chat in front of her work, she always holds my hand. She is more generous in her affection than I am. When I first visited her at work, she told me laughingly about her co-workers’ shock that I had actually come to see her. I know it gives her some satisfaction then, to be seen holding my hand. I haven’t told her that it also brings me no small amount of joy. We make a strange image, standing there, hands clasped, between a trinket shop and CD rack, the crowd swarming around us. We stand on two sides of a divide: tourist, educated, white on one side; local, uneducated, poor on the other. I can see people looking at us oddly, some trying harder to hide it than others.

What makes me smile, is knowing what they cannot see — that the divide between us is not so great. With my students, I am their teacher and their friend; never the farang, or foreigner, that I will always be in Thailand. We share a certain camaraderie, being outsiders in a foreign land. Truth be told, they will tell anyone who will listen about Shan state and Burma. They speak matter-of-factly about the tragedies that are occurring there. If they do not share their personal stories with me, it is probably because I have never asked. I don’t really want to know. I can’t change their pasts, and I think they can handle it better than I could. Of what is going on in their hearts, I get only tiny glimpses, in wistful faces when they tell me of their homes, or in eyes tearing up at the mention of a father.

Before I leave Nang Nang at work, she tells me that Nu Lat has returned from her trip to Bangkok. She worries about her, but is envious that Nu Lat travels so freely, with no apparent fear of being caught. I tell her about Pan Pan studying French, but she seems uninterested. I wonder if they’ve had a falling out, but don’t ask. I also mention Hkun Sai, who is now living at a refugee camp while he applies for resettlement in the United States. We hug good-bye, and I promise to see her again soon. She steps back behind the counter and I step back into the flow of tourists, looking for my first opportunity to escape between the stalls and into the open air of the street.

STORY INDEX

ORGANIZATIONS >

Shan Herald Agency for News
URL: http://www.shanland.org

Shan Women’s Action Network
URL: http://www.shanwomen.org

TOPICS > SHAN

The Shan in Thailand: A Case of Protection and Assistance Failure
Written 06/22/2004 by Refugees International
URL: http://www.refugeesinternational.org/content/article/detail/972/?mission=1724

In The Fray Contributor