In the Silence: International Fiction, Poetry, Essays, and Performance 9780824896614

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
Editor’s Note
An angel passes by
Forgiving the Unforgivable
An Angel Passes By: Silence and Memories at the Massacre of El Mozote
The Wall Builder
How to Eat an Orange
from Murambi: The Book of Bones
What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?
from The Blast
Three Poems
Crow Season
Four Poems
Election Day in Florida
South Asia
Stand by Me: Song of a Farmer
Dead End
Three Poems
He Chuckled Quietly
Three Poems
Six Poems
Two Poems
The Pain Merchant
Two Poems
The Darkest Word in the Dictionary
Three Poems
The Earth Shall Be Enjoyed By Heroes
Three Poems
Burma/Myanmar
To Write a History
Aphwar Sighted the Snake
Living with a Warlock
Ka Pi’s Dentures
The Border Town
Back in the Tall Grass
Lily
Interview with Kyaw Zwa Moe
The Window
Picnic
On My Way Home
Kaw Tha Wah the Hunter
Watch out maung maung (there is such a thing as retribution)
Coffee of the Gods
The Venomous
Land Mines
War
Insect in the Gala
Mom Cooks Seven Rock Shrimps
Biology
An Ox for a Wad of Paan
Three Poems
Under the Great Ice Sheet
About the Photographer
About the Contributors
Permissions

Citation preview

In the Silence

M A N O A

3 4 : 2

U N I V E R S I T Y O F

H A W A I ‘ I

P R E S S

H O N O L U L U

In the Silence I N T E R N A T I O N A L E S S A Y S ,

A N D

F I C T I O N ,

P E R F O R M A N C E

Frank Stewart Series Editor

Alok Bhalla Guest Editor for South Asia

Penny Edwards ko ko thett Kenneth Wong Guest Editors for Burma / Myanmar

A Rohingya man looks out over a sprawling refugee camp in Bangladesh toward the Mayu Mountains in Burma, considered by the Rohingya to be their ancestral homeland. © Greg Constantine 2019

P O E T R Y ,

Mänoa: A Pacific Journal of International Writing

Editor Frank Stewart Managing Editor Pat Matsueda Associate Editor Noah Perales-Estoesta Staff Li Shan Chan, Quinn White Designer and Art Editor Barbara Pope Consulting Editors Anna Badkhen, Robert Bringhurst, Barry Lopez (1945–2020), W. S. Merwin (1927–2019), Carol Moldaw, Michael Nye, Naomi Shihab Nye, Gary Snyder, Julia Steele, Arthur Sze, Michelle Yeh Corresponding Editors for Asia and the Pacific cambodia Sharon May, Christophe Macquet, Trent Walker china Chen Zeping (1954–2022), Karen Gernant, Ming Di hong kong Shirley Geok-lin Lim indonesia John H. McGlynn japan Leza Lowitz korea Bruce Fulton new zealand and south pacific Vilsoni Hereniko, Alexander Mawyer pacific latin america Noah Perales-Estoesta philippines Alfred A. Yuson south asia Alok Bhalla, Sukrita Paul Kumar western canada Trevor Carolan Founded in 1988 by Robert Shapard and Frank Stewart Mānoa is published twice a year and is available in print and online for both individuals and institutions. Subscribe at https://www.uhpress.hawaii.edu/title/manoa/. Please visit http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/manoa to browse issues and tables of contents online. Claims for non-receipt of issues will be honored if claim is made within 180 days of the month of publication. Thereafter, the regular back-issue rate will be charged for replacement. Inquiries are received at [email protected] or by phone at 1-888-uhpress or 808-956-8833. Mānoa gratefully acknowledges the support of the University of Hawai‘i and the University of Hawai‘i College of Languages, Linguistics, and Literature; with additional support from the Henry Luce Foundation and Translation Project Group/AAS Southeast Asia Council, National Endowment for the Arts, and Mānoa Foundation. manoa.hawaii.edu/manoajournal https://www.uhpress.hawaii.edu/title/manoa/ muse.jhu.edu jstor.org

C O N T E N T S

Editor’s Note

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an angel passes by Anna Badkhen Forgiving the Unforgivable

1

Claudia Bernardi An Angel Passes By

15

Cao Kou The Wall Builder

33

Catherine Filloux How to Eat an Orange

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Boubacar Boris Diop Murambi: The Book of Bones

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Frederick Douglass What to a Slave Is the Fourth of July?

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Joseph Matthews The Blast

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Charlotte Mew Three Poems

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Ann Pancake Crow Season

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Terese Svoboda Four Poems

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Walter F. White Election Day in Florida

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south asia Alok Bhalla Stand by Me

100

Ajeet Cour Dead End

102

Keki Daruwalla Three Poems

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Dhoomil He Chuckled Quietly

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Kunwar Narain Three Poems

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Robin S. Ngangom Six Poems

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Bibhu Padhi Two Poems

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Manjula Padmanabhan The Pain Merchant

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Pash

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Two Poems

E. V. Ramakrishnan The Darkest Word in the Dictionary

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K. Satchidanandan Three Poems

142

Murzban F. Shroff The Earth Shall Be Enjoyed by Heroes

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Kedarnath Singh Three Poems

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burma/myanmar

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Penny Edwards, ko ko thett, Kenneth Wong To Write a History

179

Anonymous Aphwar Sighted the Snake

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A Thi Na Living with a Warlock

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Aidii Ka Pi’s Dentures

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Aung Khin Myint The Border Town

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Maung Day Back in the Tall Grass

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Eaindra Lily

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Penny Edwards Interview with Kyaw Zwa Moe

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Ju

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The Window

K Za Win Picnic

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Khin Min Zaw On My Way Home

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Saw Lambert Kaw Tha Wah the Hunter

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Moe Way watch out maung maung

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Nay Win Myint Coffee of the Gods

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Pandora The Venomous

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Saw Phoe Kwar Land Mines

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Phyu Phyu Kyaw Thein War

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Pyait Sone Win Insect in the Gala

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Ma Sandar Mom Cooks Seven Rock Shrimps

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Ko Than Tun Biology

240

Thida Shania An Ox for a Wad of Paan

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Tin Moe Three Poems

242

Maung Yu Py Under the Great Ice Sheet

243

About the Photographer

245

About the Contributors

246

Permissions

255

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A hand-drawn map of the Rohingya village of Maung Nu, where nearly one hundred Rohingya were massacred on August 27, 2017. © Greg Constantine 2019

Editor’s Note

In the Silence takes its title from the essay included here by visual artist Claudia Bernardi. In it, Bernardi describes her assignment with a forensic team to exhume the bodies from a mass murder by government troops in December 1981 in El Mozote, a small village in northern El Salvadore. It may have been the largest massacre in modern Latin American history. Units of the army’s elite Atlacatl Battalion entered the village in jeeps and by helicopter, looking for elements of the People’s Revolutionary Army, leftist guerillas opposed to the U.S.-backed military government. Though none were in the hamlet, the soldiers proceeded to torture, rape, and kill the villagers, including women and children. When reports of the killings leaked out, a cover-up began in San Salvador and Washington, D.C. Eleven years later, a forensic team from Argentina began examining the area in and around El Mozote. In the end, the team exhumed “143 skeletal remains, including 131 children under age 12, 5 teenagers and 7 adults. The average age of the children was approximately 6 years.” Bernardi writes, “I have so many questions to ask.” I feel the urgency to write, to keep track of what I see. I wish I could do art. As I cannot do art, I think of art. I am thinking of the “associated objects” that retain the memory and life of the people of El Mozote. I want to be subtle. It cannot be a “loud” piece. It must remain a “silent” piece. As silent as holding the dress of a girl containing an intact ribcage whose little arched bones resemble more the bones of a bird. The bones of a wing. The missing wing of an angel. There is silence. An Angel has passed.

In “Forgiving the Unforgivable,” Anna Badkhen describes an Apache ceremony she witnessed in Guachochi, a remote Mexican town in southwestern Chihuahua state. “La Ceremonia del Perdón” offered a gesture of forgiveness for those who perpetrated the genocide of indigenous people over the last three centuries. How is it possible to make peace with such crimes? “I am trying to learn about forgiveness,” Badkhen writes. Other authors in In the Silence, directly or indirectly, express these feelings. Boubacar Boris Diop, in an excerpt from his novel Murambai: The Book of Bones, ix

writes about the 1994 genocide in Rwanda, which killed an estimated 800,000 people in 100 days and created 2 million refugees. Frederick Douglass, in his famous 1852 anti-slavery speech, asks, “What to a slave is the 4th of July?” Walter F. White, long-time director of the NAACP, describes the fatal obstacles to free elections in Florida. And in an excerpt from Joseph Matthews’ novel The Blast, he recounts the consequences of one man’s experience during the American war against independence in the Philippines from 1899 to 1913. South Asia’s history of caste conflict, partition, forced migration, mob violence, and religious bigotry is painfully present in a section edited by translator and scholar Alok Bhalla. Punjabi writer Ajeet Cour’s terrifying story “Dead End” powerfully recounts the killings triggered by the provocations of rightwing politicians in India. In the disquieting short story “The Pain Merchant,” playwright and fiction writer Manjula Padmanabhan depicts a surreal world in which pain has become a commodity. In the introduction to their selection of writing from Burma / Myanmar, “To Write a History,” coeditors Penny Edwards, ko ko thett, and Kenneth Wong wonder how it is possible to publish literature written under a military regime that is determined to censor dissent and is ready to kill. “What happened to the Queen of Justice?” Rohingya poet Thida Shania asks in her poem “An Ox for a Wad of Paan.” “I search for her everywhere— / I find her nowhere.” Yet, in the worst of circumstances, writers find ways to explore grace, loss, trauma, and hope. In a riveting photographic essay by Greg Constantine, unsettling images document the persecution of the minority Rohingya people, uprooted by Myanmar’s military regime. Since 2017, some 700,000 have been forced by the ethnic violence and genocide to flee their homes. His images have been exhibited worldwide and are currently at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in an exhibition titled Burma’s Path to Genocide. Over the last thirty-five years, Mānoa has been dedicated to presenting literature and art from throughout the world. Writers, translators, and artists are essential, we have asserted, for their ability and willingness to put into words and images the reality of individual suffering as well as celebrate the hopes and actions that contribute to a sane civil society. Earlier this year, Mānoa published Out of the Shadows of Angkor, the first comprehensive anthology of work from Cambodia. In 2020, Mānoa’s volume Tyranny Lessons featured international work exploring the social, political, and personal consequences of intolerance, racial injustice, and despotism. The writers from China, Croatia, the Czech Republic, Estonia, France, Hong Kong, India, Indonesia, Ireland, Latvia, Slovenia, Syria, Taiwan, Tibet, Turkey, and the U.S. contributed works that explore many kinds of freedom—and its opposite. Over the years, previous issues of Mānoa have focused on the themes of reconciliation, minority communities, displaced persons, and war. Mānoa has offered to English-speaking readers the literature and art from many places and people off the map and out of mind

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taking readers and these subjects seriously; to that end, the editors and guest editors have attempted to present works that are as strong as possible as literature and art, worthy of enduring interest. This is the last issue being produced by the team that has headed Mānoa since its founding by Robert Shapard and Frank Stewart in 1989. During those decades, Māhealani Dudoit and then Pat Matsueda were the managing editors and Barbara Pope the art editor, who also provided the original design upon which the journal is based. Students, volunteers, interns, and staff have been dedicated to the journal’s success, for which we thank them. The University of Hawai‘i Press has always been supportive. Mānoa is grateful to the organizations, individual readers, contributors, and others who have understood our mission and sustained us. In short, we have been favored by countless, unseen angels. The departing team wishes the best for Mānoa’s future.



Editor’s Note

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Burmese authorities required all Rohingya families to stand and be photographed as part of the highly discriminatory household registration process. The photographs were another way to control the Rohingya population. Six of the family members in this photograph were killed during a massacre in the town of Tula Toli in 2017. © Greg Constantine 2018

A N N A

B A D K H E N

Forgiving the Unforgivable oklahoma to texas On a Monday in early August I find myself spooning soil from Geronimo’s grave at a prisoner-of-war cemetery in Oklahoma into a double Ziplock bag I bought at Target. I will carry this soil, by car and bus, to Guachochi, a town in the Sierra Madre Occidental. There, three Mexican sisters who have recently traced their ancestry to the famous Apache medicine man are about to hold a Ceremonia del Perdón—Ceremony of Forgiveness. The soil is my gift to them. Geronimo’s grave is inside Fort Sill, a US Army base, so I must first stop at the visitor center to obtain a pass. The United States staked out Fort Sill in 1869, as a staging ground for punitive raids against the Native Americans who had survived deportation to Indian Territory, and even though the base dates back more than a hundred years, its visitor center bears the ubiquitous hallmarks of military efficiency that scream temporariness: insulated white metal wall panels mounted on a concrete foundation and facing a parking lot paved with ankle breaker gravel. I have seen structures and parking lots exactly like this on US military bases in Iraq and Afghanistan, which also were staging grounds for raids into quasi-occupied lands; most of those are now gone. Inside the visitor center, a jovial military policeman hands me Form 118a, Request for Unescorted Installation Access to Fort Sill. This is to ensure somehow that I am not a terrorist. I enter my full name, date of birth, driver’s license number, social security number, gender, race. Under “purpose of visit” I check “other.” Beef Creek Apache Cemetery was established in 1894, the year Geronimo and 341 other surrendered Chiricahua Apaches—adults and children—were transferred from a prisoner-of-war camp in Florida to Fort Sill under military escort. Here, in the foothills of the Wichita Mountains, Geronimo’s insurgency against white colonists came to an end. It had begun in 1851, when Mexican soldiers massacred more than a hundred women and children in Geronimo’s encampment, among them his mother, his first wife, and all three of his young children. At Beef Creek, rows of identical upright headstones of white marble poke out of a manicured sloping field of green; think Arlington Cemetery minus the color guard. Among this impersonal personal misery, Geronimo’s tomb stands 1

out, a pyramid of granite boulders perhaps five feet tall, topped with a stone eagle. A small grove of white hibiscus and fragrant abelia screens it slightly from the rest of the burial ground. Geronimo died technically of pneumonia but ultimately of the humiliation that accompanied his imprisonment. To be a POW of the United States back then was different than at Guantánamo: Apache prisoners could set up villages within the perimeter of the army base. They could marry and raise children and bury them. I check the stones. One couple lost three children in five years. Many grave markers have only one date. Some Apache prisoners got to travel outside the wire. With Pawnee Bill’s Wild West Show, which advertised his cameo as “The Worst Indian That Ever Lived,” Geronimo hawked his legend at county fairs. And he was one of six Native men to ride horseback in Teddy Roosevelt’s inaugural parade through the streets of Washington, DC, in 1901. When someone asked Roosevelt why he chose this “greatest single-handed murderer in American history” to join his parade, the president replied, “I wanted to give the people a good show.” To the left of Geronimo’s is the grave of the sixth of his nine wives, Zi-Yeh, who died in 1904 at the age of thirty-five, of tuberculosis. To the right, the grave of their daughter Eva Geronimo Godeley, who was forced to attend one of the Indian boarding schools the US government had created to strip Native children of their roots; her school was almost two hundred miles away. She was twenty-one when she died, in 1911. Eva’s daughter, Evaline, died at birth the year previous; she is buried here, too. Geronimo was gone by then: in February 1909 he was riding home drunk after selling bows and arrows at Lawton when he fell off a horse and was too hurt or too drunk to stand. He spent the night in winter cold before a friend found him ill the next morning. He died three days later. It is noon. Thunderclouds are building in Oklahoma’s sticky midsummer heat. I am alone at the cemetery; I take my time paying respects. The last grave I visit belongs to a medicine woman. Her name was Id-Is-Tah-Nah. Mexican troops kidnapped her from Geronimo’s camp when she was a teenager and sold her into slavery to a maguey planter, who renamed her Francisca, like the medieval Roman saint who was forced into marriage at twelve and lost two children to the plague. Several years later she ran away and, after many days on foot, reunited with her kin. On the way a mountain lion attacked her and disfigured her face and hands, which she could never completely use again. She brewed tiswin corn beer and danced beautifully. Geronimo took her as his seventh wife. Her headstone tells us none of this. It bears only her imposed name, misspelled francisco, and under it the words apache woman and two dates, 1847 and 1901. To erase, to force oblivion is the founding principle of the country indivisible from her foundational sins, whose standards flop in the prairie wind at

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the entrance to Fort Sill. Driving to Fort Sill from Tulsa, where I am staying this year, I pass the oil wells of Cushing, owned by an energy company called Apache Corporation. Apache Corporation was founded by three white men in Minnesota and has no historic ties to any Native Americans other than appropriation and tangent: it picked the name of a people whose history of anticolonial resistance to this day titillates white prejudice, and it drilled its first wells on land homesteaders had stolen from the Sac and Fox Nation during the Oklahoma Land Run of 1889. This was the second time the Sac and Fox had their land stolen by whites. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the French colonial government and the US had deported them from their original home territory, in the Great Lakes region. They also stole their real names, Sauk and Meskwaki, just as the Mexican planter and the Fort Sill cemetery administrators stole, twice, the name of Id-Is-Tah-Nah. Name theft is trendy, a timeless fashion. For example, the US stole the name of the Sauk resistance hero Black Hawk for an attack helicopter. I have flown on Black Hawks over other land under US occupation, in Iraq. Another helicopter gunship the US Army used there was called Apache. Geronimo’s tomb has been desecrated at least twice. Less than a decade after he died in 1909, members of Yale’s Skull and Bones—among them, allegedly, Prescott Bush, the father of President George H. W. Bush and grandfather of President George W. Bush—dug up the grave, cut off the dead man’s head, and brought the skull to the society’s headquarters in New Haven. A hundred years after his death, Geronimo’s descendants in the United States lost a federal suit to repatriate the skull under the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990. Since that ruling, I notice when I kneel to scrape some topsoil from the plot, someone has beheaded the stone eagle on the tomb. Two months before I visit Fort Sill I begin to document the swastikas I encounter in Tulsa, where I am a fellow at an artist residency. Two necklaces arranged in the shape of a swastika on a shelf of a souvenir shop. Two swastikas graffitied next to a playground by the Arkansas River, where I run some mornings. Another swastika spray-painted on the bike path just north of my ob-gyn’s office in North Tulsa, the neighborhood to which the survivors of what is now remembered as the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921 were evicted and where some of their descendants now live. I will remember the swastikas on the day my hosts in the Sierra Madre wish their sorrow turn to ash and smoke in a ceremonial fire, because that day fascist thugs will riot in Charlottesville, Virginia, three thousand miles away. The fear that will drive the rioters is the same fear that had enabled Hitler, and that fear is why Geronimo is here, at Fort Sill. They caged him, they debauched his dignity, and once he had died they chopped off his head. They put an eagle on his grave and chopped off its head, too. The air over the Beef Creek Apache Cemetery grows heavy with cloud.



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All the way from Fort Sill to the Texas-Mexico border I keep the Ziplock bag with cemetery dirt in my lap. From the road I text Roberto Lujan, a retired teacher who grows pomegranate trees in Presidio, Texas, just across the Rio Grande from Mexico. Roberto is Jumano Apache; we met when I lived in the area for several months, before Tulsa. It was he who invited me to the ceremony and asked me to stop by Geronimo’s grave on the way. We will travel from Presidio to Guachochi together. Roberto texts back: “The scars in our hearts will cauterize in the strong womb of the Sierra Madre.” But I cannot let go of a different line, by Zbigniew Herbert:

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

texas to mexico Two days later, Roberto, his wife Julia, our photographer friend Jessica Lutz, and I cross the border bridge from Presidio to Ojinaga. The Rio Grande runs fat and brown under the bridge. Her power is metaphysical, her shallow thalweg a frontier between two worlds that ooze chance and desire and suspicion and pity. When the Mexican immigration agent asks where we are headed, Roberto says, “To a celebration.” His knee is jumping. He is giddy. Something has begun to uncoil. Julia drops us off at a bus stop and returns to Presidio, and we take a bus from Ojinaga to Chihuahua City. The symbol of the bus company is a sprinting rabbit with bright red ears, a calque of the Greyhound bus dog. The TV screen above the windshield is playing Unbroken dubbed into Spanish, and a lady across the aisle is reading the Dale Carnegie classic Cómo Ganar Amigos e Influir Sobre las Personas. The desert, Technicolor green after recent rains, rolls past my window. Somewhere in it, the bones of the victims of narco massacres pave over the bones of the victims of conquistadors’ gold-fever missions and gringo scalp-hunting raids. For half a millennia, violence in this land has been fueled by colonial addictions. On the bus I tell Roberto about the beheaded eagle on Geronimo’s tombstone. He says, “That’s why we’re going to the Sierra Madre. We are going so we can move beyond it.” In the luggage compartment in the belly of the bus rocks the soil from Geronimo’s grave. ciudad chihuahua Under puffy monsoon clouds the Chihuahuan Desert stretches and stretches on south, the grass startlingly tall after all the rains, and the ancient volcanoes in the distance stand blue and indifferent in the high-noon sun. The bus chugs

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past roadside salesmen who thrust at the traffic ice-cream bars, peeled mango slices, peanuts, horse saddles. My geographical journey from Oklahoma to Guachochi follows, in a way, the southward passage of the Apache, who were driven from their ancestral lands in the prairie to the Rio Grande and across and through the desert and up to the clouds’ rim at eight thousand feet. Theirs was a quest for safety. The quest of my Guachochi hosts is one family’s gentle effort to overcome generational trauma. Jessica’s quest is to witness and photograph and perhaps, like Roberto, to move beyond the hurt. Mine? I was invited so I would write about it, but also I am trying to learn about forgiveness. We stop in Chihuahua City for the night. Monsoons in the mountains have washed out the faster road to Guachochi and we will need a full day to reach the town. Today is the International Day of the World’s Indigenous Peoples, and the government of Chihuahua is sponsoring a free concert of Rarámuri folk artists in the main square, Plaza de Armas, between the cathedral and the government palace. We gorge on the spinning color of the women’s full skirts. How long, I whisper to Roberto, before the government of Texas sponsors an Apache concert on the State Capitol grounds in Austin? “Exactly,” says Roberto. By sunset the downtown is full of people, mostly families with children and couples shopping or eating out, stopping to watch the folk concert, listen to mariachi bands, buy ice cream or elotes. The last city census, four years ago, counted almost nine hundred thousand inhabitants. Now, I am told, the population has swelled to more than a million people, mostly because of migrants: rural folk seeking work in the metroplex, victims of Trump’s mass deportations, and increasingly desperate Central Americans willing to risk the crossing, like the young man I see on a median holding up a piece of cardboard inscribed with the words “Soy de Nicaragua. Ayúdame por el amor de dios.” The N in Nicaragua is written backward. When evening falls ultramarine and gentle, I notice another presence downtown: soldiers in camouflage on flatbed trucks with mounted machine guns. Now they are parked by the government palace. Now they are driving at a crawl past my hotel. Now they are lost among the many taillights of a weeknight. Cartel turf wars are ravaging Mexico, especially her Native communities. The soldiers: another reminder of the accretion of pain. sierra madre occidental Bernarda Holguín Gámez is medium tall, in her early sixties. She is a retired civil servant at Mexico’s now-defunct Secretariat of Agrarian Reform, a sometime tour operator, and the senior of the Holguín sisters. A photo of her as a seventeen-year-old shows a lean girl, her shoulder-length dark hair down, a string of beads around her neck. She still wears bead necklaces; her hair, now much longer, down or in a braid that is mostly gray. She hugs eagerly; all the



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Holguíns do. She wraps me in a bear hug the first time we meet. Her voice is assertive and calm, and even when she speaks in public it conveys great tenderness. As if she is grateful to you, all of you, for being here, by her side. She ends most conversations with a “God bless you” and “God bless your family.” Several years earlier, a family friend in the United States pointed out the resemblance between Bernarda’s second son, Jesús, and Geronimo. Bernarda and her youngest sister, Gina, started looking at pictures. It was true: Jesús did look like Geronimo. So did their father. So did their paternal uncle. A lot. The likeness made them doubt the family story that the Holguíns were white descendants of a French grandmother. They began to question their parents’ honesty. Unsettled, Bernarda sought therapy; the counselor suggested she was suffering from epigenetic stress. Her cholesterol skyrocketed. She went on medication. Then, for two years, she went blind. This may be the stuff of allegories, of parables. This may be an appropriate response to the deception that underlies North America’s modern creation myth. What the sisters found, after Bernarda’s vision returned and they turned their attention to family lineage in earnest, was no French connection. Instead, poring over birth records, marriage licenses, and death certificates across five Mexican states, they uncovered a genealogy that packs the continent’s postColumbian history into one family’s tale of a hundred-plus years of racial cruelty, denial, and shame. April 1882. Mexican troops wait until most men leave Geronimo’s camp at Alisos Creek, then storm the camp. They bayonet and shoot at point-blank seventy-eight people, mostly women and children. They take captive thirty-three others and drive them to the stockade in Chihuahua City. Among these are Geronimo’s second wife, Chee-Hash-Kish; their son, Casimiro; their married daughter, Tah-Nah-Nah “Victoriana” Díaz García; and Victoriana’s firstborn, a boy. Victoriana is pregnant with her second child, a girl, who will be born in prison. Victoriana’s husband, a gringo named Zebina Nathaniel Streeter, eventually negotiates the release of his wife, their two children, and, possibly, Chee-HashKish and Casimiro. The family escapes to the Sierra Madre, where they live in hiding. By June 1889, both the US and Mexican governments have put a bounty on Streeter’s head for helping Apache insurgents. Then someone leaves a note on the desk of an Arizona newspaper. Streeter, the note says, was murdered by a lover, in a crime of passion. Apache tradition says that speaking of the dead disturbs their eternal rest— and so the family would never mention Streeter. Soon, another man’s name begins to appear in public records in his place: Juan Ramón Holguín, a rural rancher, the husband of Victoriana Díaz García. An Apache medicine man from Arizona would tell Bernarda and her sisters that their last name, Holguín, means Someone Who Carries a Secret. In 1901 Victoriana and Juan Ramón—née Streeter, says Bernarda—have a son they name Primitivo Holguín Díaz. He is Bernarda’s father. 6

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January 1883, less than a year after the massacre at Alisos Creek. Mexican troops raid Geronimo’s camp in Sonora, murder seventeen people, and kidnap thirty-seven. Among the prisoners are Geronimo’s fifth wife, Shtsh-She, and their daughter, Mariana Hernández, who is eight years old. The soldiers drive them to Chihuahua City, maybe to the same stockade as Chee-Hash-Kish and Victoriana. Geronimo tries to bargain for the prisoners’ release, but negotiations falter. By now, Mexican soldiers have killed two of his wives and four of his children, and a quarter of the entire US Army is hunting him in the longest counterinsurgency campaign in US history. Three years later, he gives up. “For years I fought the white man thinking that with my few braves I could kill them all and that we would again have the land that our Great Father gave us and which he covered with game,” Geronimo would tell a reporter. “After I fought and lost and after I traveled over the country in which the white man lives and saw his cities and the work that he has done, my heart was ready to burst. I knew that the race of the Indian was run.” Shtsh-She and Mariana are sold into slavery to Batopilas, a colonial outpost in the Sierra Madre, about eighty miles from Guachochi. On paper, the Spanish crown abolished Indian slavery in 1542; in reality, servitude—sometimes called debt peonage—proliferated at least as late as 1908, when a gringo journalist posing as a millionaire investor was offered a Native laborer for four hundred pesos. Eventually, Shtsh-She and Mariana escape into the dim canyons and join other Apaches ghosting in tributary gorges and mountain caves. Mariana marries a white Mexican colonel and renounces her Indian roots. In 1898, they have a daughter, Bernarda Hernández Ortiz. She is the Holguín sisters’ maternal grandmother. Bernarda bears her name. In 1943, after the death of his first wife, Primitivo marries Soledad Gámez Hernández, the daughter of Bernarda Hernández Ortiz. Do they know that they are uncle and niece, several times removed? Is this why the Holguín family is plagued by an extraordinarily high incidence of ill health—lupus, structural birth defects, cancer, depression? Or are the illnesses conversion disorders caused by generational trauma, as Bernarda believes? The mountains hold so much concave silence. Primitivo and Soledad have eight children; Bernarda Holguín Gámez is the eldest daughter. Growing up among darker-skinned Rarámuri, the siblings are taught that they are white, descendants of a French woman. This weekend, the Holguíns are for the first time celebrating their lineage and honoring their roots in the very mountains where their ancestors had denounced and hid theirs. We arrive in Guachochi the night before the opening event. The mountains are drenched with recent rains; between outcrops of piñon, bald rock paths shine like a lattice of quicksilver. Our rental sedan barely negotiates the rain-slicked mountain curves on bald tires and two cylinders. At one point, after fording a river, it gets stuck for two hours on an unpaved upslope.

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By the time we reach the Holguín ranch it is almost dark. The sisters’ father, Primitivo Holguín Díaz, built the ranch in 1924; the sisters were born here. One of them, Hilda, tells me their umbilical cords are buried somewhere in the garden. No one lives on the ranch year-round anymore. There is occasional electricity and occasional running water. Tonight, lightning has knocked out power on the property and the pump is not working. In the kitchen, in the light of three gas lamps, two Rarámuri women are preparing refreshments for a crowd—a vat of canela, batteries of sandwiches, shrink-wrapped mounds of sweet buns—and Hilda, who now lives mostly in Vancouver with her children, is telling me about growing up here: the two-hour hikes to school, the mushroom hunts. We also hunted mushrooms when I was a kid, in the Soviet Union, I tell her—and then it hits me that the kitchen of her parents’ home is furnished exactly the same way as the kitchen at the house my family owned outside Leningrad until the late 1980s, a summer house my maternal great-great-grandfather built around the time Geronimo surrendered to the US Army. The same linoleum tablecloths on every table and counter. The same pastel-colored plywood cabinets with wooden handles. In the walls, the same haphazard orphaned nails that once upon a time had supported something long since forgotten. This kitchen on a Mexican Apache ranch in the Sierra Madre, twenty-six degrees north of the equator, is a twin of a Soviet dacha kitchen of my childhood. Hilda draws me into a hug. “There must have been Russian immigrants in the area who had come after the revolution,” she says. “You know how women are. They probably went over to one another’s homes to gossip or borrow provisions. They must have liked the decor.” Outside it is raining again and more people have arrived in trucks. They move about the dark garden with cell-phone flashlights on. Someone is building a fire. Someone is raising a tepee. Children and dogs chase one another in wet grass. I seek out Kiriaki Orpinel, a niece of the Holguín sisters, an anthropologist who champions the human rights of traditional societies in the Sierra Madre. Kiriaki is Rarámuri on her father’s side and, as she now knows, Apache on her mother’s, and we had started talking on the drive up from Ciudad Chihuahua. She is beautiful and foul-mouthed and she smokes filterless Mexican cigarettes. She was born missing her left arm below the elbow. On her right she wears charms and bracelets that jingle as she walks. Now, in the garden, we swap jewelry, my copper bracelet with rams’ heads from northwest Russia for her beaded necklace in the shape of a peyote flower from northern Chihuahua. Protection amulets. She talks about Native feminism and the constricting Western interpretation of what feminism means. She describes how the agency of Rarámuri women has been eroded, first by the patriarchy of the Catholic Church, later by the patriarchy of capitalism. Talking about injustice makes her curse more and speak faster, and because my Spanish is not strong enough I often lose the thread—which is a shame, because I want to hang on to every word she says.

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“Eh, doesn’t matter,” she says. “English, Spanish. Languages of the fucking colonizers.” I huddle with Kiriaki and her aunts under a tree, a bit out of the rain. Digging up the soil from Geronimo’s grave at Fort Sill did not feel like a trespass, but here on the ranch I feel its weight, and I know it is time for Kiriaki and her aunts to have it. We stand in a circle and I palm the plastic bag over to Bernarda with both hands. “Thank you for inviting me to your ceremony,” I say, in shaky Spanish. “I brought this from the grave of Geronimo in Oklahoma. He is buried at a cemetery for prisoners of war on an army base there. This is some soil from that place. I want you to have it.” Our circle falls inward. Like flower petals closing. For a few seconds we stand in a group embrace under the dripping tree, temple to temple in the flickering light of cell phones and bonfire. Then Kiriaki asks her aunt if she may hold the bag. She places it on the stump of her left arm and cradles it there like a baby, caresses it through the plastic. “I didn’t know he was buried in a military cemetery,” she says. “Motherfuckers.” I apologize for the Ziplock bag. “It’s the modern way,” I say. She laughs. “Postmodern,” she says. guachochi For the opening speeches the next day we gather on a grassy island on Lago las Garzas, a small lake in the center of town where Guachochi’s health-conscious citizens walk laps at dawn. The real athletes are in the sierra: The Rarámuri, whose name means “people who run on foot,” are the world’s most celebrated, and possibly most exoticized, endurance runners. They routinely beat ultramarathoners from everywhere else. Four months before the ceremony, a twentytwo-year-old woman from Guachochi named María Lorena Ramírez, racing in a traditional long tiered skirt and huaraches made of tire rubber and leather strips, became the world’s fastest long-distance female ultrarunner, beating five hundred other women from twelve countries in the females’ fifty-kilometer category of the Ultra Trail Cerro Rojo. The Rarámuri have been running in these mountains since the sixteenth century, when the Spanish chased them from the desert into small, remote subsistent farming communities linked by a network of narrow footpaths that drop vertiginously into canyons and climb as vertiginously up. Running relays that last a day or longer are a ceremonial practice, a ritual celebration of events such as the harvest; running shorter distances, on the other hand, is a form of transportation, a quick way of getting from one place to the next. “When you run on the earth and with the earth, you can run forever,” goes a Rarámuri proverb. Rarámuri runners became a mythologized global sensation



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after a book written by a white US journalist, Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen, became an international bestseller. Around the same time, cartels began hiring Rarámuri to run drugs across the border. Two dozen Rarámuri families come to Lago las Garzas to celebrate the commencement of the ceremony. In front of a tasseled ensign embroidered with the words apaches descendientes de gerÓnimo (Geronimo’s Apache Descendants) everybody exchanges greetings: the animated Holguín clan; the suited officials from the Guachochi tourism department, which is sponsoring the event; the guests from abroad—a Lipan Apache activist and filmmaker from Austin; a Tewa Hopi medicine man from Arizona; a Scandinavian documentary filmmaker duo; a husband-and-wife team of Lipan Apache lecturers from Lubbock, Texas, who travel around North America with two tepees in their truck; Roberto and Jessica and I. Three men in cowboy hats and boots and large buckles stand leaning against a park bench in that fashion men in cowboy hats and boots and large buckles like to lean against things. Every new arrival shakes hands with everyone already here, as is the custom; young girls in ribbon skirts and skinny jeans proffer their cheeks to be kissed. A woman asks me if she can take my photo with her phone. After the rounds of greetings the Rarámuri retreat to clusters, keep to themselves. Is it the linguistic divide, I ask Kiriaki. “Linguistic, no,” she says. “Racial, yes.” She rubs her forefinger against her bare forearm. “It’s the skin tone. Like everywhere in the world.” After two hours of speeches by the lake—the abundance of introductory speeches once more takes me back to my Soviet childhood—the Holguíns and all of us out-of-town guests climb into minivans and trucks and caravan past eleven miles of apple orchards and cornfields to the Sinforosa Canyon. From the overlook at the rim, the green vertebrae of the Sierra Madre crash down in grandiose near-vertical crags. Down down down, as deep as the Grand Canyon, past the caves where the Geronimo-Holguíns once lived, past Rarámuri running paths, past goat pastures, past marijuana plantations, down to the invisible Río Verde and her avocado groves—then up again, cresting in every direction. Tattered clouds cling to distant mesas. Cenozoic lava droolings dribble down the sides of 250-million-year-old rock that buckled and folded and faulted to become what the locals call the Queen of All Canyons. Eras collapse here. Five centuries of European conquest are no more than a fleck. A red-tailed hawk hangs on an air thermal just below the rim. “I remember visiting these caves,” says Hilda Holguín. “We still had relatives living there in the sixties. They didn’t feel like moving out. They were that poor.” Or maybe they were still that afraid. We are hungry. We load into vans and trucks again and drive back to town, where the tourism department has hired a Rarámuri folk-dance troupe to perform for us and a caterer to prepare us a fish fry. The dance and the fish

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fry—a rare trout that, we are told, can only be found in these mountains—will take place by the waterfall. The Sinforosa Canyon took my breath away. But I am not prepared for the waterfall. My heart’s eye is not prepared. I don’t have the vocabulary for it, this sixty-two-foot wall of atomized astonishment. Bernarda shuttles between her guests, hugs us one after another, watches our reaction. “Do you like it?” she asks. “Do you like it?” After the waterfall, Gina, Hilda, Roberto, Jessica, and I pile into a van once more. Clouds ball up in crevasses below Guachochi. We the norteños are tired, but our driver, Bernarda’s youngest son, Ángel, a professional tour operator, insists on showing us around town. From the back of the van Gina and Hilda narrate the landmarks: “This is the first church of Guachochi.” “This is the neighborhood where they say witches lived in the olden days.” “This is where, when they were laying sewage pipe, people found mammoth tusks.” “This is the airfield. It was founded by three of our brothers.” “They were the first pilots in Guachochi.” “All three died in airplane crashes.” Of course they were. Of course they did. We are in rarified air above the clouds, with Geronimo’s descendants whose foremothers hid in caves and who go blind looking for truth. This is Gabriel García Márquez territory. Every eccentricity, every facet of beauty and tragedy is magnified here. The airfield is empty; the town’s only biplane is elsewhere. Can we go now? No, Ángel says, we must see the tiger. Come on, let’s go. What tiger? What kind of a joke is this? Ángel ushers us out of the van and into the terminal building, which feels like someone’s home, through a kitchen where a man—an off-duty pilot? an airport guard? Ángel makes no introductions—is heating up quesadillas on a stovetop, and into a patio. There is a wire-mesh fence. On the other side of the fence, under an awning behind a bed of ginger flowers and a kiddie pool that serves as her watering hole, lies a Bengal tiger. “She belongs to my friend, who owns the plane,” Ángel says. “Go ahead, you can take pictures.” Later, an artist whose work focuses on how we commodify nature explains to me man’s ancient desire to own alpha predators: “What does it say about the power of possession; what status is created or projected through the ‘things’ we own?” To cage a tiger for amusement and display, she says, is to demonstrate domination. Just as it is to cage a resistance hero and display him at an inaugural parade, for a good show. In real-life Macondo, metaphors are as blunt as a fist in the face.



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the forest The Crown Dancers are five in number. They are big men, with much flesh. They wear black masks and tall headdresses made of wood slats and they run out of the forest naked except for buckskin loincloths adorned with bells. They ululate and growl and one of them is whirling a bull-roarer. They gyrate and stomp and run at us and away. They are a terrifying link between the natural and the supernatural worlds, and they lunge and stomp violently and ferociously to the accelerating drumbeat to summon mountain spirits that heal and protect. They bring awe and hope. On the overcast morning of the second day of the Ceremonia del Perdón, the day after the lakeside speeches and the waterfall and the airport tiger, they bring rain and lightning and thunder upon the forest clearing where we have gathered under ponderosa pines charred by electric storms past, and young madrones forever shedding some hurt, and massive rocks patinated with lichen, and at some imperceptible signal women one by one begin to orbit their centrifugal tempest, and suddenly most women, men, children, in jeans and ponchos and traditional dress and rain slickers, in moccasins and rain boots and sandals and smart city shoes, wet and tripping over low brush, are dancing, dancing, dancing in a wide sidestepping clockwise circle. The Crown Dancers and their drummers came from the White Mountain Apache Tribe’s reservation in Arizona. Their journey took four days instead of two; their truck broke down in the mud at least twice. It is a small miracle, they tell us, that they didn’t get washed down some arroyo along the way to the waterlogged heart of Mexico. Then again, it is a miracle they could dance at all. In the early 1900s the United States outlawed ceremonial Indian dances. The Crown Dance, an important Apache healing ritual, was banned and had to be taught and practiced in secrecy for generations, until the American Indian Religious Freedom Act of 1978. The resurgent push for Indigenous rights and sovereignty has unified around the revitalization of such rituals and ceremonies as much as around the issues of environmental integrity and representation and clean water and sacred sites. “Some say that ever since these ceremonial practices were outlawed they have never been quite the same,” writes the blogger Noah Nez, whose website, Native Skeptic, examines Native American spirituality. Perhaps some authenticity was lost in police-state isolation; I am not the one to judge. To me, an outsider, the Ceremonia del Perdón feels, as Kiriaki said, postmodern. There are Rarámuri priests with shakers and a sacred malted drink in an earthenware jug. There is a tepee from Texas next to a Mexican flag. There is an amped mic, and two considerate portajohns, and speakers quoting the Colombian journalist Claudia Palacios (Bernarda: “To forgive is not to forget”) and the Chilean filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky (Kiriaki: “The past is not fixed and unalterable. With faith and will we can change it, not erasing its darkness but adding lights to it to make it more and more beautiful, the

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way a diamond is cut”). There are the Crown Dancers, spirits incarnate and awesome; and there are the lay dancers: Bernarda and Hilda and Gina and Kiriaki. Roberto and Ángel and his sister Hillary, who is sixteen. The Tewa Hopi medicine man, and the Lipan Apache lecturers with the tepees, and Fox Red Sky, an activist from Austin, a US army veteran and a veteran of both the months-long standoff at Standing Rock and the Keystone XL pipeline protest, who is making a documentary about the Native tribes of Texas, of which only three are federally recognized. Fox likes a hip-hop song called “All Nations Rise,” by the Diné singer Lyla June. Toward the end of the song June declaims: “They say that history is written by the victors / But how can there be a victor when the war isn’t over?” Think of post-conquest American history as an ongoing five-hundred-yearlong insurgency against invaders who stamp out this uprising over and over with varying degrees of brutality and self-congratulatory blindness. When Geronimo was a teenager, US forces rounded up nearly all the Native people east of the Mississippi, seventy thousand in all, and marched them to Indian Territory along what is now known as the Trail of Tears. At least one out of five perished during that ethnic-cleansing campaign. Within the next two decades, two-thirds of the Native population of Gold-Rush California died of enslavement, starvation, reservation confinement, and targeted killing. Then came the genocidal massacres of the Indian Wars. In this history, who is Geronimo? Colonial mythology exoticizes him either as the last great Native American freedom fighter or as the most violent holdout of the Indian Wars; the US military picked the code name “Geronimo” for the operation to capture Osama bin Laden. But do you see a twenty-eight-year-old suddenly widowed, orphaned, and childless all at once? Do you see a father in a country where the government pays bounties for scalps of children? The Holguíns are lighting a ceremonial flame in a pedestal grill, to prevent a forest fire. One of Geronimo’s many possible great-great-grandsons, Alex Holguín, hands out pieces of paper and pencils. Bernarda has explained her idea for this: “It is a ceremony to ask God to forgive, in the name of our ancestors, the perpetrators and the victims. We will ask for forgiveness for the wars against Indians. For the turbulent times the consequences of which we are still suffering today.” People are lining up to torch their pain. In the rain, smoke over the grill billows white. I guess forgiveness means making peace. But on this day, in the forest, I don’t think it is my place to make peace. Then Hilda Holguín approaches with a disposable plate loaded with what she calls “Apache food”—a stew of potatoes, onions, hot dogs, and ground meat cooked up in an enormous communal vat—and says, “All these things I have, they form me. I, too, didn’t have anything I wanted to forgive or reclaim in the fire. But my sisters really wanted me to write something and burn it. So I did. For my sisters. Because it is important to them, and they are important to me.”



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A man comes by to watch over my shoulder as I take notes. I have seen him at other events in Guachochi. “Very good,” he says. “All very clear what you write.” “Thank you.” “Are you writing everyone here?” “Excuse me?” “Are you writing everyone at this forgiveness?” “Trying to, yes.” “Then you have to write me, too. Write down my name, too. José Luís González. From Guachochi. Write it.” And I do. I do not know what happened to the soil I brought from Fort Sill in a Ziplock bag. I do not ask. In Guachochi, among the Holguíns, the soil from Geronimo’s grave is not a historical event. It is a private matter. guachochi to ciudad chihuahua I leave Guachochi the following dawn. I take a bus. It is a long day down the mountains; for the first three hours we weave above clouds. I take an aisle seat in the back. For a while a young woman sits in the window seat next to mine. She is wearing bright pink slacks, a purple faux-leather bomber jacket, and dark blue earbuds connected to a pink Nokia phone, one of the earlier smartphone models that still has push buttons; she keeps it on top of a leatherette purse with a busy floral design. From time to time she dips into the purse for corn chips, rustles their loud Mylar bag. An hour or so outside Guachochi she squeezes past me with a smile and walks toward the bus door in the front. A few minutes later the bus stops to let her out on a curve. I take her seat; now I can look out the window. Slowly we pull forward and a minute or so later I see her in the piñon forest. She is sprinting down a path faster than any athlete I have ever seen, left hand holding her purse to her body, right hand slicing the air, a pink-and-purple spirit, a modern woman running about her life.

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C L A U D I A

B E R N A R D I

An Angel Passes By: Silence and Memories at the Massacre of El Mozote october 13, 1992 Patri, Luis, and Mimi left this morning for Morazán in the helicopter of the United Nations. I am going to Morazán in one of the vehicles of onusal (The United Nations Mission in El Salvador). The driver who comes to pick me up has never been there. He has a map and clear directions on how to get to Morazán. He is not familiar with the investigation. He wants to know. I tell him what I know about the massacre. The four hours of the trip from San Salvador to Morazán go fast as I tell him what I read in the official report given by the only survivor of the massacre, Rufina Amaya Márquez. El Mozote was a community located in the north of Morazán. It was a community of people who did not sympathize with the FMLN (Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front). They were trying to keep themselves neutral, apart from the guerrilla as much as from the army. Rufina says that in the morning of December 11, 1981, soldiers from the Atlacatl Battalion arrived in El Mozote. They divided the men from women and separated the younger women from the older, the children from the teenagers. The men and the teenagers were taken into the church of the hamlet. Rufina was taken into a house located directly across from the church, on the other side of the square. It was the house of Alfredo Márquez. She saw the men being taken out of the church and beheaded with machetes. Rufina saw her husband, Domingo Claros, trying to escape. He was shot down by the soldiers, and when he was gasping on the ground, the soldiers jerked his head back and beheaded him with a single blow of a machete. Everyone was being executed at El Mozote. Rufina heard the voices of the younger women and girls taken to El Cerro de la Cruz, a hill behind the church where they were being raped and murdered. Rufina was in the last group of women taken to the house to be executed. She was still with her four children. Maria Isabel was only eight months old. Rufina was carrying her when a soldier pushed her out of the house. As she stepped out, one of the soldiers grabbed the baby. Rufina struggled to keep her daughter. The soldier took the baby and pushed Rufina to the ground. All the women were screaming, begging not to be

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killed, and all the children were crying. In that confusion of desperate people, Rufina managed to hide behind a bush and to stay separate from the group. She remained in hiding for two more days. She survived. She is the only survivor of the massacre at El Mozote. Rufina has a remarkably detailed memory of all that she witnessed while she was in the house. In her testimony, Rufina describes the moment in which she heard her children screaming and calling her. Rufina desperately wanted to throw herself into the madness of the massacre and die. Die with everyone else. She knew she would be the only one who could tell what had happened at El Mozote. It was that certainty that stopped her from screaming and being swallowed by the rivers of blood running everywhere. She was fearless. She remained in hiding with only one mission: to tell the world what had happened at El Mozote. The driver seems moved. He is from Norway. He says those things don’t happen in Norway. “What things?” I ask. “Massacres. There are no massacres in Norway. Are there massacres in Argentina?” he asks, as if he is asking if there are apples in Argentina. “Yes,” I say, “in Argentina there are massacres.” He asks me if I am scared when working in an exhumation surrounded by so much death. He makes me think. Scared I am not. What I feel is more complex. I am frightened, but I do not want to run away. I am actually looking forward to the exhumation. It is going to be brutal and I want to be there. I want to put my hands into the earth, open the mouth of the earth and ask what are the secrets kept for so many years. Skeletons in a mass grave make me feel a profound tenderness. I have no idea how so much horror can turn into tenderness. I don’t tell this to the Norwegian driver. Somehow, I don’t think he would understand. Scared I am not. I want to know what happened at El Mozote. I finally arrive in El Mozote. The trip was difficult: going first to San Miguel, then to San Francisco Gotera. The landscape is of enormous beauty. The sky is vehement: thick clouds of altered colors in an intense heat. The mountains are covered with vegetation that reminds me of Brazil. This topography, however, is more brutal. More dramatic. Rough. The way to El Mozote is uneven. Lots of rocks. Irregular terrain. We stopped several times to ask for directions because we kept finding ourselves lost among little passageways and red-dirt trails. Every time I stepped out of the car to ask, “Where is the way to El Mozote?” I felt that I was asking about something terrible. People pointed, silently, the way to a land of blood. I wondered if they could have been near El Mozote at the time of the massacre. Where were they? Had they lost family? Did they see anything? Did they hear anything? Do they remember anything? Do they prefer not to remember? We went on, always north.

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We saw a sign, a triangular shape cut out from very rusty metal. It has carved letters that say el mozote. We went on, still north. We drove five miles. There is another sign, a billboard, at the beginning of a trail. Painted silhouettes of men and women and a legend: at el mozote more than 1000 people were massacred by the atlacatl battalion in december 1981.

Although I was talking to the driver of onusal, I was finding it difficult to swallow. Something was pressing against my throat. It was anguish. I am at El Mozote. I saw people at a distance. As I was coming out of the car, a man came up to me. He was a campesino. He took his hat off in a sign of respect and said, “Here, more than 1000 people were killed in December 1981.” october 15, 1992 The exhumation of the massacre at El Mozote started two days ago. Technically, the whole hamlet is a burial site. It has been divided into nine archeological zones or sites. The Judge in this case, Dr. Portillo Campos, decided that Site #1, the first site to exhume, would be the building called the Convent. This is a small building adjacent to the southern wall of the church, which is totally destroyed now. The original adobe walls of the Convent can be identified under the thick vegetation. We had to work hard to get the area cleared and prepared for the exhumation inside the building. We surrounded Site #1 with cords that divide the perimeters of the building into sections of 1.5 meters each. The north, south, east, and west walls are identified, and the quadrants are set up: a, b, c, d in the northern wall; and 1, 2, 3, 4 on the western wall. In this way, everything that we find inside the building will be carefully recorded according to the archeological system of quadrants. There is a logic and order in the archeological procedures that I find gratifying—a great contrast to the general disorder and confusion of what is awaiting us inside the Convent. “From there, only a big screaming one could hear.” It is Rufina Amaya Márquez who speaks. We went to see her today after we left El Mozote. Rufina lives in Quebracho, a small hamlet between El Mozote and Segundo Montes. I knew that it was the Atlacatl Battalion who came to El Mozote to kill everyone. That it was between the 8th and the 13th of December of 1981. I knew that Rufina lost her four children and her husband. She lost her whole community. I read her testimony. I knew that she, miraculously, escaped. She survived. To survive. To speak. To speak, many years after, of what she remembered.



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She spoke and said that there were people in the Convent. They were killed in the church, but they were transported to the Convent House next to the Church. She said that the people were left there, and when the FMLN brigadists arrived in El Mozote twenty days after the massacre, when they finally managed to enter the village, the smell was unbearable. They could not determine if the bodies were men or women or how many there were. They saw a pile of corpses decomposing. They pushed in the adobe walls of the Convent over the corpses. All this I already knew. But, today, after having found the first human remains at the Convent, we went to see Rufina and told her—it was only then that reality slapped me in the face. And I understood. With my soul, I understood. “From there, only that big screaming one could hear. I don’t want to go to El Mozote while you work because I know I will cry. The little bones of my children must be there.” We arrived today in El Mozote with the slowness and the typical inefficiency of that shapeless and almost retarded group of people that the authorities have assigned to us as “collaborators-team.” That’s another story: the authorities of this country, the end of the war, the Supreme Court, the Peace Accords . . . We started working at noon under an immense sun. Yesterday, we had almost cleared the area. During the morning, bricks and burnt wood appeared between the layers of earth. “There must have been a stove,” said someone. The afat (Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team) said nothing. Rafters from the roof appeared. The afat said nothing. Up until that moment, the evidence is of a torn-down building. It coincides with Rufina’s testimony. During a break, we were a little disoriented by the unexpected collaboration of the Judge. It is not impossible that the Judge would have information that we do not, and he knows that there are no human remains here. So why did the Judge choose this building to start the exhumation? We returned to work around 2 p.m., under the same immense sun: so bright that the colors melt and make the edges of shapes unclear. In the same a2 quadrant, the first human remains appeared. Mimi was the one who found them, and, with unimaginable tenderness, she gently covered it. She continued to brush off the earth in order to discover the full trajectory of the skeleton. In a1, Patri found fragments of clothing— possibly, the back of green pants. More rafters. Underneath the rafters, more bones. Little bones. It is a child as well. Another child. Also of a very young age.

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I was bending over the small brick wall that still stands and I saw, from that low height, the traces of a terrible history. Inside the Convent building are human remains. They do not seem to be combatants. They were not old enough to be combatants. They could not have been guerrilla combatants at age five. What happened here? I put my hands in the earth. It is red earth, full of iron. I start brushing, gently, and I, too, for the first time in my life, start unearthing the bone fragments of a child. I work in a1 and a2. Someone in c1 discovers a maxillary. In d1, someone else discovers a cranium. I look at Patri. She stops and tells me softly, without looking at me, that it is the cranium of an adolescent. I look around and see faces, people, landscapes, colors, trees, skies, earth. I see myself immersed in all this, and I think...how absurd...how impossibly absurd all this is. Someone asks me why I do this kind of work. I answer, “It is like touching history with our hands.” I am touching history with my hands. october 20, 1992 There are 38 skeletons. We have uncovered them slowly. With brushes. Gently. I find it hard to believe that I have my hands in this earth, searching, patiently, for the secrets of interrupted lives. There is violence. Lives broken by violence. I do not feel scared, or disgusted, or horrified. It is all very different from what I had expected, and yet I wouldn’t know how to describe it. It may be that I am working in “automatic mode,” not unlike the way I make art. With absolute concentration I channel myself into the work, searching, cleaning, discovering. I do not think about what all this means. But, when Luis calls me to make a notation, to measure the new findings for the anthropological maps, and I stand up and I see from there the most brutal portrait of this massacre, then . . . I feel something new. A pressure. It almost suffocates me. Unfamiliar sounds rise out of the darkness. It seems to me possible that the eloquent testimony of the bones, the screams of the children being assassinated by machetes,



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and the laments of the mothers cornered in the building have remained intact for us to discover them. I cannot explain. Together with the skeletons, other objects are being found: plates, eyeglasses, a piece of fabric that once was a bra and indicates the presence of a woman. A grinding stone. Beneath the grinding stone, there is a small skeleton. Someone killed a child by crushing her with a grinding stone. Someone walks on this earth with the memory of having killed a girl with a grinding stone. A journalist asks me if I am not scared of so much death surrounding me. I tell her that what makes me scared is knowing that whoever was responsible for the massacre is still alive. Still at large. That makes me scared. We have known some of the campesinos who come to see us work. We recognize their faces. We do not know their names. They come every day, and they stand, in silence, for many hours, paying much attention to what we do. They never ask anything. It may be that they know only too well what has happened here. They come from Segundo Montes and from other regions of Morazán. Some of them are relatives of the massacred people at El Mozote. What kind of person would I turn into if I stood here watching how the remains of someone I love are collected? What would it take out of me if I were here to collect the remains of my sister? Until today, we have exhumed 38 craniums. 38 lives. 38 histories. I work. I work and I try not to think. My life. My history. My confusion seems to dissipate, and a sense of sweetness stays—an inconceivable reaction in this open hell. David, from Tutela Legal, is a subtle human being. I appreciate his presence here. He is always around. He says very little, and yet I can feel his presence at all times. He has worked for the Archdioceses of El Salvador for many years. He has fought this war, demanding respect for Human Rights. He crossed military areas in the middle of the war to get people out of prison who had been put there without legal authority. I never see him being distant. He is always present. Alert. Like an animal. Cautious. He must have learned this skill in times of great danger. And yet, he is a poet. Seldom does he speak about his poetry. But he considers himself more a

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poet than a lawyer. The only time he spoke about his poetry was to make a note about the future: “I would like a future where I could write poetry without the fear of war.” David seems to register everything he sees in a deep, foreign layer of his memory. He saves the movements, the whispers, the gentle airs of October. I look at him looking at us. Looking at the site. Counting skeletons. In silence. David is a poet. october 22, 1992 Sister Antonia said that God must be on our side because it rained, torrentially, all over this region except at El Mozote. It rained in Arambala. It rained in Segundo Montes. It rained in Jocoaitique. It rained in San Francisco Gotera. At El Mozote, it did not rain. We were very worried that such a storm would have damaged or even destroyed the exhumation site. Whether due to God or any other force of this world or another, El Mozote remained dry, motionless, silent. A testimony that grows as we exhume. There are already 59 skeletons that inform us of the massacre. In a space not larger than 5 x 7 meters there are at least 59 massacred people. Surely, there will be more. Skeleton #33: we found signs that it was a woman. A hairpin. A bra. Within her pelvic cavity, as if they were being kept in a nest, we found tiny bones gathered, humbly. This woman was pregnant at the time she died. In skeleton #33, we found the remains of a human fetus—this woman who doesn’t have a name yet was more than seven months pregnant at the time of her death. I worked a lot on this skeleton. One develops a fondness, a growing affection towards the skeleton. I started discovering her clothing, of a green color. Her light hair. The position of her legs. From where I was working, I could not reach her pelvis. I asked Mimi, who wasn’t far from me, to work on her as well. Shortly after, Mimi discovered an “unborn infant.” I can’t breathe. Again, that pressure in my chest, in my throat. Mimi takes some of the bones from the pelvis. She counts them, someone else is writing this down for the report. I am not writing. I am not drawing the archeological maps. I’ll do that later. I think it is going to be hard to translate into graphics all that we see. Resist. Resist brutality. From where we can. Today, I resist working on this exhumation, loving skeletons that have histories to tell.



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I look at David. I wonder how he is going to resist with his poetry. I wonder how I am going to make this into art. It is an untranslatable concept. It is too real and too physical. Death has volume. It has smell. It has sounds. It has clothing and hair and bones and earth and year after year of waiting for someone to open this space. This whisper. “A place in the world”: I am thinking of this while I work. I suppose I will know where my place in the world is when I realize that I can no longer depart from there. It makes me sad because I could live anywhere, and I can depart from everywhere. I have lost the sense of having roots. The unbearable pain of the transit. The constant transit. Belonging to everywhere and nowhere. I think this experience in El Salvador has given me a different understanding of what “a place in the world” may mean beyond frontiers. I met people here who are foreigners. They are more rooted to this land and to this history than if they had been born here. I met Father Rogelio and Father Esteban. Rogelio has been here, in Morazán, for years, fighting this war side by side with the campesinos. Padre Esteban has been in Perquín for fifteen years. Two men—one from Belgium, the other from Spain—removed from their homelands for so long. And . . . I see myself. I see myself here, at peace. Happy, despite the horrendous work we do. And . . . I understand that “a place in the world” is never geographic. It is the space occupied by passions, by convictions, by demands of the spirit, by sentiments that turn us down and forward and make us feel that life is worth living no matter what. Resist. The place in the world is not geography. It is the place where the most of myself can be experienced, expanded. Where the most of Claudia can exist. It is quite incredible that Patri and I are living this experience together. I think of Papá and Mamá. What would they think of us if they were alive? I look at Patri working, and it impresses me how much we look alike. We have the same hands that, indeed, are our mother’s hands: long fingers, bony fingers, they move gently through the earth. Patri is always quiet. She has an intense look. Her mouth is always tense; her body assumes impossible positions to get to the skeletons without disturbing them. She is alert. Different “alert” than David. I look at her and remember summers in Buenos Aires, birthday parties, sisters’ quarrels, going to school in the cold mornings of a wet winter. How did we arrive at being in this exhumation together? The “Bernardi sisters.” I look at Patri and I see the resemblance to our dead parents. I think she is the only other human being on this planet who has the same memories I do about our childhood. The same history. Patri’s hands are like my own. We are sisters. Forensic anthropology is highly scientific work, extremely meticulous and precise. Yet the repercussions of the investigations are always political because in a case of mass murder against a civilian population, there is, always, a responsible party. I think of my art. It is a looking glass where all that I see, that hurts, that

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moves me will eventually turn out to be the subject matter of one piece or another. Will I paint El Mozote? Undoubtedly. El Mozote will become Claudia. Not because I will try to force a political statement. After El Mozote, I will be another Claudia. How does it feel to love a skeleton, Claudia? It feels like El Mozote. How does a mass grave smell? It smells like El Mozote. What color is earth suspended in a moment of time? It is the color of El Mozote. What is the sensation of handling the tiniest bones of a human fetus from a pelvic cavity? The sensation is El Mozote. Patri, Mimi, and I were talking one morning, very early, about why the exhumations are needed. I was expecting words like Human Rights, Justice, Against Impunity. Both Patri and Mimi are distrustful of the level of justice that the Salvadoran government will negotiate with the responsible parties of massacres like this one. There are many Mozotes in El Salvador. Mimi thinks they will all get amnesty. I cannot believe that. Maybe I refuse to believe that. I think there is a chance for something more fair than amnesty for all the criminals. Then . . . the obvious question: “What are we doing this for?” “For the families,” Patri said. One could fill the mouth with impressive, rounded words: Human Rights, Justice, Against Impunity. Yet the truth is that we do it for the families. We went to Jocoaitique to talk to one of the survivors of the massacre of La Joya. We met him, his wife, and their children. Secretly, I was wondering how someone could continue living with dignity after having seen his children cut into pieces. I listen to Don Pedro Chicas and Doña Rosa speak. Don Pedro buried people from his community after the massacre—among them, his own parents. He and his family managed to survive because they were working up in the hills. They were not in La Joya when the army arrived. From the hills they saw dark, heavy clouds of smoke. The army was burning the village. They knew something terrible had happened when they smelled the odor of burnt meat. Don Pedro Chicas, Doña Rosa, eight months pregnant, and five small children were hiding in a cave in the mountains. The massacre of La Joya took place a few days after the massacre of El Mozote. It has fewer victims because after seeing so much smoke coming from El Mozote, people left the village and found refuge in the mountains. Don Pedro and his family stayed in the cave for three months. Doña Rosa gave birth to a child in December. It was a girl. She called her Noel. They had grass and wild fruits to eat. After those three months, they relocated to an abandoned hamlet: Jocoaitique. The village of La Joya no longer existed. A few years later, Doña Rosa started a project that she called “Bread and Milk for the Children.” A group of civilian women, unarmed, would cross the Torola river and travel to San Francisco Gotera to buy bread and milk for the children living in the villages north of the river. Because the area was consid-



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ered “occupied” by the guerrillas, food and goods were not transported there. The children were dying of malnutrition. Doña Rosa was picked up by the army in San Francisco Gotera under the allegation of “subversive activities.” She was thrown into jail and tortured. At the time, she was pregnant, and her two-year-old son, David, was with her. She was released. It was a miracle that she survived. When she returned to Jocoaitique, she continued to work for Bread and Milk for the Children. I was hearing this story in the context of gathering testimony, but I could not stop from asking, “Doña Rosa, why did you continue working for Bread and Milk for the Children after what happened to you in S.F. Gotera?” She looked at me perplexed. Then she said, “I hadn’t done anything wrong.” It is 8 p.m. sharp. The lights are turned down in Segundo Montes. We were in a meeting. People continued to talk. Their silhouettes pressed against the blue of the night. Hundreds of fireflies darted randomly, confused by surroundings of bright stars. I am aware that at this moment, I do not want to be anywhere else, that I do not need anything more or anything less, that I miss no one and nothing, I can say that I am happy. october 24, 1992 We worked all day long. We started removing the first skeletons from quadrants b1 and c1. Skeletons #4 and #3. We do this with infinite care because they are so very fragile. They are children not older than six. We continue to find skeletons in the area by the door of the Convent. They are also children. Towards the end of the afternoon, Rufina arrived. I saw her with her young daughter, Martita, a daughter she had many years after the massacre. Rufina was in a light-blue dress and was holding on to Martita like someone holding on to an anchor, to a present less painful than the past she was about to confront. I could not work anymore. Mimi stopped. Patri stood up. Luis stayed, looking down and unable to hide his sadness. Rufina covered her mouth with her two hands as if containing a scream. She did not cry. Her intense look was focused on the hole of the exhumation: an open mouth in the earth that swallowed her children. She was trying to guess which of those small remains belonged to her four children, which of the garments were the clothes of her daughters and son. She remembers everything. Rufina

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knows that the bones of her children are somewhere within the perimeters of the hamlet of El Mozote. To look at Rufina feels like touching the accidental aspect of history. Or. . . perhaps, the persistence of Truth. Why and how did she escape? Rufina escaped. She saw. She spoke. She identified. Today, we uncover the history that Rufina remembers. The ones responsible for this massacre are still at large. David drove Rufina home. She lives in a modest house made of wood and mud, in the small community of Quebracho. Since we did not have transportation, we started walking towards “the turn to Arambala.” It is quite a walk. The rainy season is about to start. A huge storm burst over us along the way, making us as wet as if we had just jumped into the river. Though dripping wet, we still decided to walk up the mountain towards Perquín. Incredible!!! We are going there to talk about the mural. I want to paint a mural in Perquín, and Father Esteban is looking forward to talking about it. We were unearthing children until an hour ago, and now we are going to talk about a mural. Patri, Luis, and Mimi are tired, but they want to support me. They make jokes. They say that they want to be characters in the murals, part of its “subject matter.” I am walking by Patri, feeling her wetness and her tiredness. I am aware that I love this person so much that it hurts. Perquín is nearly destroyed. Collapsed buildings show the violence of war. It is in Perquín where Padre Esteban lives. He is from the Canary Islands in Spain. Esteban lived the twelve years of war in Perquín. He has a demanding look, as if he could read deeper than words. He speaks softly, almost seductively, and he looks intently, learning everything from the person he converses with. Yet he is not intimidating. Rather the opposite. He makes me feel calm. Secure. But for some reason, I feel embarrassed in front of him. Perhaps it is because I sense his compassion and his goodness. How can someone keep his goodness after going through so much hell? Is it forgiveness that makes the difference? I want to ask Esteban if it is forgiveness. I feel embarrassed because I do not know if I can, if I could forgive. We talk about the mural. He loves the idea and even proposes to paint a mural at El Mozote. That will be impossible until the case of El Mozote is finalized, a report is written, and the historical case is inscribed in the precarious context of this country’s judicial system. Technically speaking, El Mozote is a “crime site.” Nothing can be changed or disturbed until authorized by the Supreme Court. We met three women: Dina, Marianita, and Mercedes. Marianita is Mexican but one would never know that. She looks, speaks, and has the mannerisms typical of women from Morazán. I tell her so. She speaks with long silences in



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between her sentences. She saves words. She says that this is the place where she could die. Therefore, she has acquired everything of this land. Its spirit. They tell me the story of the mural of the church of Perquín. Part of the mural is still painted with the image of Monseñor Romero. The other side of the wall, towards the left of the entrance of the church, is white. During the war, the army covered the murals with white paint. The people painted over the white walls with other murals. The army washed them off. And the FMLN painted new murals. Back and forth, forth and back. At the end of the war, the left side of the main church entrance is white and the right side still has the mural with the image of Archbishop Romero. Monseñor Romero is very loved in El Salvador. Salvadoran people do not speak about Monseñor Romero as a saint, removed from this world. They speak about Monseñor Romero as a man, as a compassionate, dignified, and approachable man. A human being at his best. Monseñor Romero is alive among the Salvadoran people. His death is a confirmation of his power. Although we do not engage in conversations with the group of people from the Legal Medical Institute who have been “assigned” to work with us at the site, I did ask one of them what he thought about Monseñor Romero. He said, “Ah . . . Monseñor Romero. He was a scary man because he said the truth.” I will paint a mural on the walls of the church next to the image of a man who was scary because he spoke the truth. october 31, 1992 I am in San Salvador. Unusually, I am alone. Everyone left and I decided to stay. It feels good to be alone. I needed it. I feel tired. I feel plentiful. I feel physically tired, and emotionally plentiful. At the end of Friday, there were a total of 64 skeletons. Now, we are finding a lot of clothing associated with the skeletons. Little garments. The majority of the skeletons belonging to children. We are finding little dresses, little shirts, clothing of children. Very young children. I worked on skeleton #57. It was a girl. I searched through her dress. In one of the pockets of the dress there was something. A piece of green fabric knotted. There was something inside. A minuscule treasure: two coins of one cent and a red button. It is harder to find these objects associated with the skeletons than it is to uncover the remains. We can prepare ourselves for the bones. But these patches of life kept in the pocket like buried secrets transport me to a girl playing somewhere not far from here. Two coins and a red button treasured in a knotted piece of green fabric. She didn’t want to lose them. I used to do that when I was a girl. My grandmother taught me. She did that too when she

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was a girl. A girl who today is “skeleton #57” once had a name, parents, and siblings and used to do what girls do. We unknot her history, brushing forgetfulness from her tiny bones. I am so tired . . . But, I want to write more. I am afraid I will forget. How could I forget, though? Yet, I feel the urgency to write, to keep track of what I see. I wish I could do art. As I cannot do art, I think of art. I am thinking of the “associated objects” that retain the memory and life of the people of El Mozote. I want to be subtle. It cannot be a “loud” piece. It must remain a “silent” piece. As silent as holding the dress of a girl containing an intact ribcage whose little arched bones resemble more the bones of a bird. The bones of a wing. The missing wing of an angel. There is silence. An Angel has passed. How to be subtle and speak of the contained silence that I sense at the exhumation site? The horror we see is so immense. If I were to translate on canvas or in a series of photographs 64 human remains commingling, it would alarm people. It would make it frightening. Yet . . . for me . . . El Mozote is not frightening. Within simple frames, perhaps boxes of very simple wood, traces of life accumulated in fractions of history: a piece of green fabric, knotted, containing two coins and a red button a comb pieces of wire hairpins a child’s burnt shoe half of a child’s pink shirt, also burnt little crosses and tiny medals with the images of the Virgin Mary Mother of God and of the Black Christ of Esquipulas a rusty knife a toy. All these things we have found. All covered with dust and pigments composing the atmosphere of the burial site. Or. . . rather, the un-burial site. The unearthing of the history of the people of El Mozote. november 1, 1992 We are in San Salvador. Patri and I went for breakfast. I feel fortunate being here with her. I feel close to her. I learn from her. She is tough, especially when she deals with government people and “authority.” Even the Judge seems intimidated by Patri. That is good. She does transform when she talks to the families. She changes. She is attentive and immensely kind. It is important for me to see how she changes. She is able to state her role as a scientist and her authority as part of the assigned group of investigators. She does not smile to them, and her



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distance makes her powerful. On the other hand, when she hears testimonies of the relatives and friends of the people of El Mozote, I can tell she is moved. Mimi got very angry last week with the Judge and the members of the Supreme Court who were at the site. Some government officials were complaining that we were working “too slow.” Patri, Luis, and I were working towards the South wall of the site and we did not hear what they were saying. “This is not a museum … We need to finish this soon … we need to use machines.” Mimi stood up with a determination that surprised everyone. She screamed at them, “What do you think we are doing? We are professionals and we are doing this exhumation in the only way it should be done. Any other way would destroy evidence and what happened here may never be known. We came here with the only purpose to find out the truth and we are doing it! If you ever have a complaint about us or our way of working, tell us up front and do not speak behind our backs. As far as we are concerned, we will report any irregularity to the United Nations Commission of Truth.” Absolute silence after that. They behave like children. november 4, 1992 Mimi and I went today to Jocoaitique to gather testimonies and pre-mortem data from some of the relatives of El Mozote living there. We were at the house of Don Pedro Chicas. It is an austere house. Poor. Simple. Clean. The walls have holes. At first, I thought they could have been made by animals. Sometimes, I can forget that there was a war here. The holes were made by ammunition. Maybe of mortars. Jocoaitique was a war zone for many years. The original settlers of Jocoaitique left the hamlet in the early eighties. All the new settlers are survivors of massacres of nearby communities. The majority of the people living today in Jocoaitique are survivors of the massacre of La Joya. Despite the poverty, Doña Rosa receives us with coffee, tortillas, a boiled egg, a little cheese. I know they hardly have anything to eat themselves. They have twelve children. Extended family, children of their children, all live close by. Food is not something they can count on. Doña Tránsito Luna and her daughter Nicolasa came to talk to us about their dead relatives who lived in El Mozote: Jose Fabián, his wife, and four children. “There, everyone perished. The oldest child was eight. The youngest was only two.” At the Convent, we keep on finding bones of children. Clothing of children voices of children laughs of children screams of children. Lives of children turned into dust. Everything at El Mozote is earth color: dust of burnt sienna, dark umber, earth green, powdered raw light sienna of the bones, and chalky bluish white in the calcined remains. When the bones are burnt beyond a certain point, 28

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they turn white and not black. Bluish chalky white. In the entrance area of the building, there are chalky white remains—probably the result of high temperatures. An explosive may have been thrown into the building shortly after the massacre. Everything is earth color at El Mozote. It is covered with earth pigments, time pigments, history pigments. There is warmth around us when we work. I am developing an acute sensibility for the subtle changes of the earth coloring. My eyes now can easily detect the almost indefinable traces of broken bone fragments in the earth. It is easier for me now to cut open a tiny shirt. I find fragments of tiny bones that will turn into dust when I touch them. It feels and looks like sawdust. It is strangely wet, even if exposed to the sun for a long time. This sawdust does not get dry. I select what is bone from what is earth. Everything is earth color at El Mozote. There is one thing that breaks the earthiness, that interrupts the earthiness. In clothes generally associated with the ribcage or the cranium—or with areas of the body identified as “vital”— there are jewels of green. Very small fragments of thin metal, copper-aged metal. So thin that they make me think of an eggshell of a rare, magical bird. Within the brownish earthiness, the jewel green sparkles quietly. The fragments of turquoise green metal are nuclear parts of projectiles. These are proof that the children of El Mozote were murdered inside the building. november 6, 1992 The authorities of this country still want to talk about “combat” and “crossfire” between the FMLN and the Salvadoran Army at El Mozote. Between yesterday and today, we found 35 projectiles associated with the skeletal remains, encrusted in the bones. We found them associated with important bones, cranium, pelvis, ribcage. I am afraid of reconstructing the history of this shooting. “Who could kill an unarmed child?” Who could kill a child so small as to be wearing a shirt that is only seven inches long? We have found 64 skeletons. There are more. How many more? Luis estimates that at the end of the exhumation, there will be around eighty skeletons. Of those, seventy will belong to children. Colonel Monterrosa is named as the person responsible for this massacre. I say, Herod Monterrosa. When we returned yesterday to the Judicial House of San Francisco Gotera with “the findings of the day” and started counting and cataloging the garments associated with the skeletons, one of the Judge’s secretaries covered her mouth in astonishment. She screamed, “My Dear God! These are children’s clothing! This is like a kindergarten! I can’t believe it! No one said that there were so many children! Why did they kill the children? This is awful!” The Judge ordered her to shut up.

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november 18, 1992 The exhumation at El Mozote ended today. We have found 119 individuals and 24 concentrations of fragments of bones. In a space of 35 square meters, 119 lives were cut short and lay in silence for eleven years. It was disturbing to see the empty space. This space that I have gotten used to seeing populated with skeletons that, even without names, were giving me a sense of community. An empty space. We swept it. On the floor of the building, there are 38 holes “compatible” with perforations made by firearms. This is the way it should be left officially until a ballistic expert looks at the evidence. What I see, what the afat sees is that these 119 individuals were killed inside the building at close range. Each hole testifies to someone killing someone else in this way. Of the 119, approximately 100 are children. We cannot talk about numbers yet. That is to be established during the final step of this investigation: the laboratory analysis. The human remains will be transported so they can be studied and x-rayed at the morgue of Santa Tecla in San Salvador. In the past days we have found the largest concentration of remains in the entrance area of the Convent. In quadrants a2, a3, b2, and b3, we have found the smallest skeletons, the tiniest clothing. Little shirts of babies. Skeleton #119: fragments of parietal bone, some of them calcined. A very small shortsleeved shirt. It must have been a light color at one time. Now it’s the color of accumulated years. Inside the sleeves, there are two tiny humeri still articulated to the scapulas. I picked them up with agonizing tenderness. I feel my body fill with horror, with love, with sweetness that I do not comprehend. I feel mud in my mouth. I have a clayish darkness in my hands, and I am not sure if it is only soil of this Salvadoran earth. It is a heavy earth filled with rivers of blood. I place the bones and the shirt on a piece of cardboard that serve as a precarious laboratory. While I prepare my camera to document the remains, I realize that I am crying and hoping that no one will notice. On the other hand, I do not understand why we aren’t all crying. This kind of pain is intoxicating me. I feel dizzy. I lose perspective. I am not even sure where I am. I look up. I see David. He is walking towards me, perhaps with the excuse of taking the photograph. He looks at me and he knows. He looks at me and he understands. He asks me, in a voice that brings me back from madness, “It was a very small child, wasn’t it?” “Yes,” I say. Face wet with tears. Hands soiled with blood. I place a measuring tape under the shirt.

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It is 9 inches. From side to side, 9 inches. I draw a vertical line on the shirt to indicate where I will cut it open. I cut the shirt. All the vertebrae are there, fragile and small. The left side of the ribcage is intact; all the ribs are identifiable. The bones are so small. They hardly look human. They look like the bones of a little bird. The bones are so frail; they will disintegrate when I touch them. The right side of the ribcage has become powder. The bones have turned into sawdust. I still can see parts of the scapula, clavicle, and, articulated, the two humeri kept within the sleeves. I place the bones and the shirt on the cardboard. The bones are wet, tender. For some reason I think of fertile soil. The humeri tell us that this was a young child, not older than one year. Very likely, a few months younger than that. I continue working “professionally” with some distance, with some abstraction. I hear a voice in the middle of my body that sounds like a thousand voices: it is a scream, the current of a thick river made of rage. Surprisingly, I do not feel the ghost of depression. Rather the opposite. I feel a wave of energy, an urge to act. Resist. Resist madness. Resist holding these bones as if they were the ones of my own child. The membrane between hope and despair is so thin. It is a dangerous passage. I feel it in all the territory of my body. It is real. It is physical like a wound. The membrane can be easily torn apart. This precarious balance alerts me. The ultimate subversive act is to resist this madness and love these bones of a child I never knew. The threads of history are mysterious. Who could ever imagine that after eleven years of the massacre someone would be opening this mass grave? Yet . . . Rufina is here. Tutela Legal is here. The relatives are here. We are here. Mimi was sad yesterday. She said she would miss El Mozote. I will miss El Mozote. I have learnt to love each of the remains as a person I could have known. These are new sentiments, and I feel frustrated that I cannot express them well. I wish I were a poet! I think of colors, I think of images. I think of giving my memories the chance to land on a paper saturated with beautiful warm blue, a touch of rose madder and alizarin red rubbing their colors onto paper. Not as blood. As life. I think of a copper green as the background of a female figure with her thorax extended. It is Rufina. I look at Rufina, thinking I have so many questions to ask her. I have seen Rufina laugh. How can Rufina laugh? Has she forgiven? I wanted to ask Esteban about forgiveness, and I did not. I want to ask Rufina, and I do not know how. Perhaps it is not forgiveness but a brutal realization that “life did not end today” and she is ready to continue living. To forgive is to understand. I refuse to understand. I do not want to understand why El Mozote happened.



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Report of Forensic Investigation El Mozote, El Salvador December 15, 1992 Honorable Judge Federico Ernesto Portillo Campos Second Court of the First Instance San Francisco Gotera, El Salvador … The physical evidence from the exhumation of the convent house at El Mozote confirms the allegation of mass murder. The evidence is as follows: We have identified the presence of 143 skeletal remains, including 131 children under age 12, 5 teenagers and 7 adults. The average age of the children was approximately 6 years. There were six women, ages 21 to 40, one of whom was in the third trimester of pregnancy, and one man of approximately 50 years of age. There may, in fact, have been a greater number of deaths. This uncertainty regarding the number of skeletons is a reflection of the extensive perimorten skeletal injuries, postmortem skeletal damage, and associated commingling. Many young infants may have been entirely cremated; other children may not have been counted because of extensive fragmentation of body parts… Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team

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C A O

K O U

The Wall Builder 1 Before I was sent to build the Great Wall, I had been trading around Yangzhou, and whenever I returned to my home in Quanjiao, I would walk along the path embraced by yellow rapeseed flowers. From afar I saw her leaning against the fence and peering at the crossroads. As I got closer, I could see she was blushing. She lowered her head and ran into the house. When I entered the yard, her mother was the one who came out to greet me. Over her mother’s shoulder, I could see her hiding behind the half-open window. She would become my wife. We should have had a baby, but we hadn’t. But maybe she was pregnant when I left her. Now I could only console myself with this thought. I had been doing business in Yangzhou city for years. A pretty widow lived in an alley there. She painstakingly built me a nest without a future. I had never held out hope for Yangzhou, so I had no hope for her either. Our relationship was only temporary. My disappearance, like her late husband’s, added another old scar to her boudoir. I had left both women behind and I was now on my way to the northern frontier. The road was long and winding. Every day we set out at dawn and walked till night, passing through countless towns and villages. Some of us had already died on the road, and still more were yet to die. Men’s lives were fragile. Along the way I constantly fought my fear of death and prayed to the gods for their mercy. The dry northern air made my lips crack and peel, and I had difficulty urinating. At the side of a dry well, my tears overflowed. When we finally arrived at our destination in the boundless mountains, we could only sigh. Cutting down the trees and clearing away the weeds, we found the foundation of the wall from a former dynasty. The wall had collapsed into ruins long ago, and now wild animals crossed over it unimpeded. 2 Among the rocks, the wall builders sat barebacked as they hewed the stones. 33

The monotonous sound of striking the stones made even the sunlight terrifying. People fainted and died every day. I had not died, yet. Sometimes, I sang southern folk songs to ease the loneliness of group living and listened to the chorus of men responding in tears. On an autumn night when torrential rains caused flash floods, I dimly saw the green of a reed flute in the endless darkness. The performer, a skinny man from Shaoxing, created a dewy, fantastic nostalgia with his music. But a shadowy figure approached him from behind, and his music stopped abruptly. The reed flute cracked, and before long he was dead. 3 The winter clothes finally arrived. I wasn’t sure who had sent me winter clothes. Was it she? Or she? Perhaps neither. Or perhaps they both had, but their parcels had gotten lost long ago on the way, and the articles I was holding now were sent by another woman to another me, and the other me was dead. Because many of us had died, we had extra winter clothes, so no one could be sure that what he had received was really from his relatives. Inside the parcel was a letter. But the letter had no words. It was full of varied circles: some bigger, some smaller; some regular, some irregular; some complete circles, some not. Neither she nor she was literate, but that couldn’t prove that it was from either of them, just as I couldn’t be sure that the winter clothes—even though they fit me—were meant for me. Tears poured down my cheeks, and my sleeves could not wipe away my grief. 4 This section of the wall was completed, connecting the eastern and western parts, and towering above us like a dragon stretching to infinity. We were told we’d be able to go home after the imperial inspector approved our work. At the foot of the Great Wall, we cheered loudly and prayed for a long life for our emperor. The soldiers and overseers joined us in celebration. It was a fatal mistake . . . The chief of the Xiongnu Huns and his warriors scaled the wall with ropes. When one of our men discovered them, it was too late—an arrow with the feathers of a wild bird pierced his throat before he could cry out. Another man was about to light the warning beacon, but the fierce black wind that accompanied the Huns swept over and mercilessly destroyed him as easily as if a giant hand were crushing a firefly. Out of nowhere, the Huns were standing among us, their braids tickling my neck. They swept into our columns and suddenly our relaxed expressions and the dancing flames froze A massive slaughter began …

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5 All the soldiers, overseers, and those who resisted were killed. A large fire proved that I had survived (and that I hadn’t joined the resistance), for the flames licked my face and I smelled something like scorched chicken feathers. The Great Wall burned with a loud crackling sound and collapsed. To this day I don’t understand how the Great Wall ignited. The fire died out at dawn. We were forced to clear the debris. We moved away the stones that we had painstakingly hewn and set in place one by one to build the wall, and threw them over the steep cliffs. Hot tears filled our eyes as we listened to the dull shattering sounds thudding through the hills. Finally, a passage was opened in the debris and thousands of cavalry who had been waiting outside the wall poured through the pass like black clouds. We were kept on the ruins to continue dismantling the Great Wall that we had built. The passage became wider and wider, and more and more of the Xiongnu army rushed into the Central Plains. Their messengers ran back one after another, reporting their new victories. Their horses’ hooves kicked up dust, choking us in coughs and tears. I didn’t know whether they had conquered Quanjiao and Yangzhou. I didn’t know whether she and she had fled from their homes to the southeast coast. I refused to imagine what might have happened had they encountered the Xiongnu. In my dreams I often heard their heartbreaking cries for help. I was the one who had brought nightmares to them and to myself. With slaughter pressing in on us, we made a plan to escape. But when we put it into action, everything went wrong. I didn’t realize that until I stopped running and found myself alone in the wilderness. 6 Now, as I lay on the grass by a campfire, I felt the cool dew against my cheek. Countless stars twinkled in the high night sky. Looking at the stars helped dispel my fear of the wolves that surrounded me. The wolves’ eyes gleamed like wildfire. I kept the wolves at bay for many days and nights. Whole families of them had died under my sword, and I skinned and roasted them. They were always seeking revenge. I kept hurling the bones of their dead at them to frighten them away. In the cold wind under the moonlight, they howled bitterly. In fact, it wasn’t so much that I fought them with my sword as that I ripped apart their fragile nerves with the bones of their kin. They lost their confidence. I couldn’t remember where the sword came from, but I remember that I had blindly killed several men with it on the night of my escape. Perhaps these men were only wounded and hadn’t died. All I cared about was how many of my fellow escapees were still alive, and I desperately wanted to join them, or him. However, after many days of fruitless searching, I knew this was only a slim hope. I discovered that I was in the middle of the steppes, instead of in the Central Plains of China—the area where we had originally agreed to meet.

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7 I don’t want to say much about my experience outside the Great Wall. One day, a river flooded the road. As I waded across, a group of herdsmen surrounded me. They meant me no harm, but they were wary because I was a foreign intruder. Their hands trembled as they took away my weapons—the sword and the wolf bones—and shut me in a stable. Before long I gained their trust, and finally they accepted me as one of them. During that time, a Tibetan woman, in her most primitive and passionate ways, expressed her love for me. So I wore the clothes of her people, learned their language, herded cattle with them, hunted with them, sang and danced with them at harvest time, and fathered my children. My life on the grasslands continued for many years, perhaps ten or twenty. In time and without thinking, I had forgotten myself. But one night, a dream broke my peaceful life. I dreamed of the path em­­ braced by rapeseed flowers: my wife was leaning against the fence and peering at the crossroads, waiting for me to return. The grasslands were boiling in my bloodshot eyes, and I missed my home every minute. Guilt gnawed my heart. I decided to say goodbye to my Droma and my children, and I comforted them with the lie that I would be gone only a short time. I couldn’t be sure that I would find my wife when I got home. The thought tore at my heart and I tried hard not to think about it. I had to go. I had no choice. But the Great Wall blocked my way home. I wandered like a trapped animal, searching for any exit. But all the exits had been sealed up by the horrors of the brutal war. I tried to scale its walls with ropes, but the soldiers everywhere heartlessly cut the ropes, and their sharp arrows were constant warnings. When I tried to call out to them in our shared mother tongue—which I hadn’t spoken for many years—I found that I was hoarse and so unclear and so much at a loss for words that I sounded suspicious even to myself. I had become a barbarian. I smelled bad, I was half-naked, and my sun-darkened face was covered with a scruffy beard. I had become a totally different person, transformed from the young businessman I had once been, standing at the ferry on the Yangzi River many years ago in his neat blue gown, carrying a parcel on his back and an oil-paper umbrella under his arm. 8 Perhaps I broke through the Pass during a battle. Perhaps I broke through when my people temporarily took over a part of the Great Wall. Or perhaps I took advantage of the soldiers dozing off and climbed over. . . It didn’t matter. I was inside. I changed clothes, washed my hair, shaved my face, and looked like a normal person again. No one would pay attention to me even if I walked through the bustling market. A person can change. But of course, I had no desire to enjoy the peaceful scenery. I had to get home as quickly as possible. A few days later I reached Quanjiao, my hometown. But the path embraced 36

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by the rape flowers had disappeared, and I realized that I would not be able to find my home without finding the path first. It wasn’t because I had forgotten; the reality was that nothing familiar remained. The people tried their best to prove to me that there had never been a path embraced by the rape flowers—or a woman leaning against the fence and waiting for her husband. Their words and gestures were sincere, and I sensed that they did not intend to deceive me. But I was certain they were lying. “Really?” I said. “I don’t believe you!” I was terribly confused and sad. I was back in my hometown, but with no place to weep! I wouldn’t give up. I dragged my tired body to Yangzhou, the town where the beautiful widow lived. To my surprise, the familiar alley was still there. But fearing that I might make another mistake, I did not at once identify the gray house—not until an old man assured me that the widow I sought did indeed live there. That’s right! I wasn’t mistaken! The people back in Quanjiao had either not known or, for some reason, had conspired to deceive me. They thought their collective denial could change the facts. I did not rush to knock on the familiar door. With tears in my eyes, I gazed at the oleander high above the wall of the yard, and a pink morning glory unfolding its beautiful smile. I heard the creaking of the door being opened, accompanied by the twitter of birds and the fragrance of flowers. This made the alley look unusually tranquil. The warm afternoon sun shone on her face. “You? It’s you! Why are you here? Where is she?” The woman in the doorway was my wife! And so, I thought there was no need to hide my shameful affair as I had before. “What? What are you talking about? I’m sorry, sir, but you have mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know you.” I must have frightened her, but she didn’t shut the door on me. She smiled to cover her bewilderment. That was exactly how my virtuous and gentle wife would have behaved. “No, how can you not know me? I am your husband, and you are my wife,” I said. “And ‘she’ is the widow who lives in this house. Where is she? Please ask her to come out to see me!” I burst into tears. I thought that perhaps I should find the widow first. The widow’s existence would prove my wife’s existence, as well as my own. She laughed, so beautiful and cold. Her delicate shoulders trembled slightly, shimmering like porcelain. “I see: you are looking for the widow who lives in this house. Please tell me what you want from her. You act like you know her, but I am the widow of this house, and I do not know you! Who are you?” “I’m—I am your husband!” “Impossible!” I fainted and fell to the ground.

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9 I woke up in her bed. The furnishings in the room were the same as I remembered. Yet she, my wife, was still claiming that she did not know me, that she had never even met anyone like me. I tried to prove our relationship by telling her many things that happened in the distant past when we were together, but she gently denied everything I said. Our long discussion went nowhere. Perhaps the truth was as she said: she had never left this house; she did not know of a place named Quanjiao; she was not my wife; and we had never met before. Yet she was indeed the widow who lived in this house. The whole thing seemed inexplicable, so there was no need to explain. I couldn’t continue to argue with her. Looking at her still young, beautiful, and slightly pale face, I fell silent. “Well…” She stopped sewing and said with a sigh, “People say I’m a widow, but actually that’s not true. I have a husband, though he’s not at home. I’ve been waiting for him to come back. He went to—” “To build The Wall?!” I jumped up and shouted. She raised her tearful eyes in surprise and said, “How did you know? Everybody says he’s dead, but I don’t believe it. As you can see, I’m making a winter coat for him. It is getting cold.” She unfolded her sewing to show me. “You’ll also send him a letter with only circles in it, because you don’t know how to write,” I exclaimed in desperation. I didn’t know what else I could say. She lifted her tearful eyes again and looked at me mournfully, like a frightened fawn resigned to its fate. I couldn’t bear it and quickly looked away. “I … I’m going to find your husband for you!” I finally said resolutely. Of course, this was a ridiculous thing to do, and whether I found her husband or not, I couldn’t get rid of the bad luck of losing everything. 10 I departed once again for the frontier. The road was still tortuous. Among the rocks, the wall builders sat barebacked as they hewed the stones. The monotonous sound of striking the stones made even the sunlight terrifying. People fainted and died every day. The supervisor walked up and kicked me. “Hey, you. Someone is looking for you.” I rushed over. I looked up: he was standing right in front of me. “Ah, it’s you!” Translated from Chinese by Chen Zeping and Karen Gernant

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C A T H E R I N E

F I L L O U X

How to Eat an Orange How to Eat an Orange, a play by Catherine Filloux, is based on the writing of Claudia Bernardi; created for and developed with Mercedes Herrero. The play (under the title “Under the Skin”) was commissioned by INTAR, Lou Moreno, Artistic Director, and Paul Slee Rodriguez, Executive Director, and presented in a virtual workshop by INTAR and the Radio Drama Network. Directed by Elena Araoz; Video Designer Milton Cordero; Livestreamed by CultureHub, LiveLab, Founding Artistic Director, Billy Clark. One actress plays the role of Claudia, with brief moments where she plays: Father, Mother, Reporter, Violeta, Man, Clyde Snow, Patri and Grandmother. Objects, projection images, video and audio for the scenes include: an orange, a plate, fork and knife, a begonia flower in a vase, an envelope, a hammer, a purse, a piece of decayed red fabric with pockets holding two coins and a red button, an image of a skeleton from Casanova cemetery, a fresco painting “Under the Skin,” a briefcase, a perfume bottle, a spoon, a cigarette, a skull, a wooden urn, scissors, a mural and soundscape from Ardoyne Road, Belfast. f.s. [claudia sets down a plate; she picks up a steak knife and an orange.] claudia So, I cut off the ends of the orange. [She balances the orange on the plate and cuts it in half with a fork and knife.] I cut it in half. [She suddenly picks up a vase with a begonia flower laughing, putting down the fork and knife.] Oh! when Spring arrives in our garden, my little sister Patri and I [Biting in.] go about eating flowers. We eat the blossoms, the petals and even the tender leaves with the total conviction that, as time goes by,

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this early devotion will make us beautiful. I do not recall how we got started with this gastronomic practice, nor how we arrive at this cosmetic certainty. But we understand it as a commitment to vanity which extends for many years, bringing my mother to the point of desperation. [She smells the flower.] All the voices, the places, the smells are compacted together as if kept tight within a membrane that can burst at any time if I am not careful. [She takes a beat to confide in the audience.] This story is about circumstances. [She picks up an envelope.] (we see a close-up video of a sign with rodolfo walsh’s face. time stamp: 57–58 seconds with no sound. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ed4_ a6uyi2k) Rodolfo Walsh placed his “Open Letter from a Writer to the Military Junta” in the mailbox in Buenos Aires, on March 24, 1977. He understood the circumstances which took me many years to understand. The next day he was kidnapped and has been missing since. I did not know of Rodolfo Walsh until many years later. A subterranean hero … [She posts the letter.] That same month of March when he posts his letter, I am 22, also, in Buenos Aires, taking my final exams. Up on the wall, there are about 200 students on the exam list— only 40 students show up. Where are the ones who are not there? If you miss this exam you have to wait a whole other year—?

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[A scrolling list of names. She picks up a hammer.] Soon after, a young man bumps into me. My purse opens, my stuff is on the ground. He laughs—asks me if I am carrying this in self-defense. I laugh back. “I use the hammer in sculpture class.” He helps me put all my things back in the purse. “Ciao!” He smiles. “Thanks,” I wave, and run to the corner to catch the bus. I look for my library card. I have trouble finding it. All was in that little brown purse. He bumped into me, to get my things on the sidewalk and “chose” what he wanted. God! How can I be so stupid? I even thanked him. The library card is not a problem, it’s the other documents. Especially the one for “Good Behavior.” Last week, they were taking people away who didn’t have them. They were making them stand in a line outside the main entrance. When the lecture was over, there were still police, but the students without documents are gone. I ask a policeman: “What happened to the students who couldn’t come in?” “Calláte la boca!” [Silence.] I shut it. I ask my friend, he is burly, tall, if he will come with me to the police station to file a complaint about my stolen documents. “Are you crazy, Flaca?” [She picks up a purse.] Days go by, I cannot sleep well. I walk like a criminal. It’s stupid to feel like this, I have to go and file the complaint. The Central Police Station is not far from my house. The windows are seldom open. I think that the building is mute, gagged. It doesn’t have its eyes open to see who enters or leaves. But the mouth, under the gag … ? I just don’t know what I am afraid of. I didn’t do anything wrong.



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There is rain in this cold June winter, the images of what happened beyond the main entrance of the Police Station are clouded, grayish, unfocused like an old movie. One that I have seen a long time ago and I do not fully remember. All the voices, the places, the smells are compacted together as if kept tight within a membrane that can burst at any time if I am not careful. As if contained in a blister. A dense liquid, that will erupt and suffocate me. “I have come to report my stolen documents.” The policemen laugh and take my fingerprints. “My documents were stolen!” They take me to a place where there are a lot of people. A jail. We are all young. We hear screams from the other side of a corridor. Many from the volume of the voices. A lot of people crying. A very thin, pale young woman keeps saying, “I was just standing there, I didn’t see anything. Please, let me go, I was just standing there.” I am anticipating the time I will need to pee, sure, they will not let me go. In all that hell, I’m worried about peeing on myself. Unfocused memories, the edges of the voices merge with the screams. Whiteness, fogginess, people, sounds, all collected in that blister. [A moment of silence. She picks up the begonia flower.] Our most favorite are the begonias, rightly called “sugar flowers.” They are small flowers of white-translucent petals, crunchy, with a pompon of yellow pollen that tastes sweet with a pleasant hint of sour. Because the begonias grow without the need of much sunlight, they are planted along the corridor that connects the front garden with the back patio, a transit seldom used.

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In the coolness of the shade, my sister Patri and I spend the quiet hours of the siesta savoring the delicacy of this secret ambrosia. The big red roses intimidate us, the white ones have thorns, but with the first buds of the yellow roses we are vigilant with scientific attention. [A kind of explosion appears in her.] We devour them without compassion. My father sits us in front of him: father [With infinite patience, picking up an orange.] Girls, you must not destroy, each flower will become a ripe fruit, such as an orange, and then you can eat them. claudia That summer, many citrus blossoms never mature into fruits. Ants are another fascination. We make maps rendering the passages from where the ants circulate. mother [With humor, picking up fabric.] You both are worse than the ants! claudia My mother says, as she looks up from her sewing. What is certain is Patri and I have an uncanny comprehension of the subterranean world. Mama gives us small scraps of fabric to make the ants’ clothing.



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mother [With a sigh of admiration.] You are not like the other girls. [Claudia slowly picks up a piece of decayed red fabric with pockets.] claudia El Mozote, El Salvador. It is a girl. I search through her dress. In one of the pockets there is something? [She carefully puts down the fabric. She goes back to the begonia flower.] Because the ants are always so busy coming and going, it saddens Patri and I to think they do not have time, to get their own furniture, clothing and books. During a whole winter, our primordial occupation, besides going to school, is to make dresses, beds, tables, and family photos for the ants. We capture the first ant in a small medicine jar, copy the ant, leaving the portrait by the side of the entrance passage. The next day the portrait is no longer there. It is the confirmation we need. mother [Breathing, as a young mother, with a sigh of resignation.] You are not like the other girls! claudia Many years later, a reporter calls me, at my house in Berkeley, California. reporter Which of the two of you Bernardi sisters, is part of the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team? claudia Patri and I have both worked on the exhumations.

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With the same concern as my mother: reporter You are atypical sisters! Both of you doing such horrendous work! [We see a faint sketch of a young woman coming to life. This is in a dream.] claudia A young woman approaches me cautiously. [She speaks in a whisper.] “I am Violeta.” [The young woman looks deeply, intently.] Have we met before? [She looks mysteriously. Whispering.] violeta No … Your sister knows me … [A silence.] [A photo of two young girls running in the garden. She picks up the begonia.] claudia Patri and I are at our house in Buenos Aires. She is five, I am eight— we are running hand in hand from one end of the garden to the other. We wear soleritos, that our mother sews, with a white piqué bib, and a skirt and straps made of fabric my father’s family from Italy has sent us with a pattern of tiny red roses. Our parents are young and happy, watching us. There, they are and will always be. Patri and I are in full motion. (we see video of the generals from the military junta. time stamp: 1:39– 1:59 with no sound. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ed4_a6uyi2k)



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After the end of the military junta, the generals responsible for “the disappeared” are given amnesty. Many people’s job is to destroy. I think it is a fact that many people in the world have the job of destroying. They get up in the morning and try to imagine how to better destroy. Galerias Pacífico in the heart of Buenos Aires, is a shopping mall. One day I am nearby on its re-inauguration— I decide to investigate the fanfare. The original copula decorated with murals, the perfume of exclusiveness, its unmistakable scent, impregnates the buyers. Suddenly, I am hit by silence. Hardly able to turn around— still pressed against a voiceless crowd. I see someone has entered the building. A circle of emptiness has formed around him, and isolated this man, who never stops looking at us, with arrogance. Murmurs confirm that he is Emilio Eduardo Massera, of the military junta, in charge of ESMA, the torture and extermination center. We all stare at him. [Silence.] After Massera turns around and leaves, no one says anything else about the incident. What would my subterranean hero Rodolfo say? [Picks up the orange.] My father’s legs are scarred from grenade wounds,

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fighting as a private in World War II in Italy. When television arrives in Argentina, in the early 60s, there are documentaries of the Second World War. My mother objects. A boy, a few years older than me, hunched over on a ruined street, wide-eyed and bald with hunger, looks for ants and eats them voraciously. My father cries in front of the TV. I go to him and hold his hand so he knows I am close. No llores, Papi. Don’t cry. The last time I see my mother I am sixteen, she is about to go into the operating room. Lying on the stretcher and covering up her great fear with humor, she looks at me and says: mother [Softly.] No me olvides. Don’t forget me. claudia My grandmother, with her briefcase under her arm, makes her way to the operating room, ignoring the “No Entry” signs. Five years before my mother, my father dies— also, at the age of 40. [We hear the sound of traffic.] Years after I leave for the US, I am standing at a bus stop in Buenos Aires, on a visit. A man steps toward me: man Are you a sister of Claudia Bernardi? claudia No! I am Claudia Bernardi. man Claudia, I thought you had “disappeared.”



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claudia He had been a friend at the School of Fine Arts. He had assumed I was one of the 30,000 “disappeared.” No, I’m an artist in the United States here on a visit. We look at each other. We exchange phone numbers. We will meet for a coffee soon, of course! Neither of us ever call. [Photo of a skeleton from Casanova cemetery.] When I am back in the states Patri sends me a photo of this skeleton from Buenos Aires. It has been buried in an individual grave in Casanova cemetery, a plastic lining shrouds it. [Photo of fresco painting “Under the Skin.”] I use spoons and brushes to disperse the powdered colors, the two tools used in an exhumation, to disperse the earth attached to the bones, to make them identifiable. Life is separated from death by a crimson lake red band. The black is charcoal, the white is casein and calcium phosphate, same ingredients that make bones. Inside the whiteness are hidden maps of places visited, cities unknown, poems written in Spanish, and a photograph so small … [Silence.] The cotton paper becomes a peculiar coffin that guards an impossible question shared both by the shrouded skeleton and the etched figure. Our sister relationship has had its ups and downs, fights and estrangements.

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I remember moments of helplessness and doubts, why was there that space of shadows between us? [She picks up a briefcase.] My grandmother, with her briefcase under her arm, makes her way to the operating room, ignoring the “No Entry” signs. I am sixteen, Patri, thirteen. My mother has cut a tendon in her left hand washing dishes. A simple ten-minute operation under local anesthesia. Instead of local anesthesia, they give her total anesthesia, causing respiratory arrest, which leads to a coma, mindless, with no possible diagnosis of recovery. My grandmother and I have accompanied her to the hospital that morning. We will all return home to Patri in the afternoon. We have bought strawberry jam, which Mama likes so much, for our tea-time toast. The ten-minute operation has been scheduled for seven in the morning. It is now ten a.m. and my mother has not left the operating room. My grandmother quickly goes from despair to rage. A doctor stops her in front of the opaque glass door, he embraces her fraternally and asks her to calm down. [Claudia opens a bottle of perfume and leaves the cap off.] Taking advantage of a day that my grandmother, who now lives with us, is visiting her brother, Patri and I, without saying a word to each other, fold all of our mother’s clothes,



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we put them away carefully. We put her watch, her pearl earrings, and her wedding ring in little boxes, protected with cotton. We close the books she was reading, but respect the marks on the corners of the folded pages. We keep her documents, looking at her from those undaunted photos and wonder, without knowing the answer, how long it will take us to forget her calm beauty. We pour her perfume down the kitchen sink so that the smell of her will not drive us crazy. [She puts the cap back on the bottle.] The smells are compacted together. [She picks up a spoon and a cigarette.] Another hero, Clyde Snow. clyde snow I am in Argentina with a group of people, who are connected to forensic work, we have been asked to give some direction, some guidance in investigating what may have happened during the Junta. I am arriving to my hotel one evening And there they are. This group of young people, “undergraduates.” They say they want to help. It moves me to see them so serious. I have not eaten all day and I am hungry. I tell them that we should have dinner around the corner and talk it over. We do so over some delicious blood sausage, my favorite.

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They have never seen a skeleton. They are students of archeology. They have encountered fragments of animal bones, I forget where exactly. But they are fragments, not even a whole animal. I explain to them that this is a hard job. If they stay at it long enough, they might find people they know in the mass graves. It could get depressing. When I return to the hotel the next day, there they are! They have spoken amongst themselves and they have come to agree that they want to help in the exhumations. In this group, as I recall, besides Patri, is Morris, Mimi, Luis, Dario and Alejandro. (Pronunciation DA-REE-OH, accent on the REE) The Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team is being formed and none of us know it at the time. We hardly have any equipment. There are few brushes, spoons. That is pretty much all we have. Morris is down in the grave. The skeleton starts showing up. The cranium has a clear entrance wound of ammunition. I look around and I do not see Patri. I go around the building and I see that she is crying. I feel for her, and I know this is going to be hard, and it could mean this is going to be the end of the collaboration that is starting to take place. After a while, I see Patri coming back to the grave. She asks me for the spoon. “What do you want the spoon for?” “I need it to prepare coffee for everyone.” [He picks up a skull. We see a photo of Liliana.]



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Liliana, a 21-year-old law student, disappeared October, 1977. Five months pregnant with her first child, taken to ESMA. Tortured in front of her husband. Removed after giving birth to a boy. Her mother Coqui asks me to examine the “NN” grave she believes is her daughter’s. And I present this at the trials against the Junta. The skull has been shattered by a close-range blast from an Ithaca shotgun— the standard weapon for the Argentine armed forces. There is a distinctive groove in the pelvis confirming that Liliana has given birth. This, then, is the body of a murder victim—one whose child is likely to be alive. [She picks up the purse.] claudia Unfocused memories in the Police Station, the edges of the voices merge with the screams. Whiteness, fogginess, people, sounds, all collected in that blister. [Claudia looks at the skull.] The job that Patri has chosen is “Investigations of Human Rights Violations against Civilian Populations”— Patri speaks little and, the words are chosen with care. She has gotten used to being tough, critical and, despite herself, cruel. Along with these weapons of defense that allow her to lash out at everything, against a world that has shown her that she cannot and should not rely too much on loves or the people who provide them, she has a dangerous vulnerability that leaves her at the mercy of her feelings, needs and loneliness. Patri is a beautiful flower surrounded by an understandable, spiky and passable wall. Behind the wall I am, looking at her in amazement, remembering fights and recovering encounters that make us friends despite sisters, I am not a good older sister, I couldn’t play an older sister, we are colleagues who feel twinned.

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Not long ago, she tells me a heartbreaking story. When my mother died without logic, my sister is waiting for her at our house. Despite her barely thirteen years, she realizes that something bad has happened, because neither my mother, nor I, nor my grandmother have returned. After my mother’s death, Patri closes the door of her room, locks it, and for five years she cries in solitude over the cutting off of that love. Patri is born when I am three years old, and I remember fondly, when she is brought home. I don’t want to get away from her. I grab my pillow and lay down on the side of her crib, holding the corner of her blanket with one hand, to feel closer. It is the only way she consents to taking the obligatory afternoon nap. Among the things that mortify me more than I would like is the inevitable premonition that one day one of us will be an orphan sister of the other. [We see the same faint sketch of a young woman. This is in a dream.] A young woman approaches me cautiously. [She speaks in a whisper.] “I am Violeta.” [She looks deeply, intently.] Have we met before? [She looks mysteriously. Whispering.] violeta No … Your sister knows me … [A silence.]



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claudia Patri had told me… patri [Picking up an urn.] Claudia, Maria del Carmen, who disappears while being pregnant, and whose remains are found, has told her mother, Pola, that if she has a baby girl, she wants to name her Violeta. At the time of the restitution of the human remains of Maria del Carmen, Pola cries, hugging the small urn. She asks me to open it. I open it. Pola looks in: “Violeta is there, in the same urn? In reality, it is very difficult to establish the sex of an unborn child unless it is through DNA. But at that moment I need to answer something that can make her happy. “Yes, Pola, Violeta is there.” To this day, I wonder if I did the right thing. Or if it was a terrible mistake. In truth, I never suspected that in this rotten life we would finally give Maria del Carmen her own identity. This is the country that we do not know about. claudia [Calmly.] Patri, in my dream, Violeta comes to me. [A moment of almost unbearable horror and tenderness.]

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To annul the past is, indeed, impossible for its infinite consequences define the present. When talking about “reconstruction” we are facing not the rebuilding of a country but the naked truth that we are collecting the wreckage fractured by its past, eroded by power in the wrong hands. We have to face that we are partakers simply, by having been alive. By having witnessed even if we did not fully comprehend. The only way is to admit our complacency if not our complicity. After a brutal accident, if someone loses a leg, it is not expected that another leg will grow back. The amputated person could walk again, could dance, even travel the world, but it will always be in absence, the necessary acceptance on which to build the new mapping of a future. [Brandishing a pair of scissors.] When we become orphans, in the house, our grandmother is our only parent. Widowed at thirty-seven, she has four children, from thirteen years to thirteen months, she embarks as a single woman in a man’s world. Tomás has been a faithful employee of my grandfather, but Tomás tries to take the reins of the company. When my grandmother finds Tomás has no intention of stopping she grabs her improvised knife, strategically resting on the desk, to cut receipts.



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grandmother The next time you do that, I will kill you! claudia A well-aimed toss causes the edge of the scissors to graze Tomás’s head, before settling on the wall like a war banner. This incident marks the beginning of fifty years of Tomás’s total devotion to my grandmother. One afternoon, the topic of Tomás comes up. Abuela, I am amazed at the aim you had to scare Tomás and at the same time gain his trust! grandmother What aim, woman—if what I wanted was to kill him?! claudia The reputation of my grandmother after the episode of the scissors, is played like the cards of a deck in the game of legends. It is even said that my grandmother is a witch. grandmother Believe it! So, they leave me alone and keep a distance! claudia In these times the phrase is coined— grandmother This house is a women’s house. Girls, my apartment got vacated, the renter is gone, I’m moving back home. When you are on your own, you will learn that life is hard! Don’t come with me! claudia At 17 and 15 we live by ourselves. We have lunch with Abuela every Sunday, a siesta in her large double bed. I lie next to her, and her big billowy breasts—she snores loudly, and on my other side Patri sleeps soundly. I think to myself “This is happiness.”

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Other days the bed, known as “the living room,” is a place for women of all ages, including my mother’s first cousin La Flaca Elena, with her curlers and apron, where we all watch telenovelas on TV. Abuela commandeers the TV wand, snoring loudly. At the moment where the man moves in to kiss the heroine, she inevitably wakes and cries out, “This is bullshit!” [She goes back to snoring.] And immediately goes back to sleep. [She slowly picks up the piece of decayed red fabric with pockets.] It is a girl. I search through her dress. In one of the pockets there is something? A piece of green fabric, knotted. And inside this miniscule treasure: two coins of one cent, and a red button. We can prepare ourselves for the bones, but these patches of life kept in the pockets like buried secrets take me to a girl playing somewhere not far from here. Two coins and a red button, treasure in a knotted piece of green fabric. She doesn’t want to lose them. Patri and the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team, invite me to create the archeological maps in El Salvador, at a distant hamlet El Mozote, where there had been a 1981 massacre. I make drawings identifying the locations of the found human remains, associated objects and ballistic evidence. Rufina Amaya Márquez, the sole survivor of the massacre



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at El Mozote, saw her community being divided in groups, men, women, younger women and children. She identifies a shallow hill, “Cerro de la Cruz” where the Atlacatl Battalion (Pronunciation AH-TLAH-CATTLE) took the young women of El Mozote to rape them, kill them and burn them. Rufina saw her husband being decapitated and could identify the voices and screams of her own children before they were shot. No one survives at El Mozote. Only Rufina, is left to bring the truth of an inconceivable massacre of a civilian population to us. Over 1,000 people perish at El Mozote in one day December 11, 1981. All the found ammunition and ballistic evidence was manufactured in the U.S. No U.S. military files have ever been provided. The exhumation takes place in 1992 inside a 35-square-meter building known as “The Convent.” The exhumations confirm the allegation of mass murder against civilians by identifying the presence of human remains of 143 individuals— 136 are children under the age of 12, with an average age of six years old. I have never before exhumed the remains of children. Some of their bones are so frail they resemble the bones of a small bird.

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The remains become a fine powder, a tender sawdust at the moment they are collected from inside the tiny garments where they have been nestling quietly. The trace of existence would evaporate forever and with it the presence of this child. What would it be like to return to El Mozote to do art with children, the same age as those we are exhuming? In Perquín, two miles North of the massacre site, I create Walls of Hope a community-based project of art. The murals are always by community consensus, I am only the facilitator. I see the sole survivor Rufina arriving at El Mozote to look at the mural. I am astonished to meet Rufina, in the place of the massacre, to talk about art and murals. (we see video of the el mozote mural. time stamp: 12:03–12:57 https://vimeo.com/515423503) Rufina looks at the mural perplexed. [Silence.] Is there something missing, Doña Rufina? “Yes, coffee! The coffee plant is important to our community. It is bushy and has lots of branches where the coffee hangs down, where the little grains come out. Red and green.” Excellent idea. We didn’t know what to put in that empty space. (we see video of the children walking. time stamp: 16:47–17:18 https://vimeo.com/515423503) On a Thursday morning I see a lot of children coming to the church. The whole school … When we are called, the children are standing, their faces radiant and their small voices singing to us in gratitude for the mural. The “Perquín Model” has been successfully done in Guatemala, Colombia, Mexico, Argentina, Germany, Switzerland and Northern Ireland. [We see a sign.]



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In Buenos Aires there is a street that used to be called “United States.” With hand-painted letters, mimicking the font used by the Argentine municipality, the street is renamed “People of Iraq.” We do not forget, we do not forgive, we do not reconcile. Juicio politico. Twenty years after the military junta received amnesty, we go back to square one and demand a referendum. Not only is the person, put on trial, but the crime is. So that after the perpetrators and victims are dead the crime is not. [She sings.] “Aprender la leccion de la historia, Debe ser no perder la memoria.” In 2009 the trials reopen. We wait eight hours outside the courthouse. (we see video of claudia in the crowd awaiting the verdict. time stamp: 2:53–2:58 & 4:22-4:23 & 5:09 and onward. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=ed4_a6uyi2k) Most of the generals receive life imprisonment. [She chants.] “Como a los Nazis les va a pasar Adonde vayan los iremos a buscar ole ole ole ola. Adonde vayan los iremos a buscar.” The trials continue to this day. Patri is still giving testimony, where a man is being given, seven consecutive life sentences. This is unique to Argentina.

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If Patri was not my sister, I would like her to be a friend. She is the only love I can trust. We don’t know how we got to this point. Patri and I have not been linked to our work through politics. But we are clear that the results of what we do are always political. We have accompanied the history of our country, with values founded on treasured moments when we were a family, and able to suck from our parents a way to see the world with respect and compassion. The reason I am telling you this story is because of the circumstances. [She picks up her purse.] Unfocused memories in the Police Station. Whiteness, fogginess, people, sounds, all collected in that blister. A sinister balloon of unconnected puzzled images. And then I am released. I come out of the Police Station. I have my bag. I have my coat. I start walking. For some reason, I walk in the opposite direction of my house. I am not unaware of this. I know that I am walking in the opposite direction of my house and somehow it feels right. I walk and it is cold. It is already night. Of what day? It was the morning when I entered the Police Station. The body aches. I do not know if it is from the cold. I walk far. It feels like a tunnel. An abyss has formed. I see a woman on the other side. There is a birthmark born today. A tattoo on my soul. [With acceptance and calm.] The recognition that I have profoundly changed. There is no fear. I couldn’t care less if I am stopped by the police. I already have been there. There are things in that blister that I will never speak. [Beat. Claudia picks up the orange, and then the fork and knife.] Catherine Filloux and I work together in Belfast.



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The buildings of the two schools face one another with their nationalist and loyalist flags. Green bars and metal shields protect the Catholic Holy Cross School. Blue bars surround the Protestant Wheatfield School. A choreographed Apartheid. It is humbling to witness the Principals of the two schools, the teachers and parents, agreeing on two murals created as an extension to one another by the Catholic and Protestant children, ten years after the violence during The Troubles here on Ardoyne Road. I tell Catherine my idea of a Mural of Voices, when it is done, there is no way to hear the difference between the children on the opposite sides of the road. [We see the children’s mural on both sides of the road and hear the children’s soundscape.] We live for that time on Malone Road. Catherine is fascinated by the way I eat an orange, and says she knows the perfect actress to play me. Mercedes Herrero. An undulating life, with many highs and many lows. When I first come to the U.S. I find it peculiar that people have the habit of eating with their hands. It is not something that in Argentina we treasure. In the U.S. people are less aware of eating while talking. Catherine makes salads for dinner and she knows that I don’t like olive oil. I do love vinegar. I tell her my infamous vinegar story: I am seven studying for my First Communion, the priest tells us the story of the New Testament, about Christ, already on the cross, arms open, suffering from the pain of the nails tormenting his body.  Christ asks for water. A Roman soldier attaches a sponge immersed in vinegar  to the top of his spear,

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and brings that to Christ’s mouth, instead of giving him water. [Seven years old.] Well, it wasn’t that bad. At least it was not oil. The priest calls my mother to complain. mother It is absolutely understandable. She does not like oil, and she loves vinegar. claudia Many years go by and Catherine and I catch up by phone during the pandemic. I tell her I am teaching and living in Virginia. Catherine says, “Oh, Mercedes lives in Virginia, right near you!” “All goodness, is essentially, communicable.” These words, attributed to Saint Augustin, show me the power and magic of art.  Art reaches beyond our sight, imagination or expectations. And then our director Elena Araoz joins… [Claudia sets down a plate. She picks up a steak knife and an orange.] So, I cut off the ends of the orange. [She balances the orange on the plate and cuts it in half with a fork and knife.] I cut it in half. in quarters, in eighths, and from this piece I start removing the flesh from the white of the peel. [She eats a piece.] Excellent orange. I think I learned how to eat an orange from my mother. I have done it all my life. the end



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note The video “Sentencia de MegaCausa ESMA - 26/10/2011” was produced by Espacio Memoria and Derechos Humanos ex Esma, which kindly provided the footage. The video “The Murals of El Mozote” was directed and produced by Penelope Price, who kindly provided the footage. For performance rights and interested parties please contact: Elaine Devlin  Elaine Devlin Literary Inc. 1115 Broadway, 12th floor New York, NY 10010 Phone: (212)-842-9030 [email protected]

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B O U B A C A R

B O R I S

D I O P

from Murambi: The Book of Bones During ninety days in 1994, members of the Hutu majority in Rwanda murdered 800,000 members of the country’s Tutsi minority, in one of the swiftest and most brutal genocides of the twentieth century. In Boubacar Boris Diop’s novel Murambi: The Book of Bones, “the time, place, and mood of the genocide are created through a concert of voices,” Eileen Julien writes in the book’s foreword, and readers hear “the thoughts of fictive victims and killers who lived through those terrifying and horrific days.” The following is a chapter from the book. f.s. We called him Tonton Antoine. For as far back as I can remember, I always saw him at the house. He was my father’s best friend. Actually his only friend, I think. Already, when I was a little girl, I had the feeling that he wasn’t like anyone else we knew. He didn’t laugh very much, but he loved doing magic tricks with cards. Projecting the shadows of his fingers against a wall, he could also create tortoises or dragonflies. As soon as I saw him arrive, I would rush out to meet him. He would lift me up on his shoulders and run around our place singing, “Marina has an airplane, Tonton Antoine is little Marina’s airplane!” I was, I think, one of the few people who could cheer him up. A few days after the events, he came to the house a first time. He and my father talked for a long time in low voices. We knew that he was in charge of several barricades in Kibuye. Nonetheless, he had a sweet face, if a little bit sad, just as I’d known him from my earliest childhood. When he left, my father seemed to be very preoccupied. “Does he know that we’re hiding those little ones here?” asked my mother, worried. “No, but he says I should take up my machete like all the other men.” “Ah?” “I refused. I can’t do that.” My mother said nothing. After a while he cried out again: “Yes, I refused!” Two days passed. Tonton Antoine came back. He and my father locked themselves away again in the living room. For the first time in my life I heard Tonton Antoine shout. 65

After this second meeting, my father started to change. He talked to himself, wandering from one room to another: “Ah! I can’t agree to do it, those people have never done anything to me! It’s savagery!” The next instant he would say that he had to protect us. If he didn’t do anything, the Interahamwe were going to come and kill everyone in the house. The third day, not being able to stand it anymore, he took up his machete. My mother and I wanted to keep him from going out. Then he screamed, “Don’t you watch the television? It’s like all wars—you kill people and then it’s over!” He went to the barricades. They tell us that he handles his machete like a maniac over there. However, when he’s back at the house, he goes straight to the little ones’ hiding place, he gives them treats and plays with them. Then he retires to his bedroom. Mother and I don’t disturb him. When he leaves very early the next morning, we pretend we’re asleep. Translated from French by Fiona McLaughlin

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Hundreds of Buddhist Rakhine youth from the local student congress chant anti-Rohingya slogans in Sittwe. The demonstration attracted several thousand people from the Buddhist Rakhine community, which does not recognize the Rohingya as being Burmese. © Greg Constantine 2014

F R E D E R I C K

D O U G L A S S

What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July? On July 5, 1852, Frederick Douglass was invited by the Ladies Anti-Slavery Society of Rochester, New York, to address an audience of about 600 citizens. The invitation was originally for the 4th, but Douglass chose to speak on the 5th instead. “This Fourth of July,” he told the mostly White audience, “is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn.” The entire speech was printed as a forty-page pamphlet. Douglass chose to publish this excerpt in his second autobiography, My Bondage and My Freedom. f.s. Fellow-Citizens—Pardon me, and allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits, and express devout gratitude for the blessings, resulting from your independence to us? Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation’s sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation’s jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the “lame man leap as an hart.” But, such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you this day rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters 68

into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin! I can to-day take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people. “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.” Fellow-citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions, whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are to-day rendered more intolerable by the jubilant shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then, fellow-citizens, is american slavery. I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the slave’s point of view. Standing there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July. Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the constitution and the bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery—the great sin and shame of America! “I will not equivocate; I will not excuse;” I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just. But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in this circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more, and denounce less, would you persuade more and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued. What point in the



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anti-slavery creed would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that the slave is a man? That point is conceded already. Nobody doubts it. The slaveholders themselves acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for their government. They acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on the part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the state of Virginia, which, if committed by a black man (no matter how ignorant he be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two of these same crimes will subject a white man to the like punishment. What is this but the acknowledgement that the slave is a moral, intellectual, and responsible being. The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that southern statute books are covered with enactments forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the slave to read or write. When you can point to any such laws, in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your streets, when the fowls of the air, when the cattle on your hills, when the fish of the sea, and the reptiles that crawl, shall be unable to distinguish the slave from a brute, then will I argue with you that the slave is a man! For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver, and gold; that, while we are reading, writing, and cyphering, acting as clerks, merchants, and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men—digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and children, and, above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian’s God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave—we are called upon to prove that we are men! Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty? that he is the rightful owner of his own body? You have already declared it. Must I argue the wrongfulness of slavery? Is that a question for republicans? Is it to be settled by the rules of logic and argumentation, as a matter beset with great difficulty, involving a doubtful application of the principle of justice, hard to be understood? How should I look to-day in the presence of Americans, dividing and subdividing a discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom, speaking of it relatively and positively, negatively and affirmatively? To do so, would be to make myself ridiculous, and to offer an insult to your understanding. There is not a man beneath the canopy of heaven that does not know that slavery is wrong for him. What! am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow-men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to

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sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system, thus marked with blood and stained with pollution, is wrong? No; I will not. I have better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would imply. What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman cannot be divine. Who can reason on such a proposition! They that can, may! I cannot. The time for such argument is past. At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. Oh! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation’s ear, I would to-day pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced. What to the American slave is your Fourth of July? I answer, a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour. Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the every-day practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.



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J O S E P H

M A T T H E W S

from The Blast Set in San Francisco in 1916, The Blast depicts a period when the city was roiled by street battles among such factions as radical workmen, goons, and cops employed by capitalist owners, Italian anarchists, and militant suffragettes. Kate Jameson arrives from Boston tasked with clandestinely investigating the attitude of community leaders toward the prospect of America entering the Great War in Europe. She is also hoping to discover what had happened to her husband, Jamey, during the war in the Philippines, leading to his suicide six months after his return. In this excerpt, she learns the truth. f.s. By the time Jamey arrived in the Philippines, the American war to oust the Spanish as the islands’ rulers had turned into a war to replace the Spanish as the islands’ rulers. Though the US government certainly didn’t call it that. And among soldiers in the field, it was seen as a fight against unwashed, untamed, ungrateful insurgents who simply didn’t understand or appreciate liberation by the Americans and the benevolence of their subsequent occupation. As with almost every other US soldier, Jamey had no clear grasp of what was going on. The Spanish military, erstwhile enemy, was now providing information to American forces about local resistance. Filipino guerillas, on the other hand, who’d been fighting the Spanish for decades and who had joined the Americans to drive the final spike into Spanish rule, were now waging a campaign against their American former partners. All Jamey knew for sure was that, despite Spain’s capitulation, US soldiers were still being killed and wounded; immediately upon his arrival in the islands he was thrown into medical work at a military hospital in the countryside north of Manila. Within a short time, his superiors noted Jamey’s fluent-sounding—though in fact fairly rudimentary—spoken Spanish, developed during his many extended stays in Cuba during his childhood and youth. As a result, they moved him from the field hospital to a more forward position, at the edge of a large battle zone, where Filipino prisoners were being held. Jamey was to treat their wounded. Not just any wounded. Jamey was primarily tasked with seeing to prisoners who had “special value,” meaning information the army might find useful. His job was to save their lives so that they could be interrogated, or further 72

interrogated, though initially he had no idea of the army’s plans for his patients once he’d treated them. Nor of how they’d come to be injured in the first place. It was thought by Jamey’s superiors that these special prisoners might respond better to interrogation if medical treatment was provided by someone who could converse with them directly, rather than through an interpreter. This despite the fact that, in the minds of his prisoner-patients, Jamey’s light skin and obviously North Atlantic accent could only connect his Spanish-speaking with the hated European occupiers who’d just been overthrown. Attunement to the sensibilities of Filipino resisters was not high in the Army’s skill set. The nature of the prisoners’ injuries and conditions was often curious to Jamey. There were the prisoners brought to him with the seemingly anomalous combination of bloated bodies and severe abdominal or back injuries; as Jamey treated them, the men expelled copious quantities of water. When Jamey asked what this was about, the soldiers would explain that the prisoners had been pulled from one of the many nearby rivers. How they could have inhaled and swallowed so much water and not drowned was not a question Jamey asked himself. At least, not at first. Over time, as the damage inflicted on US forces became more substantial and their personal hostility toward the insurgents more virulent, the efforts of the army jailors to shield their doings from the medical staff became more lax, with some particularly ugly treatment of prisoners carried on in the open. Soon Jamey had seen several instances of what the soldiers fetchingly called the water cure. A prisoner was held down by four or five men while another pried open his jaws, another jammed a funnel into his mouth, and yet another poured copious quantities of water into him. After a time, when the body could hold no more liquid, a soldier would punch, knee, rifle-butt or even stomp on the prisoner’s stomach or back to expel some of the water. So that they could begin again. Hence the abdominal and spinal injuries that Jamey saw accompanying the water bloating. Very few of the many prisoners subjected to “the cure” were brought to Jamey: most were of little or no informational consequence—they were abused just to vent soldiers’ rage—and so were not provided with any medical treatment at all. On several occasions Jamey had also seen the consequences of a different form of water therapy where, as he later learned, a prisoner was held horizontally on a plank, his head tilted back and water poured onto a cloth covering his face so that it entered both his nose and mouth, to mimic the experience of drowning. The position of the head kept most of the water out of the prisoner’s stomach, but not out of his lungs. So that the process didn’t merely mimic drowning, in fact it was drowning. Jamey was initially told that the first of these men he saw had been pulled from the river. He got the same explanation a second time. He didn’t bother to ask again. There were also the beaten men. Horribly beaten. With injuries that were not, Jamey could tell, from a battlefield, no matter how intense hand-to-hand combat might have been. Jamey knew there was vicious maltreatment of pris

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oners on both sides and tamped down his growing revulsion in order to tend to these prisoners as well as he could. His duty as both doctor and soldier, as he saw it, was to heal, not judge. This sense of duty finally began to waver with the reappearance of “relapsed” prisoners, and with one prisoner in particular who, he was told, had escaped and been recaptured. It finally collapsed altogether—as did he—with the arrival of the adrenaline. During his early weeks in the forward battlefield, he would sometimes ask to follow up with a prisoner whose wounds had been particularly grievous and whose life he’d managed to save. The response from the soldiers in charge of the prisoners was always the same: the prisoner had been “transferred.” After a month or so, however, a prisoner he’d previously treated reappeared in the medical hut, brought in a second time with waterfilled lungs, barely able to breathe. When Jamey told the soldiers who’d brought him that he recognized the prisoner, one of the soldiers replied—after initially showing surprise that anyone would bother to mention the fact—that the prisoner had relapsed. The undisguised absurdity of this response was such that Jamey didn’t bother to refute it. But despite his growing reservations about what he was witnessing, he neither spoke to the officers in charge of the camp nor contacted the main field hospital to raise the matter with his superiors in the army medical hierarchy. He just did his duty. One prisoner appeared three times. Which finally pushed Jamey over the edge. This prisoner was a Flip-1 , Flip being one of a panoply of derogatory terms used by US soldiers toward their native allies-turned-adversaries. The prisoners were rated by their interrogators according to their perceived importance in potentially providing intelligence, descending from Flip-1 through Flip-3. A Flip-1 generated the greatest urgency for Jamey’s medical services; Flip-3 s rarely got any medical attention at all. The Flip-1 in question was named Macario Bonifacio. His jailers called him The Professor: he’d been a schoolteacher before joining the guerillas, where he’d risen to a relatively senior position within the resistance. He was a short, balding, fragile-looking man in his forties whose extreme myopia gave him a severe quizzical squint, though Jamey never saw him when the man wasn’t in extreme pain, which likely contributed to the facial contortion. The first time he was brought in, his eyeglasses, twisted and cracked almost beyond use, had been slapped cockeyed back onto his bloody, swollen face. Jamey’s first act had been to straighten them and replace them gently. Despite his obvious great pain, Bonifacio sighed with relief. The soldiers never told Jamey specifically what they had inflicted on any particular prisoner—the interrogation tent was in the trees on the other side of the large prisoner stockades, out of view and hearing from the medical hut—but Bonifacio’s gasping, gurgling breaths told Jamey that he’d recently undergone a mock drowning, in addition to bloody gashes and bruising on

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his face, hands and feet. Jamey wanted to give Bonifacio morphine, especially once he began exacerbating the man’s pain by treating the wounds, but he didn’t risk it because of its possible effect on Bonifacio’s lungs and heart, which were under so much stress from the water inside him. So without anesthetic Jamey cleansed and mended the wounds slowly and gingerly, much to the annoyance of the impatient soldiers standing guard. Bonifacio endured the painful treatment stoically but was now even more desperately gasping for breath. Jamey decided he needed to insert a tracheal tube to help him breathe. However, a patient needs to hold still for such a treatment—or be held, which in this circumstance would have seemed another abuse—and the tracheal tube’s resemblance to the tubes forced into prisoners’ throats during the water cure made it unlikely that Bonifacio would passively accept it. Somehow, though, the gentleness of Jamey’s treatment of Bonifacio’s wounds, and his quiet reassurances to Bonifacio in Spanish during those ministrations, created a connection between the two men. So that when Jamey showed Bonifacio the tracheal tube and the hand ventilator that attached to it, demonstrating its use on himself, after a moment’s hesitation Bonifacio nodded and allowed Jamey to intubate him. It may have saved his life. For the moment. A week later, they brought in Bonifacio again. This time, rather than his lungs being filled with water from a mock drowning, his body was bloated to what seemed like twice its normal size. And he cried out in pain when the soldiers dropped him unceremoniously onto a cot in the medical hut: Jamey soon discovered that two or three of Bonifacio’s ribs were broken, meaning that each breath he took continued the torture. This time Jamey quickly injected morphine, then was able to give him an emetic that helped Bonifacio expel the water. Jamey finally asked the soldiers what Bonifacio was doing there again. Oh, he escaped, one of the soldiers said. And it got “messy” when they recaptured him in the river. Jamey ordered the soldiers out of the hut so that Bonifacio could rest a bit without them hovering. As Bonifacio lay there, panting and groaning between bouts of water-vomiting, Jamey began to speak to him, quietly, in his barebones Spanish. “I have heard that you are a teacher.” Bonifacio could not answer but blinked his eyes in a way that Jamey understood to be an affirmation. “My wife trained to be a teacher,” Jamey added after a bit. Still Bonifacio did not speak. “But . . . I led her away from it . . . I think maybe that was a mistake.” Bonifacio tried to say something. Jamey leaned closer. “Used to be . . .” Bonifacio managed. “Used to be?” “Used to be . . . teacher. Not . . . anymore. School . . . blown up.” “Oh, you will be again, I am sure,” Jamey tried to console.

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Bonifacio closed his eyes, struggled with his labored breathing. Jamey thought he might have lost consciousness but when he bent to check, Bonifacio spoke again. “Your wife . . .” Jamey nodded, said, “Yes.” “Mine . . . they burned . . . in our house . . . with our children.” The effort to speak made Bonifacio pass out. Dumbstruck, sickened, Jamey nonetheless managed to strap Bonifacio’s ribs while he lay unconscious. Then he let Bonifacio rest, hoping to speak with him again when he woke. But after a few minutes the soldiers came back into the hut, saw that there was no treatment going on, and insisted on taking the prisoner away. Jamey objected, but the soldiers said those were their orders, then another prisoner was brought in, and Jamey had to treat this new patient, and he wasn’t sure of his position in the military hierarchy, and he wasn’t sure of his duty, and wasn’t sure what he thought, or what he should do. He wound up doing nothing, standing aside feebly while the soldiers grabbed Bonifacio, semiconscious and moaning pitiably, and carried him out. Whether recalling Jamey to the main field hospital was intended to assess his continuing fitness to treat interrogation subjects or was only to introduce him to adrenaline, Jamey never knew. A high-ranking army doctor had arrived from the US with what he termed an extremely exciting new pharmacologic agent. It was called adrenaline, and it was purely experimental; this doctor had only very limited quantities of the extract—the army had appropriated some of it from civilian scientists whose work it had been closely monitoring—and he didn’t know very much about it or how it worked. But work it did, he said. Spectacularly. The army had recently used the extract in experiments in the US, this doctor told Jamey, and it showed remarkable properties: it reduced swelling, improved heart rate, circulation, breathing, and muscle function, and slowed bleeding. It also stimulated alertness. And even seemed to improve memory. Its military utility seemed limitless, and the army was now trying it in the field. They’d had good success on a few wounded American soldiers, the doctor said, providing them with immediate, significant relief; he waved off Jamey’s query as to what, specifically, that relief had been. Now the army wanted to broaden the scientific inquiry by seeing how it worked with Filipino prisoners. The major in charge of interrogations at Jamey’s forward camp was also there for this introduction to the extract—Jamey had seen this man at the forward camp and knew who he was, but they’d had no direct contact—and he nodded at the army doctor’s directive that it now be used on prisoners. Jamey was not averse to adding something new to his therapeutic arsenal but, nonetheless, asked how using the extract on Filipino prisoners would “broaden” anything. “Well,” the doctor said, “these people are biologically different, aren’t they?” This doctor returned with Jamey to the forward camp, to administer the extract to prisoners and to observe its effect. Because of its extremely limited

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supply, however, he established a protocol that it should be used only on the most important Flip-1 s. For three days the senior doctor waited, but the interrogators brought in no one who fit the profile, and the doctor had to return to Manila and then to the States. So he instructed Jamey on how to use the adrenaline and what physiological responses to it Jamey was supposed to monitor and record. He specially emphasized that because of its limited quantity, the stuff was to be used only on the most important Flip-1 prisoners, as determined by the interrogators. Jamey didn’t like the idea of parceling out a treatment on the basis of anything other than medical need, but he decided that the army’s logic wasn’t entirely invidious— that is, given the limited supply, relief for one human is just as righteous as for any other—and so he raised no objection. Two days later, a couple of young soldiers brought in Bonifacio again. One eye was bloody and nearly closed. He was bleeding from his ear. And his bare feet were so swollen and multicolored that they looked like some kind of tropical melons. There was no sign of his eyeglasses. Jamey was stunned to see him back again. A third time. And stunned at his injuries. Though he’d seen other prisoners in similarly dire condition, this somehow felt more brutal, more three-dimensional, perhaps because he knew Bonifacio’s name, knew something about him. Had spoken with him about his life. Had even mentioned Kate. Jamey tried to speak to him now but Bonifacio was delirious and did not respond. So Jamey just softly called his name over and over— “Senor Bonifacio. Profesor. Profesor Bonifacio”—as he checked his body, listening to his heart and lungs and cataloguing his myriad injuries. When Bonifacio went completely quiet for a moment, one of the soldiers stepped forward and used his baton to nudge Bonifacio’s gargantuan feet; the shock of pain jolted Bonifacio awake. “What are you doing?!” Jamey barked. “He needs to stay awake,” the guard replied. “No sleep, that’s the whole idea.” The major in charge of interrogations stepped into the hut. “We’re losing him,” he said to Jamey. “I don’t know,” Jamey said, bending to Bonifacio and listening to his heart and breathing. “I don’t know his condition yet.” “Well I do. I know these things. He’s right on the edge.” “Alright, let me look at him. Let me figure this out.” “No, there’s no time. We have him just right. The point when they say things and don’t realize. But we might lose him. So give him the juice. The special juice.” “The what?” “The juice! The ’dren’lin. Now’s the perfect time.” Jamey had almost forgotten about the adrenaline. He looked again at Bonifacio and realized that the major was right, they were likely to lose him, and yes, of course, he quickly decided, who should be saved by the magic elixir if not Bonifacio? He retrieved a vial of the adrenaline from the cool box and prepared an

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injection. The doctor who’d explained the drug’s administration had not wanted to waste any of the precious substance in a demonstration, so Jamey wasn’t sure exactly how the material would respond to the injection needle or how much to use. Another look at Bonifacio, though, convinced Jamey not to delay, so he filled the syringe and injected it into Bonifacio’s thigh, as the senior doctor had directed. In less than a minute, Bonifacio began to stir. An eyelid fluttered, his mouth opened for breath, and his limbs shifted slightly. Jamey listened to his chest again and was amazed to hear a stronger heartbeat and deeper respiration. After another minute, Bonifacio opened the one undamaged eye and looked around him. He seemed to register Jamey; Bonifacio kept his gaze on him for several seconds. But then he saw the interrogator and gasped and jerked involuntarily. Jamey put his hands gently on Bonifacio’s arm. “Don’t try to move. I’ve given you some special medicine. It should make you feel better right away.” The interrogator gestured for the two soldiers to move forward. “Sit him up.” “Wait, wait. Leave him be,” Jamey interjected. “Leave him be? Not the point.” He nodded to the soldiers and they pulled Bonifacio to a sitting position. The major and Jamey both stared at Bonifacio, who was clearly more alert than when they’d brought him in a few minutes before. “Good, good. This stuff!” the major said. “Amazing. Alright, let’s get him back,” he said to the soldiers. “Back?” Jamey interjected. “Yeah. What did you think?” “He’s in no condition...” “Yes, he’s in exactly the condition. Right on the edge. They can’t keep track of what they say, and shit slips out.” He nodded to the soldiers who pulled Bonifacio to a standing position. When his massively swollen feet touched the floor, he let out a howl. Jamey thought of one of the standing orders of military medicine he’d seen—it was included in a handout sheet he’d received during his basic army training, though no one had adverted to it at the time, or since—which said that medical decisions were to be made by the highest-ranking medical officer on site, not by operational officers. “But he’s my patient,” he said. “Not any more he’s not . . . captain.” The major’s reference to their relative ranks was clear enough. As was his hulking form, and that of his two other soldiers. Jamey didn’t know how to respond. Or couldn’t decide to. And said nothing more as the soldiers carried Bonifacio out of the hut, followed by the major. Jamey paced, wondering what he was doing, what he wasn’t doing, what he

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could be doing. After half an hour or so, one of the soldiers who’d transported Bonifacio came rushing into the hut. “Major says to come. And bring more juice.” “Come? Come where?” “Our place. Right now.” “What do you mean, your place?” “Major says now!” Jamey hesitated. “Hey, you want to save the guy, don’t you?. . . Captain?” Jamey grabbed his medical kit and another vial of the adrenaline and followed the soldier out of the hut. They hurried across the wide field that had been cleared of trees and underbrush, past the open stockades where hundreds of Filipino prisoners were kept, and toward a large tent erected fifty yards or so within a dense Eucalyptus grove. Two guards with ready rifles stood outside. Jamey followed the soldier into the tent. Bonifacio was sitting on a small wooden chair, straps around his legs and torso keeping him upright. The dirt floor around the chair was dark with liquid. The major stood over Bonifacio, speaking to him in Spanish, though Jamey couldn’t make out what he was saying. Bonifacio’s head, sunk into his chest, jerked upward when the major lightly touched his swollen bare foot, but then immediately sunk down again. “No, no, no sleeping, professor,” the major said in Spanish and poked the foot again, but this time Bonifacio’s head barely raised an inch or two. “Come on, now, we’ve got to keep talking, you’re doing so well.” The major turned while saying “Where the fuck is . . . ?” then saw Jamey standing just inside the tent. “Good, good. The juice, doc.” Jamey stood there, didn’t move. “C’mon man, hop to it!” “No sleeping?” Jamey said. “Why no sleeping?” “Why? That’s what we do, that’s why!” Jamey remained where he was. Even inched away. “Look at him,” the major changed tack, speaking in a quieter register. “If he goes to sleep, he might not wake up. And you don’t want to lose him, do you? ... Course not. He’s your patient, isn’t he? So the juice, man, give him the juice. You saw how it brought him back before. So give him a chance. To live.” Like a sleepwalker, Jamey moved forward, knelt down in front of Bonifacio, took his pulse. It was barely detectable. The major used his boot to stub Bonifacio’s foot; Bonifacio’s body jerked, but barely. “C’mon man!” he said to Jamey. “It’s his life!” Jamey’s head was spinning. The sight and fetid smell of Bonifacio reached some place in Jamey beyond his medical training, told him that saving Bonifacio’s life was not the only thing going on here. But his commitment and



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instincts for doctoring were strong, so he prepared the adrenaline and forced it into Bonifacio’s thigh. Within a few seconds Bonifacio began to stir. Jamey and the major watched him carefully. After a few more seconds his good eye opened half-way. And he began to mumble. “Good,” the major said. “Used to be . . . ” Jamey could make out some of Bonifacio’s words. “Okay, good work,” the major said to Jamey and started to edge him out of the way. “Wait, wait,” Jamey said, and then in Spanish to Bonifacio, leaning closer, “What are you saying?” “Used to be . . . a teacher.” “Yes, yes, professor, you told me. I know.” “And you . . .” Bonifacio fixed his eye on Jamey, just inches away, “used to be . . . a doctor.” Jamey jerked upright. Backed away. Barely heard whatever it was that the major said. Stumbled out of the tent. And somehow found himself again in his own hut. He was still holding his medical kit; he threw it violently against the wall. Then he turned round and round the hut, trying to locate something to grab onto, to hold, something that would make sense. There was nothing. Eventually he lay down on his cot. But whether he closed his eyes or opened them, there was Bonifacio’s face, inches away, his swollen lips moving. At some point, one of the guards entered the hut and said something to Jamey about returning to the interrogation tent, about bringing more adrenaline, but Jamey didn’t even turn his head to look at him. Late that night, soldiers found Jamey wandering the camp, outside the prisoners’ stockade. As they escorted him back to his hut, they told him that he’d been mumbling in Spanish. When he sat down again on his cot, he found that he was weeping. Someone brought whiskey. He drained a large cupful. Didn’t feel it. The major entered soon after. “Good job, doc. Near the end, we got something. Could be very useful.” It took Jamey some time to respond: “The end?” “Well, yeah. You knew he was close, right?” “But . . . the adrenaline. It . . . really worked. His heart, his lungs . . . I heard them.” “Oh. Sure. But it only lasts for an hour or so. A very useful hour. Then it wears off. Didn’t you know? Didn’t they tell you?”

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C H A R L O T T E

M E W

Three Poems The Trees are Down —and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees— Revelation They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of the gardens. For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of the branches as they fall, The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves, With the “Whoops” and the “Whoas,” the loud common talk, the loud common laughs of the men, above it all. I remember one evening of a long past Spring Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding a large dead rat in the mud of the drive. I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a god-forsaken thing, But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive. The week’s work here is as good as done. There is just one bough    On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,              Green and high              And lonely against the sky.                    (Down now!—)              And but for that,                 If an old dead rat Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never have thought of him again. It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day; These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem: When the men with the “Whoops” and the “Whoas” have carted the whole of the whispering loveliness away Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.

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It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the hearts of the planes; Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,                 In the March wind, the May breeze, In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.              There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;              They must have heard the sparrows flying,    And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying—              But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:              “Hurt not the trees.”

THE ROAD TO KÉRITY Do you remember the two old people we passed on the road to Kérity, Resting their sack on the stones, by the drenched wayside, Looking at us with their lightless eyes through the driving rain, and then out again, To the rocks, and the long white line of the tide: Frozen ghosts that were children once, husband and wife, father and mother, Looking at us with those frozen eyes; have you ever seen anything quite so chilled or so old? But we—with our arms about each other, We did not feel the cold!

The Farmer’s Bride      Three summers since I chose a maid,      Too young maybe—but more’s to do      At harvest-time than bide and woo.               When us was wed she turned afraid      Of love and me and all things human;      Like the shut of a winter’s day      Her smile went out, and ’twadn’t a woman—             More like a little frightened fay.                     One night, in the Fall, she runned away.      “Out ’mong the sheep, her be,” they said,      Should properly have been abed;      But sure enough she wadn’t there      Lying awake with her wide brown stare. So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down      We chased her, flying like a hare      Before our lanterns. To Church-Town               All in a shiver and a scare

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     We caught her, fetched her home at last               And turned the key upon her, fast.      She does the work about the house      As well as most, but like a mouse:               Happy enough to chat and play               With birds and rabbits and such as they,               So long as men-folk keep away.      “Not near, not near!” her eyes beseech      When one of us comes within reach.               The women say that beasts in stall               Look round like children at her call.               I’ve hardly heard her speak at all.      Shy as a leveret, swift as he,      Straight and slight as a young larch tree,      Sweet as the first wild violets, she,      To her wild self. But what to me?      The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,               The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,      One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,               A magpie’s spotted feathers lie      On the black earth spread white with rime,      The berries redden up to Christmas-time.               What’s Christmas-time without there be               Some other in the house than we!          She sleeps up in the attic there               Alone, poor maid. ’Tis but a stair      Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,      The soft young down of her, the brown, The brown of her—her eyes, her hair, her hair!



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A N N

P A N C A K E

Crow Season Seems I dreamed it several times before. Me wandering a hollow, branching into hollow, branching into hollow. Dream my shoulders passing through that up and down land, and the dead leaves, snake-skin dry and slippery. Ground up over my head (the way you’re in land over your head). And the sudden reek of dead animal, but you can’t see the carcass except for the crows. Hollow, branching into hollow, branching into hollow. Until it all closes up in a draw, and there are no more hollows. *** I heard it in Ranson the morning after. What my youngest uncle’s youngest boy had done. When I got off work, I ate a can of chili and sat on my porch, deciding. Then I drove down to the homeplace to see if I could help. *** I call out from the back door, then let myself into a kitchen odored of tuna cans and old smoke. Soiled dishes stacked. My uncle eats from a McDonald’s bag, and he is odored, too, unbathed, unshaved. He eats from the bag furtive, as though it is a sin. —Ravelle never could control that boy. He speaks of his second wife, the boy’s mother, who has left him now. I just nod, like I tend to do. —I knew he’d done some looting up in there. I found a few bottles. But I didn’t know he was selling it to other kids. I nod again. Through the window behind my uncle, everything’s coming up thistle and chicory and Queen Anne’s lace, weeds that thrive on a drought. No difference between yard and pasture, no difference between pasture and field. Under a dead apple tree, a big dog feeds from a loose refrigerator drawer. I’m thinking. Although I’m not sure, I figure Vincent’ll be in one of two places. Not too many hiding places back in the mountain with any water to speak of in this kind of dry. —I was never moved to do much about it. I look from the window back to his face.

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—The looting, I mean. Hell, far as I’m concerned, underneath up there will always be ours. —Underneath Joby Knob, I say. —Hell, yeah, Joby Knob. He works a piece of gristle out of his teeth. How was I supposed to know how hard those people are? He shakes his head. People hard enough to poison liquor to teach a child thief a lesson. *** I pick the Heplinger Place first, and I choose to walk. And not only because the truck motor will give Vincent warning and make him run. The deer paths in the hollows have been beaten big as cattle crossings, with the size of the herds now and the terrible drought. I place my feet careful, watching for every stick to move. Snakes’ll come out of the high places in dries like this, I hear my father. The drought has shrunk all the creeks into a few holes, and the earth around these holes, punched solid with deer tracks. Most of this land would have been my inheritance, and I grew up hunting it, cutting wood off it, running it. I know it better than anyone still living, including the man who owns it now. Never have I seen it so tired, with the deer paths wide as cattle runs up and down the hollow sides, and acornless ground. And the deer themselves, gaunt and puny and sorrowed. Quivering under their flies. *** From where I sat in the kitchen, I could see behind the stove a ripped sleeping bag where the dog must stay. Unbaited mousetraps scattered in corners. My father and uncles grew up in this house, their father and grandfather, too. I’d been told there were rooms upstairs now where you could see sky. But I hadn’t climbed to the second story in twenty years. —You know they say the Haslacker boy may or may not live. The one he sold the bottle to. I nodded. —Vincent has Knob inside him. It’s not a matter of who holds the paper. You know that. The oven door was open to where I could see burnt cheese all over its bottom. Although my uncle sacrificed the house upkeep to save the land, he had to sell off anyway, including Joby Knob. —Well, either you know better than any of us it’s not a matter of who holds the paper. Or you don’t know it at all. I looked at the man across the table. There was a darkness in my uncle. I used not to fear him when I was younger, but the darkness had come in him, and I feared him now. The anger hardening some place in his body. Where eventually it would crack loose and bolt to his brain. ***



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I angle to the right, a hollow branching off the Shingle Hollow, a shortcut to the Heplinger Place. A leaf layer sprouts feet, takes on substance, weight. A fawn flushing. This was a road at one time, but I can only see road if I unfocus my eyes. The Heplinger Place is a little bigger than the Further House, the other spot Vincent might be. The last people to live here were bark strippers with two daughters, one crippled by a gun, but they all four died of typhoid not long after the turn of the century. At least that’s what my father always said. But he was known to make things up. I scout around the rubble of house and barn, find a litter of shotgun shells, a Snickers wrapper from last fall. And then the old stuff, metal and stone. A harness buckle. A barrel stave. No sign Vincent has been through. Just as I’m about to leave, I hear behind me a peculiar misplaced sound. Wavery, and I stop to listen harder. A cat noise, I’m thinking, but crossed with something wild. I turn slowly in a circle, the dry sky turning overhead, and I understand it comes from the old bad well. I listen. A crow throats from a hickory tree. Typhoid, I remember, and all of them dead, and I know inside me a wrongness and grief out of all proportion to common sense. I can’t see where the well was, buried in dead leaves, but I remember stumbling over it several times in the past. I listen. The well mewls again. A hot dry wind rattles through, a wind doesn’t belong here. A Western wind, I call it. I hear my father say this so clear I wonder for a second if he’s in that well, too. I trace the mewling to the rotty cover. I squat over it, clear away the leaves. Then I break off a soft board and peer inside. The moment the sun falls through, two eyes flash a flat green. Then they go out. I stare harder, but the creature’s shrunk from the light. It does not sound again. Something curls inside me. The dry has drawn it into the well, and there it starves and won’t ever get out. And me the last thing to see it, and I can’t even tell what it is. *** Not many weeks ago, I drove up on Joby Knob myself, ignoring the “Posted.” It is a foreign place to me now. The developers renamed it Misty Mountain Estates, acre clearings of new houses built to look old. Each lot is armored with a security system and warning signs, and that Vincent even managed to break into one of these places I can’t help but admire. A different kind of hunting. Rows of second homes on a clear-cut ridge, up here where no oldtimer would ever build. Those old-timers built in the bottoms and the hollows (again, my father), out of the wind and near water. As I rode along the smoothgraded gravel road, I squinted to find the good crossing place, where I’d shot a big-bodied eight-point when I was seventeen or so. But near as I could tell, the crossing ran straight through a kit log cabin. And the feel of moving among all those new vacation houses, yet not a soul around. The houses creating an

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expectation of presence, then their emptiness sucking that expectation inside out. So much emptier on Joby Knob now than when it was just trees. Back before, we’d drive to the power cut to see off. Now you can see off anywhere, but I went to the power cut that day. I leaned against the grill of my truck and looked up and down the valley, several miles in both directions. The drought-stricken trees turning already, even though it was July. The darkness in my father, too, would wax and wane. He’d have me convinced he’d finally gone pure mean, then he’d do me something kind. He never let me find my footing there. But I learned. I learned I’d never care about anything so much the loss of it would turn me dark. I climbed into the bed of my truck where I could get a better view and looked out over the cab. The way the land lays in here looks more like a human body than any land I’ve ever seen, pictures or real. And I often wonder if that’s the reason for the hold it has on us. *** As I pass back through the Deep Hollow to where I’ll pick up the jeep track to the Further House, I hear a truck motor. I stop and wait. It is several minutes, and the flies find me good, before I see my uncle’s truck. He leans his head and his arm through the window. —I got news you can give him that might flush him out. *** The night before, he’d spoken of my father. Though not directly. He’d talked of the strokes, that family vulnerability: his mother, his brother, his father, mine. He spoke not for the loss of them, I knew, but out of fear for himself. Fear of his own blood drying inside him. Making a seed. He spoke like a drunk man, and I wish that was so. But didn’t none of them drink. They could crazy themselves on air. I watched my uncle scratch the insides of his arms, and I wondered if he felt the clotting under his skin. *** As I climb the jeep track towards the Further House, I wonder from which house Vincent stole the liquor. I picture Joby Knob in my head. One place has an observatory, of all things, another a swimming pool. And one a burglar alarm so sensitive it goes off every time it thunderstorms and I can hear it all the way down to my house. Then I try to imagine the weekenders who did it. I imagine. To poison your own liquor to catch the boy who stole from you. I finally come up over the last ridge and creep out on a shale point where I can spy down into the flat. I right away see the boy’s tarp rigged in a corner of the stone foundation. I let a little shale spill off the bank under my boots to make him look. His face upturns, sooty, smoky. Peering up at me. Him on his haunches and hands like a dog. “Vincent. Vincent Keadle,” I call. “Come on out of there.”



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Then I can’t see him, but I hear him break away through the brush and scramble up the far bank, his tennis shoes slipping in the barrens. Him, again, I know on his haunches and hands. “Vincent,” I call after him. “They say the boy is going to live.” *** Let me tell you this. I was a few years older than Vincent Keadle when we lost all but the thirty acres down around the house. My father left with his hunting rifle, and this was late spring, the season for nothing. He took the truck, so I had to walk, but he abandoned it a half mile up the Deep Hollow, and the ground was wet, him easy to track. Hollow branching into hollow, and me mounting up, hollow, into draw, into crease, until I’d top a ridge, catch my breath, slide to the bottom and start again. And, yes, I was thinking, what if he shoots me. But I tell myself (I tell myself) I worried more for him. When I got close enough to glimpse his red coat, I trailed at a distance until he staggered to a stop. Then I snuck over the leaves, them muted with the wet, and hid in the catface of a fire-scarred oak. There I watched him load it, and I knew it was my place to dart out and wrestle it away. But I did not. I squatted in that catface, pressed so tight against the bark it left scratches in my cheek. Saw my father raise the gun, snug the stock against his shoulder, pause and look around. Then I watched him fire in the ground. Empty and empty it into lost ground. *** —Sometimes it’s hard to look at you, boy. My uncle balled up his McDonald’s bag and pitched it to the end of the table with the other trash, mostly unopened mail. I studied the empty blood-thinner bottles rowed up in the sill. —I used to think you were weak, he told me. But anymore. Anymore I wonder if you’re the only one of all you kids was born with any sense. He leaned in closer to me. Gouged, his eyes looked, in that beginning-toget-dark. —Probably not, he said. *** I grew up in it. Forever, the mutter and drone. The anxiety, the obsession, the fear, the fights: the farm, the money, the family, the past. Years ago, I made my decision. I sold off my inheritance except an acre. *** By the time I get all the way back to the paved road, Vincent sits with his head bowed in his father’s truck. I catch my uncle’s eye in his side mirror. He nods at me, then looks away, but he doesn’t look at Vincent either. I walk a quarter mile of asphalt to where I left my own truck, climb in, and drive the last mile home.

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I keep no mirrors in my place. I tell what I look like in others’ faces, me make-them-gasp identical. I know that I’ve grown into a ghost. Carrying in my face, in how my body’s hung together, in how I speak and move, the man who died and made me take over the looks of him. But I’m used to my outsides. What scares me is if it’s printed on my insides, too. I wait here on my single acre. I hoe my garden. I water the trees.



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T E R E S E

S V O B O D A

Four Poems alphabet Portraits of graduates line the room, even the children of the second wife, even her! as dead as your husband. He was taken and beaten—governor at last—at last released but falling to the ground, your son putting a phone to his head. You were in Egypt, in exile, safe. All he said was A-B-C-D, what men repeat during torture so they reveal nothing, or to bear it without screaming, or remembering how they learned the alphabet under a tree, with the flies thick and the good smell of milk on their hands. A-B-C-D, you say over tea. Have a biscuit? I helped you cook long ago, crosslegged on cement in a soot-black kitchen open to the sky. In the yard, a circle of chairs, your husband pouring the scotch of some aid worker wanting some permission. When kerosene half-lit their faces, the speeches began. Ret tried to hush them, but they went on and on into the absolute black of the Sudanese night, democracy off-stage, just a little beyond.

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thanksgiving “Stuplimity,” a mash-up of “stupefaction” and “the sublime,” is a state of paralysis or pessimistic stupor by the sheer, iterated Sianne Ngai monstrosity of the situation. It is turkey weekend, days after the U.N. declared bio-diversity officially over. You and your brother say we have a couple of decades left. I will be dead, perhaps naturally, whatever that means. But you do nothing: you do not protest, knock on doors, or welcome refugees or count the last few birds. Black Friday, the color of our next morning, I sign you up for an urban survival class, a go-pack, a map, the deer not in headlights but butchered in some hand-wrought slaughter. No lunch was skipped in your upbringing, no movie unseen, the few clothes you wanted you wore, even the tux at a hilarious age. All of this, like the inverted V of the few geese left, will fly off, comfort after comfort, into the shriek of sirens, the water graying with filth, the tick of radiation counting your life in half amid mobs of real want. One branch of the family is pioneer, the other pilgrim. Adversity has shaped our courage. Let some surprised Jeremiah rise out of your lassitude, coded deep, just needing a jolt of desperation. You know, Jeremiah, the weeping prophet? The one who condemned his people for burning their children as offerings to god, who prophesied the end of Jerusalem. For him we give thanks.



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forty-the-roy A period of forty days in medieval times when it was forbidden to attack the nearest relatives of the offender. While the lord readies the slaughter, it’s a game of Safe, where ancient aunties pack the armoire or negotiate or marry out, your grandma fixes up crackers and cheese for the car, and twelve cousins find an ally in an alley and fight back to steal you away from the oubliette. You’re in custody, you’re wearing that orange suit and already eat crap you can’t swallow. Because of love or just blood, everyone else who showed up for your party is guilty and have only forty days to paint hash marks over their faces to avoid Exit. The drones over your house stay noisy on pause, your kids play ball and the wife walks the dog for now. Then the lord has all this tedious killing to do, every excess gene threatening his next generation. What about Uncle Harry? You never even spoke to him. He’s eating the bones of your poached whatever animal, found in the lord’s trash that is always his to burn, which is his, burning, until you, in your loud outfit that will stink of chemicals the second you’re torched, your ankles cuffed and your fingertips blue with incriminating ink, you say: Fine, let’s begin.

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caned A stick, pared clean—no, a silver-topped bamboo-with-dagger, class doubling as club, the advantage of gravity lifted high  overcoming the disadvantage of poking ahead. He demurs. Weakness either way. A man should crush opponents with a word. Naive, I muse, at your age. A cane replaces the sole’s sensors, bolsters them.  Balance is a matter for the unbalanced,  he says, all nuance, accusing me, Lear-lover, of too much. The earth is now close, I tell him. A sharp look. I’ll walk, he says, without.



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W A L T E R

F .

W H I T E

Election Day in Florida Walter F. White helped establish the Atlanta branch of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. He later became NAACP’s executive director. He investigated forty-one lynchings and eight race riots for various newspapers, including The Crisis, NAACP’s magazine, in which this January 1921 article appeared. f.s. An unknown number of dead, men of property and standing, forced to leave their homes and families under threat of death; thousands of qualified voters debarred from casting their ballots—these constitute a portion of the results of the elections of 1920 in the state of Florida. To that list might well be added an increased bitterness on the part of both white and colored people towards each other and another black mark entered in the books of colored people against the whites for what the former had to suffer. It is not possible to write of race relations in the South today without giving due prominence to the revival of that sinister organization, the Ku Klux Klan. There is hardly a town or community to be found which does not have its branch. Certain it is that wherever one goes in the South one hears of the “Klucks” and what that order is going to do to maintain “white supremacy.” Clothed in great secrecy and hinting of dire things to come, the pretensions of the noble “protectors of Southern womanhood” would be ludicrous were it not for the vicious deeds already performed by branches in some of the smaller towns and rural communities. If one looks at the Ku Klux Klan solely from the viewpoint of the larger cities of the South like Jacksonville, Atlanta, and Birmingham where the Negro population is concentrated in certain sections, the efforts of the Klan are pathetically amusing and are treated as such by colored people. Forty years ago when the original Ku Klux Klan did effective work in terrorizing, murdering, and pillaging the Negroes of the South it was dealing with four million recently emancipated slaves with all of the characteristics following in the wake of two and a half centuries of human bondage. They were ignorant, superstitious, easily frightened, poorly organized, distrustful of each other, and still believing that they were inferior to white men. It was a comparatively simple matter to envelop the Klan with a cloak of supernatural power and to send a colored man shivering to cover until a parade had passed.

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Today, however, the setting is changed. A new generation of Negroes has arisen with thousands of university, college, high school, and grammar school graduates among them; possessing property and the respect for self that accompanies such possessions. I have talked with many Negroes and with many white men in the South. I have found a far higher order of intelligence among Negroes than among whites, when one compares the two races grade for grade. In regard to the Klan, even the uneducated Negro looks upon it with amused contempt. His white brother, in most cases, cherishes a fatuous belief common to provincial and circumscribed minds that terroristic methods will be efficacious in “keeping the nigger in his place.” In Jacksonville, for example, a parade of the local Klan was held on Saturday night, October 30. Large numbers of colored people turned out to view the parade. One old colored woman of the antebellum type that is fast disappearing, called out derisively to the marching Klucks: “White folks, you ain’t done nothing. Them German guns didn’t scare us and I know them white faces ain’t goin’ to do it now.” That remark epitomizes the feeling. Phrased in better English, it likewise expresses the sentiment among the larger number of educated colored citizens of Jacksonville. But beneath the amused tolerance there is a grim realization that the Klan will not spend its energy in marching—that the sinister purposes of the movement betoken no good to colored people. Negroes are prepared for trouble in every part of the South where I have been. They realize that they are out numbered and out armed and that death is the inevitable fate of many if clashes come. The situation in the smaller towns and isolated rural communities where the Negro population is widely scattered is of a more serious nature. There the Klans can wreak their vengeance on any Negro who dares offend them by being too prosperous or being suspected of some crime, great or small, or by incurring the displeasure of any white man of the community. This vengeance extends to white men who offend some loyal member of a Klan or who dare to show too great a friendliness for Negroes—whether for selfish or other motives. It is not considered improper but just the contrary for a white man or boy to debauch or consort with a colored woman, but no white man can treat a Negro as an equal. As a case in point read a Klan warning sent to a prominent white lawyer of a Florida town who advised Negroes to qualify, register, and vote in the recent election. It reads: We have been informed that you have been telling Negroes to register, explaining to them how to become citizens and how to assert their rights. If you know the history of reconstruction days following the Civil War, you know how the “scalawags” of the North and the black republicans of the South did much as you are doing to instill into the Negro the idea of social equality. You will remember that these things forced the loyal citizens of the South to form clans of determined men to maintain white supremacy and to safeguard our women and children.



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And now you know that history repeats itself and that he who resorts to your kind of a game is handling edged tools. We shall always enjoy WHITE SUPREMACY in this country and he who interferes must face the consequences. GRAND MASTER FLORIDA KU KLUX Copy Local Ku Klux Watch this man

An example of what can be done and what has been done in a small town is the election riot at Ocoee, Orange County, Florida. For weeks before November 2, word had been sent to the Negroes that no colored man would be allowed to vote. The statement was emphasized with the threat that any Negro attempting to cast his ballot would be severely punished. One colored man disregarded the warning. He was the most prominent man in his community, owned a large orange grove worth more than ten thousand dollars, his own home, and an automobile. He had always borne the reputation of being a safe and sane leader among his people and had never been involved in trouble of any kind. And therein lay his unpopularity. He was too prosperous—“for a nigger.” He, Mose Norman, attempted to vote. He was beaten severely and ordered to go home. The press reports stated later that he had not paid his poll tax nor had he registered. On this point and the succeeding events, may I quote the statement of a white man of the town who said: he was denied upon the ground that he had not paid his poll tax, when, as a matter of fact; the records of this county (if they have not been doctored since) will show that he had paid his tax. The press claimed that he made a threat that he was going home to get his gun, and see that he did vote. I do not believe that anyone, situated as he was, would have been foolhardy enough to make such a threat. After the polls closed, a number of armed men went to his. house without a warrant and without authority of law as is claimed by those approving their action, to arrest this Negro. Two white men were shot in the Negro’s backyard. From that time on for three days the community ran riot. I do not believe it will ever be known how many Negroes were killed. Every Negro home, schoolhouse, church, and lodge-room in that community was burned, in some instances with women and children occupying the houses, and thus burned to death . . . The foregoing is a fair sample of conditions which exist in most parts of the state.

The story is essentially as told above. When Norman left the polls he went to the home of July Perry, another colored man, who likewise was unpopular with the whites in that he was foreman of a large orange grove owned by a white man living in New England—a job which the community felt was too good for a Negro. When the mob attacked the colored community, the colored people fought in self-defense, killing two white men and wounding two, according to news accounts. Citizens of t he town told me that eight or ten whites were killed but that they could not allow the information to become known, fearing the effect on the colored population. However, the mob surrounded the settlement, set fire to it, shot down or forced back into the flames colored men, women and children who attempted to flee. The number murdered will probably never be 96

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known. The figures generally given varied from thirty-two to thirty-five. One lean, lanky, and vicious looking white citizen of Ocoee of whom I asked the number of dead, replied: “I don’t know exactly but I know fifty-six niggers were killed. I killed seventeen myself.” Whatever the number, two of those known to have died, were a colored mother and her two-weeks-old infant. Before the ashes of the burned houses had cooled, eager members of the mob rushed in and sought gleefully the charred bones of the victims as souvenirs. As I stood on the spot approximately seventy-two hours following the slaughter, the remains looked as though someone had gone over them with a fine­toothed comb. An amazing aftermath of the occurrence was the attitude of the white inhabitants of Orange County. Talking with numbers of them, the opinion of the majority seemed to be that nothing unusual had taken place—that the white people had acquit ted themselves rather meritoriously in checking unholy and presumptuous ambitions of Negroes in attempting to vote. Even the white children of Ocoee felt that an event similar in enjoyment to a circus had taken place. One bright-faced and alert girl of eleven, when asked what had occurred, told happily of how “we had some fun burning up some niggers.” There was no thought of horror at the deed—it was accepted as a matter of course. Some of the methods used in the smaller towns in eliminating the Negro vote and particularly the colored-woman vote were unique. In Orange and Osceola counties, a colored woman would attempt to register; on being asked her age, for example, she would say twenty-four. She would then be asked the year in which she was born. Many of them being illiterate, would not know. The registrar would then probably say, “If you are twenty-four, you were born in 1892, weren’t you?” The applicant, seeking to get the ordeal over, would reply in the affirmative. Before she had been away from the place very long a warrant for perjury had been sworn out against her and she had been arrested. I found many cases equally as flagrant where Negro women had been imprisoned for such “offenses” as these. In the same manner men would be intimidated and threatened. A white lawyer told me laughingly of how a Negro would approach a registration booth in his county, Orange, and ask if he could register. The officials there, in most cases of the poorer order of whites, would reply, “Oh, yes, you can register, but I want to tell you something. Some god-damn black **** is going to get killed about this voting business yet.” In Quincy, Gadsden County, the leading colored man of the town, a physician, owner of a drugstore and other property including an excellent home, on election day was surrounded as he approached the polling booth to cast his ballot, by a crowd who spat in his face and dared him to wipe his face. His “crime” was that of advising colored men and women to register and vote. He has since been ordered to get out of the town but remains—determined to die rather than submit. He has always been a good citizen and highly respected by both white and colored people. Two brothers of Live Oak, Suwanee County—who also were good citizens,

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prosperous, and the owners of a large merchandise business—were called from their homes two weeks before election day, beaten almost to death, and ordered to leave town immediately for the same offense of urging Negroes to vote. One has gone; the other lies at the point of death from a stroke of paralysis brought on by the beating. Nor are these isolated cases but rather are they typical of what took place in many parts of the state. The West Palm Beach Post of October 30 carried an article with the significant statement, “Sheriff R. C. Baker will have several deputy sheriffs at the polls to arrest black violators of the election laws as fast as they appear and ask for ballots.” The inference is that only Negroes violated the election laws, while it is generally known that white Democratic voters openly carried memoranda into the booths, which is directly contrary to law. Only Negro Republicans were arrested for this violation. In Jacksonville, where Negroes form slightly more than half of the population of 90,000, the situation was different. In spite of parades of the Ku Klux Klan, vicious newspaper propaganda designed to intimidate Negro voters, and the announcement two days before election that 4,000 warrants had been sworn out in blank form for the arrest of Negroes, the colored vote turned out en masse. Most of the colored people live in the second, sixth, seventh, and eighth wards. An active campaign was carried on after the passage of the suffrage amendment, which resulted in the registration of more colored than white women in all four of the wards. Frantic stories threatening domination by “Negro washer women and cooks” failed to bring out the white women to register. To the number of women was added the large registration of men, white and colored, in the spring of 1920. Yet, in the second, seventh, and eighth wards the total vote did not equal the registration of colored women alone, while in the sixth ward the total number of votes cast was only a few more than the number of women, white and colored, registered. Every possible effort was made to hamper the voting of Negroes. The polling places were arranged with four entrances—one each for white women, white men, colored women, and colored men. No delay was caused to white voters. More than four thousand colored men and women, whose names, addresses, and registration certificate numbers are in the hands of responsible colored citizens of Jacksonville, stood in line from 8:00 a.m., the hour of opening, to 5:40 p.m., the hour of closing the polls, and were not allowed to vote. Unless the problem of the ballot is solved, either through reduction of Southern representation, a force bill or by some other means, and the entire problem of race relations solved through clear thinking and just dealing, our race riots and similar disturbances are just beginning. This may sound pessimistic and as though the problem were viewed only from the standpoint of an alarmist. That is not the case. It is based upon the innermost feelings and thoughts of twelve million Americans who seek to be free.

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Buddhist monks display antiRohingya and anti-UN banners at a demonstration in Sittwe. © Greg Constantine 2014

A L O K

B H A L L A

Stand by Me: Song of a Farmer Rich courtiers stand with them Stand with them behind brick walls Stand with them behind barbed wires Stand with them behind police batons

Prophets and seers stand by me Ravidas, Kabir, and Farid stand by me Nanak Shah Fakir stands by me Namdev and Dhanna know me and stand by me, stand by me they honor me, they stand by me the plow and the furrow stand by me the mud-baked hearth and kindling wood stand by me the clod and the pebble stand by me the stalk of wheat, the grain of rice stand by me the shadows of trees and the green of leaves stand by me

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Their words are stone their tongues are brass their laws are golden bars

my needs are as radical as roots my songs are artless and unarmed my creeds are rough and windblown come stand by me stand by me



my hands carry maps of sunlight my eyes complete the flight of birds come stand by me stand by me

stand by me till the rains fall come stand by me stand by me come stand by me till the rains fall

inspired by a poem by Surjit Patar in Punjabi



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A J E E T

C O U R

Dead End The darkness outside was dense and impenetrable. Only the howling of dogs ripped across the dark shroud of the night. I was unable to sleep. Ever since my brother Kewal was murdered, sleep had eluded both of us—me and my mother, who was numb with grief. But we both pretended that we were sleeping, so that the other should keep her eyes closed. Sleep sometimes quietly slips into closed eyes, they say. They think my brother was killed by extremists and terrorists. I have no idea. He had never hurt anybody. Why should anyone kill him? Actually it was difficult to say who murdered him. Extremists, terrorists, or anybody else. How long does it take to kill a human being anyway? It takes months for a human form to take shape in the mother’s womb. It then takes years to bring him up. The longest any living being takes to grow up is the human child. And then, just one metal bullet piercing the body, and everything is over in a fraction of a second. Like a full-blown balloon pierced with the tip of a pin. After all a human being is a fragile thing walking on two legs, breathing, with his heart beating rhythmically inside the rib cage. Just pierce him with one bullet, and the blood spurts out. What is left is a dead body. Just a handful of dust!  Everybody waits impatiently to take the body to the crematorium. ‘It is just mitti, a handful of dust. Send it to its destination. Why delay?’—that’s what everybody says. It happened just four weeks ago. But I feel as if centuries have gone by. When the sparrows start singing, heralding the morning, I don’t feel like getting up. How can they go on singing like that? I wonder. Don’t they know? Both mother and myself like to continue with the pretense of sleeping. Getting up forces you into a meaningless routine. We don’t feel like cooking, but I force myself to cook so that my mother pushes a morsel or two down her throat. She too does the same, to make me eat.  Each one of us pretends to eat so that the other eats too. I keep wondering who the killers were. It is quite possible that Sarla’s brothers killed him. They had threatened to. Not once but many times.  Sarla? Didn’t I tell you my brother was in love with her? She was his class-

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mate in college in the city where he was studying. Sarla’s parents and brothers were convinced that Kewal had no right to be friendly with their Brahmin daughter.  Yes, they are Brahmins and Kewal was from a low-caste Kamboh family. I could never understand how Kambohs were low-caste, simply because their traditional occupation used to be dyeing clothes. How can the people who make ordinary, drab-looking clothes come alive with rainbow colors, be low-caste?  For that matter, how can people who create beauty by weaving cloth, by dyeing it, by stitching it, by transforming hard, foul-smelling dead hides into beautiful footwear and bags, by molding ordinary clay into beautiful pots and pans, be low-caste?  Our forefathers were dyers. But my grandfather had departed from the traditional occupation; he studied hard to become a schoolteacher.  And my father was an employee in the postal department. He was very keen to give both Kewal and me a good education. He always told us, “Nobody is born high or low. All these divisions of caste and religion are manmade. They might have been useful at a certain point of time, but they have lost their relevance today. It is only one’s deeds and achievements and human values which make one high or low.” When I told this to my friends, they smiled condescendingly. And my classmates, who were outside our intimate circle, didn’t hesitate to say openly, “All the low-caste people say that. They just try to fool themselves. But they can’t fool the others.” Anyway these things never bothered me. Life was so full and satisfying because of the books, warm relationships, and all the newly discovered secrets of life that I never wasted my thoughts or time on such irrelevant things.  My father was the best father in the world; my mother was affectionate and warm; my brother and I were on the same wavelength; and I was lucky that I was studying in high school. That was enough for me. But ever since Kewal has been murdered, strange thoughts keep buzzing in my head. They keep coming to my mind inadvertently. And they don’t occur to me in any clear sequence. They are even vague and out of focus. They just keep buzzing inside my skull, which seems hollow after so much crying. I can’t cry anymore. Our father told us once that one of our forefathers used to dye Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s turbans. The Maharaja was so pleased with their vibrant colours that he gave our ancestor a large jageer, a few acres of land.  The Maharaja said, “You are a great artist. Because of your art, I wear your turban so elegantly!” Because of the gifted lands, the following generations drifted into farming. But the family kept multiplying and the land kept getting divided. My uncles still farmed their land, while my grandfather gave his fields to a sharecropper.



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That sharecropper’s family cultivated our lands and gave us our fair share of wheat, rice, lentils, and vegetables, which was a great help of course because my father’s salary was not enough to see us through school and then college. I was in the final year of school when our father passed away. Kewal was still in the first year of B.A. He wanted to give up his studies and take up a job but my mother said, “No, you must fulfill your father’s dream.” So he continued.  Since I had nothing to do after school, I just waited for Kewal every evening. When he came home, he taught me whatever he had learnt during the day. We were very close to each other. And now he is no more. Gone! My life is a yawning abyss, and so is my mother’s. Why do people have to go on living even after they lose the will and desire to do so? That night I had a strange premonition that a horrible danger was hovering over my head! Was lurking in the dark corners of the house!  These days I often get this feeling. A strange, nameless fear grips me. Two bloodthirsty eyes of a carnivorous animal glare at me through the darkness around. What sort of danger can it be? Danger was a living, pulsating presence while Kewal was alive.  Those were the dark days in not only our village, but in the whole of Punjab. Some extremist groups had started creating unrest. They said, “We need a separate homeland!” I can never understand these conflicts for homelands! Home is where the heart is! And everybody’s heart is in the home one lives in! In whichever land! It is only politicians who instigate people to fight. In the end, the politicians get their chairs, and ordinary people die in the streets! Every morning, both my mother and I struggled with the lumps in our throats when he left for college in the city nearby. It was only when he came home safe in the evening that the lumps dissolved. But now that Kewal is gone, what sort of danger can threaten us? It has lost all its horror and relevance for us. There is no greater danger than death, and death has already visited this house. Hearing the howling of dogs in the distance, I felt as if they were lamenting for us. I got up and walked on my toes through the three rooms of the house. I got down on my knees, and peered under the cots. Only the shadows of the cots were discernible in the faint light of the one diya flickering in front of Kewal’s portrait. These shadows had a sinister presence, and I felt they were threatening to pounce on me. I felt terrified, though the refrain “What danger? There can’t be any more dangers. They have already killed Kewal. What else can happen?” kept humming in my head. I came to the back of the house and stepped into the courtyard. In a corner, from the water-tap, a drop of water kept falling at regular intervals on the 104

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cemented patch where we clean the utensils and wash our clothes. In the eerie silence of night, even a tiny drop of water can sound deafening. Darkness can produce its own sinister horrors. The brass pitcher lying in a corner looked like a man sitting on his haunches, with his head between his knees. Someone could be hiding in the bucket even, or under the haystack, or behind the pile of firewood. At the far end of the courtyard, near the back door which opens on to the back street, there is a small room in which we keep all the useless stuff, and also the wheat and potatoes and onions that our sharecroppers give us after every harvest. There are a number of old boxes too in which quilts and durries and khes are stuffed, and also lots of old clothes which nobody ever uses. I hated these old, colorless wooden and tin boxes because they smelt of bygone ages and dead ancestors. But at this unearthly hour, during which people slept and grappled with their nightmares, and dogs kept a vigil and wailed, a few grief-torn people, like my mother and I, wandered like lost souls in the twilight zone between life and death, between sleep and wakefulness. People like us are neither alive nor dead, because both life and death are decisive, and all decisiveness had deserted us. We were not even waiting, the way all sad people wait: for a better tomorrow, for the wheel of fate to turn, for a ray of bright sunshine to enter our lives! For us, everything was over. Without thinking, I pushed open the door of this back room and peered into it. It was dark. I switched on the light. A zero-power bulb came to life. I was a bit surprised because I was almost sure that the bulb would have fused long ago. Nobody ever came to this room at night, except when some unexpected guests dropped in and we needed extra bedding. It was ages since anyone came to stay with us, especially after my father’s death. Moving listlessly in the room I was thinking of all these guestless years, when all of a sudden … I got a rude shock which was like touching a naked electric wire. I saw his eyes. They looked like the eyes of a wounded deer whose neck is caught in the powerful jaws of a tiger. Both death and fear of death seemed to be frozen in those eyes. After the first rude shock, I realized that his eyes reflected pure innocence and intense fear. I tried to relate those eyes to his face, which looked tense with terror. Even his short curly beard was trembling with fear. He was terrified of me! And I was afraid of him.  Both of us stood still. I felt my legs shaking under me. Who was he? How did he enter our house? What was he doing here? What did he want from us? Did he want to kill us? The way the others had killed Kewal! And then I realized that he was clutching his leg with both hands. Blood was oozing out of a small, red, raw wound. He whimpered, “Water… !”

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He was wounded and was begging for water. These were the only two things that my mind registered clearly. Nothing else mattered. I went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. My hand was probably shaking when he almost snatched the glass from me.  Was I still afraid of him? I don’t know.  Perhaps I was, even though I knew that he was at my mercy. He gulped the water down in one go. I could hear the sound of gurgling in his throat. He emptied the glass and stretched his hand towards me.  I again went to the kitchen, refilled it, and took it back to him. This time he drank slowly, and kept the half-emptied glass beside him.  He looked at me. Now he was a little relaxed. The naked terror in his eyes had receded, giving way to a dark emptiness.  A few purple dots of anger seemed to be floating in those two black pools of silence. But the anger was evidently not for me. He was angry at his own helplessness, at the open wound from which blood was still flowing. “Don’t be afraid, sister. Rest assured I’ll go away silently as soon as I can.” He spoke, and the mountain of ice between us began to thaw. The lump of terror in my throat also softened. The throbbing fear in my ribs subsided. I again went to the kitchen and filled a glass of milk from the earthen pot that my mother always kept on the slowly dying embers and hot ashes of dung cakes, throughout the night. He sipped it slowly, looked at me softly, and said, “Do you have a piece of cloth to tie this wound with?” I opened an old wooden box, took out Ma’s old dupatta and handed it over to him. He wrapped it around the wound and tried to tie the edges into a knot.  His hands were shaking. I sat beside him, caught hold of the edges and tied them into a double knot. “It’s a bullet wound,” he said softly. “Bullet?” I shuddered. “Yes, bullet. Those police dogs …” “Police?” I was in the grip of fear once again. “No, don’t misunderstand me, please. I am not a thief. Nor a smuggler…”  “An extremist?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but the effort was beyond me. “Extremist? Is it some kind of extraordinary species of mankind, bibi?” he smiled. Suddenly his face contorted, his teeth clenched, and his jaws jammed. I could see anguish in his eyes. He clutched his leg, just above the wound, and doubled up over it. I was feeling helpless. “Go and sleep, bibi. Let the pain subside a little, and I’ll leave.” “You won’t go anywhere.” I suddenly felt responsible for him. I almost ordered him, “You are not going to leave in this condition.”

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I got up, locked the room from outside, came back to my cot and lay down. I was acutely aware of all the sounds coming from the street. The night rumbled on, moving slowly like a frightened black cat on its padded paws. After a long, long time the day dawned. Almost terrified by the daylight that would soon crawl in, I got up and rushed to the backyard. I filled a small lota with water and unlocked his room. I heard him moaning softly, without making a noise, as if a shaft of solid air was slicing through the stillness in the room. I said softly, “Day is about to break. How will you manage to go out for your…? Well, here’s some water. Try to get up and I’ll take you outside. Near the outer wall. I’ll stand guard. Nobody passes this way at this hour.” He bent double with pain as he got up. I held his arm, undid the bolt of the back door, and pointed to a place in the shadow of the wall outside. I kept the water jar near him, and with my back towards him, I spread out my veil like a protective tent. I was like a hen, protecting her helpless, fledgling chick, because black kites and eagles were hovering in the sky above, searching for their prey with bloodthirsty eyes. I felt like a mother protecting her wounded son. A flood of tenderness heaved gently in my breast. I heard the splash of water, after which he got up by holding on to the wall with one hand. I helped him get in, bolted the door, took him back to the room, and made him sit behind the boxes.  I took out a quilt, folded it and kept it under his wounded leg. I gave him two pillows to lean on, and a khes to cover himself with. In the morning two policemen came to our house. It was not unusual. Ever since Kewal had been murdered, police kept coming to our place on routine investigative rounds. But that day, seeing those two in police uniform, I panicked.  They said, “Last night there was a minor encounter between a police patrol and a group of extremists on the outskirts of this village. You must have heard the firing.” Yes, we had. But these days the sound of firing is a routine thing. It is a part of the familiar sounds emitted by the night: cicadas, frogs, dogs, and bullets. They said, “We suspect it was the same gang which murdered Kewal. In the crossfire nobody was killed. They escaped under cover of darkness. But we are sure that at least one of them was injured. We could clearly see the trail of blood leading into the village. He must be hiding somewhere. You shouldn’t worry. We will nab him soon and unearth the mystery of Kewal’s murder too. We won’t let the bastard escape.” “In fact, the trail of blood enters this very street and then … ,” said the other. “But you shouldn’t worry. Just keep the house properly bolted from inside. We’re going to search each and every house.”



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The words hit my ears like a thunderbolt. Like a whirlwind they engulfed me, and I stood frozen near the door. I could hear the mad rush of my blood racing through my veins. It was midday. The sun was like an angry eye looking down on earth. With my mother moving from one room to the other, I couldn’t go to the room at the back. Ever since Kewal’s death my mother keeps roaming aimlessly, as if she has lost something, she can’t remember what, but has to find it nevertheless. With slow, aimless steps, she keeps walking from room to room, to the door to check the bolt, comes back, falls on her cot. After eating, my mother sat down on her cot and opened the Gita in her lap. I knew the words would keep floating around, getting lost in the air, and she would keep seeing Kewal on the open page before her. I had made four extra rotis for the boy in the backroom. I put some cooked brinjals and potatoes on the rotis, covered them with my chunni, and took them to him.  He looked younger in the daylight. Just a little, frightened boy! He was lying there, with his head on the pillows, his eyes closed. His innocent face looked helpless, contorted with pain. His beard was a mere splash of light-brown hair, short and curly. I was sure that under the curly hair, there would be a dimple in the middle of his chin. I touched his elbow softly. He opened his eyes. Black pain floated in them. His eyelids were a little swollen and red. Perhaps, he had been crying in the darkness last night. He was hardly eighteen. Thinking of him crying didn’t surprise me. I extended the rotis towards him. He said, “I’m not hungry.” He held his wounded leg with both his hands. He tried to stretch it and get up, but collapsed with pain. “You have to eat even if you’re not hungry,” I almost ordered him, the way you do with small children. He held the rotis and started eating like an obedient child. I looked at the glass, it was empty. I went to the kitchen and brought him water. He was eating silently. I saw that the cloth with which I had wrapped his wound last night was soaked with black blood. On either side of the “bandage,” I could see his leg, swollen and red. “It must be hurting like hell,” I said softly. My tenderness touched him. His eyes were moist when he looked at me and said, “Yes, the bullet is still inside.” I shuddered. An ugly bullet, made of solid metal, concealed in the soft flesh of the leg, poisoning his blood! Visualizing this horror, I experienced a strange, painful sensation searing within me. He needed medical treatment. But what sort of times were we living in, when getting medical help meant exposure to death! For him, all the doctors and surgeons had become irrelevant, because their instruments had rusted with the curse of these times. 108

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I came out of the room and looked around. In the backyard the afternoon sun slumbered. I walked across and entered the room where my mother was still looking blankly at the open pages of the Gita. I took out a soiled 50-rupee note from the small basket in which my mother kept needles and threads, covered my head with my chunni, and came out into the street. I looked around, from one end of the street to the other. On the left, outside the grocery shop, three policemen sat on a long bench, engrossed in gossip. I started walking the other way, came out of the street, and walked to the chemist’s shop. This chemist used to be quite friendly with my father, the way people living in small villages usually are with each other.  I said, “Chachaji, I need a packet of cotton wool and a bottle of Dettol, and some gauze too.” Though my voice was hoarse, I tried my best to sound natural.  The chemist, whom all of us called “doctor,” asked with concern, “Is everything all right? I hope bharjaiji hasn’t hurt herself.”  Everybody was particularly concerned about us after Kewal’s death. I said, “No, nothing much. She just didn’t see the grinding stone and knocked her foot against it.” “Should I come home and bandage her foot?” he asked. “No, it’s nothing, really. I can do it myself. Don’t worry, Uncle,” my voice shook as I said this. He looked at me from behind his eyeglasses, and quietly handed over the bottle of Dettol, a packet of cotton wool, and rolls of bandages. How will I carry all this?—I wondered, thinking of those three policemen sitting outside the grocer’s shop in my street. “Do you have a carry bag, Uncle?” I asked hesitantly.  He took out a plastic bag and stuffed everything into it. I carried the bag to the grocer’s shop nearby, bought a packet of salt and put it neatly over the other things, and walked back home. The three policemen were still there, gossiping as usual. My mother had dozed off. I went to the room in the back courtyard, and unlocked it. He was moaning, bundled up with pain. I removed the dupatta from his wound. It was an ugly, blackish gash, swollen, with clots of blood encircling it.  I soaked the cotton wool in Dettol, and as I started cleaning it, I was painfully reminded of a similar wound that I had seen on Kewal’s back which didn’t need any cleaning because he was already dead. A black whirlwind was moving in mad circles inside my head. I was trying to push it back with all the force of my willpower. In my ears I could hear the buzz and beating of my own blood, but I was trying not to listen to its mad fury.  He was biting his lips, trying not to scream. When I kept a large pad of cotton wool soaked in the antiseptic lotion on his wound and wrapped a bandage around it, I could see a thousand black furrows of pain on his face. He was

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holding his leg in a firm grip with both hands. And his eyes were moist with tears of anguish that he was trying to hold back.  I felt like pulling his head onto my shoulder, patting it, and saying softly to him, “Cry, my child, cry. Cry out your pain. Don’t push your tears back because they freeze inside, and become big rocks weighing your soul down.” But I didn’t. I couldn’t say anything. I went to the kitchen and brought him a glass of hot milk. I locked the room from outside and washed my hands with soap to remove the pungent odour of Dettol, but it lingered on in the pores of my skin. I went to the kitchen and prepared tea. Took one glass to my mother, sat on my cot with the other one, and started sipping. I was oblivious of my surroundings. Only that black swollen wound kept floating before my eyes to be replaced sometimes by those three policemen gossiping out there in the street. I don’t know when I lay down and went to sleep. Even in sleep, a part of me was wide awake, trying to catch any sound which might signal danger. I was keenly aware of the threat lurking around, ready to pounce on the person there in the back room, whose name I didn’t know. In my fitful sleep I saw vast deserts, frightened rabbits running for their lives and ferocious dogs chasing them, snarling, howling, panting, with their bare white teeth flashing, and their red tongues hanging from their black jaws. It was the howling of dogs which made me get up with a start. I was soaked in cold sweat, frightened. Evening shadows were lurking ominously in the corners of the room. Mother was not on her cot, and outside in the dark the sound of barking in the distance was audible. I got up and came to the backyard. Mother had lighted the fire in the kitchen and was looking at the leaping flames with her chin resting on her knees. There was a pan on the challah in which daal was being cooked.  She sat there, unaware of me, unaware of the pan on the fire, lost in thought! Deep down, at the bottom of the dark well of her pain. And then she looked at me, trying to focus her thoughts, and said slowly, “Do you have a headache? You slept for so long. It isn’t good to sleep in the evening when day and night meet.” Could anything worse happen to us than what already had? I wondered. I silently looked towards the locked room at the back and said to my mother, “You should rest now. I’ll make the rotis.” Ma pressed her knees with her hands, sighed, got up, and went out. After serving my mother, I kept four rotis in a thali, put some daal in a bowl, poured piping hot butter on the daal, and took it to his room. He was probably sleeping, his mouth slightly open, like a child. I touched his arm, it was hot. I put the thali down and touched his forehead. It was burning hot, and moist.

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He didn’t open his eyes. Every breath of his was a soft moan. I looked at his leg. The swelling had increased. Black blood had oozed out of the bandages. Feeling dejected and helpless I came out and locked the door again. I couldn’t eat. At midnight I again went to him. Opened the door and switched on the light. He was sitting, doubled up and bent over his leg. His helpless moans were heart rending. I touched his head. He didn’t look at me. The food was lying in the thali, untouched. A white layer of butter covered the daal. I lifted his head and forced him to take some water. I don’t know if he was aware of my presence or not, but he did gulp down a little water, and again bent over his leg. Behind the old wooden and tin boxes which contained age-old abracadabra, he looked like a bundle of soiled clothes. And outside, all those people were looking for him. Next day he was delirious with fever. Almost unconscious. He only took a few sips of water whenever I managed to go to him, lifted his head and touched his lips to the glass. It was evening, and his fever was blazing. I soaked a towel with cold water and kept it on his head. A strange smell emanated from his wound. I changed his bandage. With the cold, wet towel on his forehead, he opened his eyes. I gave him some hot milk. He sipped it slowly, and then said, almost in a whisper, “I don’t want to die here. If I do, how would you take my body out? Bhain, I have already been such a great bother. I don’t want to put you to any more trouble.” I felt like crying. I placed my hand on his head, the way mothers bless their young ones when they go to school for the first time. And came out. I looked around. Where could I sit and pour out all the pain flooding my soul? Just then, there was a loud knock on the outer door, the door which opens onto the main street. I was startled. My mother asked irritably, “Who can it be at this unearthly hour? They should know there are two lonely women here.” I went and opened the door. Outside stood the same two policemen who had come the previous morning. They said politely, “Bibi, we know we needn’t search your house, but every time our dogs sniff the drops of blood, they stop here. Can we take a look inside?” I was terrified. Real, naked terror was churning inside my belly. I said, “Ma has just dozed off after eating her food. You know she hardly sleeps. If you can … if … after an hour or so … perhaps?” “Don’t worry. Let Maaji sleep. We’ll come back after an hour. There is no hurry. But we hope you won’t mind our coming in at night.” “No, it doesn’t matter. You are like my brothers. You have been looking after us after Kewal’s death,” I said softly.



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They left. “Who was it?” asked Ma. “Some policemen. Wanted to search this house. They are looking for someone, and they think he is hidden in one of the houses in this street.” “Have you bolted the door properly?” asked Ma anxiously. I assured her that I had, and she lay back on her cot. On tiptoe I quietly walked to the back room. Perhaps he had also heard the knock at the outer door. How could he, in the condition he was in? I can’t understand it even today. He was aware. His face was alert and his eyes full of terror. “Who was it?” he asked. “Policemen. Wanted to search the house. They’ll come back after an hour.” I wanted to offload my entire burden. He had to know. The moment had finally arrived when he should know. He immediately made up his mind. How can one arrive at such decisions in a fraction of a second? A decision that would probably land him straight into the jaws of death! “I must leave,” he said, and staggered up. I didn’t ask him to stay. I couldn’t. Both of us knew that we had reached a dead end. All roads were blocked. Escape now was next to impossible. The danger lurking outside for the last two days was about to cross the threshold and enter and pounce! With his face contorted with pain he tried to take a step forward. With clenched teeth biting into his lips, he took another staggering step. And then another. And stepped out of the room. I opened the back door. Stepping out into the street, he halted for a moment, a very brief moment, and looked at me. So many different emotions were mingled in the dark pools of his eyes—affection, gratitude, and also the shadow of death. There was so much more for which I can’t find any words. Human language hasn’t yet found words for all those other emotions floating in the dark pools of those eyes. I only know that his eyes, and all those silent emotions in them, will haunt me all my life. I will never be rid of them. They will come and nestle close to me in all the silent moments of my life. He went out. I bolted the door from inside and stood rooted there, trying to hear the muted sound of his departing footsteps, trying to smell the danger in the air. Suddenly the dogs barked. Many of them. They were barking in a mad fury. And then, the sound of bullets pierced the stillness of the night outside, and blew my soul to shreds. I am telling you the truth. Believe me. I didn’t hear his cry. Only heard the sound of bullets, loud enough to rip the earth open. But no human cry. I could also hear echoes of heavy shoes running up and down the street.

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Ma was probably in that azure zone of half-slumber when the body sleeps but all the senses remain awake and alert. Perhaps, she was seeing Kewal in her dream, floating in the twilight zone of no-man’s land that lies between sleep and wakefulness. She heard the sound of bullets and got up. Abruptly, in a frenzy she rushed towards the front door, opened it with a thud, and ran barefoot into the dark street outside, crying in a heart-rending wail, “Don’t kill. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill my Kewal. Don’t kill my little one. Don’t fire at my innocent little baby, don’t fire at him! He is my only son, my Kewal!” With her arms raised, her dupatta trailing behind her, her hair disheveled, she ran barefoot on the naked bricks of the street, begging, imploring the darkness, “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill my little one!” Translated from Punjabi by the author and Khushwant Singh



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K E K I

D A R U W A L L A

Three Poems on being asked to write about birds and trees in iraq No matter how the desert shuffles between the two waters no matter how blood flows in Mesopotamia now or how the young die with bomb-belts around their waists so that the street itself turns into grapeshot. No matter how many sandbags enclose nervous machine guns no matter how the fire engine clangs and the ambulance screams dates will sprout and cluster around palm trees and the kingfisher dressed in lapis lazuli will float and flutter over the Tigris and his warped image will struggle and shiver in the water.

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migrant notes They are scribbled on scraps the blank sides of a calendar I have, just torn March, it wasn’t much of a spring anyway. There they were, roadside, looking for a water tap. The first call to North Block, “Sir, migrants on the road.” “Is it a traffic problem, have they crowded the motorway?” “They’re walking on the side, Sir, looking for a shade they can’t find.”

a demolition in nagaon found poem, May 22, 2022 Police party chances upon Shafiqul Islam and wants ten thousand rupees and a duck. Shafiqul Islam can’t meet the demands. He is taken to Batadraba Police Station. (Where else can the fatigued party take him?) “Phone your people, arrange duck and money.” Wife comes running with duck, minus money. Police beat Shafiqul in front of wife. She rushes, arranges money and returns. She’s told he is in Nagaon Civil hospital. In hospital she’s told he is in morgue. Hundreds gather—what does one do with this thick density of population? Dead Shafiqul is brought to Batadraba. Mob and police scuffle, then mob burns police station, one thing mobs are good at. Two policemen injured. SP says “three miscreants arrested.’’ That doesn’t mean from the police party. “Authorities ask bulldozers to bring down the homes of people who burnt Police Station.” End of incident.



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D H O O M I L

He Chuckled Quietly He chuckled quietly as he looked up from his tools. His eyes examined me for a moment then he said gently — “To tell you the truth, Babuji, as I see it there is no one either too important or too insignificant. Each one who stands before me is a pair of shoes that needs to be stitched. These days the reality is that no matter what he does who he is, where he lives no man is greater than the size of his shoes. But even then I can’t help but think that somewhere or the other between these hands that work and the shoes that must be repaired there is a man who needs to be healed— who endures the pain of his toes peeping out of his shoes like the blow of a hammer to his heart.

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There are all kinds of shoes here. They reveal the unique the distinctive character of each man. Every shoe has its own shape its own separate style. Take this shoe for example: More than a shoe—it is a bag full of signs. The man who wears it is disfigured by chicken pox but is full of laughter and hope flutters on his face like a kite, entangled in telephone wires. I want to tell him, “Babuji, why do you want to waste money on this?” But I hesitate because I hear an inner voice tell me, “Hey, what kind of man spits on his own jatti?” Believe me, at that time, instead of patches, I seem to stitch eyes on his shoes and perform the task of my profession with great difficulty. 18.75 Here is another shoe that pinches the man who owns it when he steps out for a walk. He wears a wristwatch but is not pressed for time. He doesn’t have to go anywhere. He is not very intelligent. His eyes are filled with greed. He is either a baniya or a peddler. He speaks arrogantly as if he is Hitler’s relative: “Tie this, cut that, hammer here, chisel there, scrub the shoe hard till it shines like a mirror… Uff! It’s very hot.” He fans himself with a handkerchief curses the season and the weather. Like a monkey he stares at every woman who walks by.



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But, what is amazing is that after blustering and bragging for an hour when it comes to paying for the work he snarls, “What! you want to rob and cheat decent people?” And then, as he walks away, he tosses some coins. He suddenly screams with pain and hobbles off the street onto the pavement! When someone tries to swindle a worker, a nail, hidden like a thief, suddenly emerges and stabs the toe But, I am under no illusions. I never fail to remind myself that somewhere between a shoe and a profession there is a man who needs to be “repaired,” who endures the pain of his toes sticking out of his shoes like the blow of a hammer on his heart. And, Babuji! The truth is that without a genuine purpose in life there is no difference between a man who chants Rama’s name to make a living and the one who is a tout. This is one place where every man forgets what work he does and becomes a speck in the crowd. Like any other man language wounds him and changing seasons trouble him. Consider, for example, this spring day. It stretches the morning across the sky

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like a taut tent and decorates it with thousands of bouquets of deep red leaves on trees to slowly mature in the sun. At this time—I swear— it becomes difficult to hold a hammer because the eye is distracted the hand fails to obey the mind like a spoilt child refuses to concentrate on work and it seems as if hidden beneath the calm surface of leather is a forest of dense trees tempting us human beings. Don’t be startled. Think seriously. Anyone who lives by the book and panics when he has to face life’s bloody reality and experiences, can easily say, “Yaar! You are not a cobbler, but a poet!” Actually, he is the victim of a strange misconception because he believes that work belongs to one’s jatti and that jatti, not the individual, controls language. The fact, however, is that flames singe everybody and truth brushes past all of us. There are some who find the right language others stand blindly before words. Afraid of the fire of hunger in their belly they suffer every injustice quietly. Whereas I know that “to scream in protest” or to remain discreetly silent mean the same and both —silence and scream— in their own ways dig a foundation for the future.” Translated from Hindi by Alok Bhalla



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Hundreds of thousands of Rohingya flooded into southern Bangladesh in August 2017 to escape widespread violence by the Burmese military. The steady flow of refugees filled the north-south highway between Cox’s Bazar and Teknaf. © Greg Constantine 2017

K U N W A R

N A R A I N

Three Poems up to that hill Carrying a few ancient coins holding a bridle in our hands riding on limping ponies traveling over rough land, we finally reached the hill, where we camped. They say this is where Alexander wanted to turn back, to try to return home! “Home”—I have sometimes heard the echoes of longing in that word, in places which must have been the final limit of a hero’s victories.

But we had reached the place taking the wrong path and absolutely by chance. That is, we had no intention of standing there, surrounded by hungry and thirsty children, surveying that wild and lonely region, wondering about the ghost of Alexander, or the future.

“No, we can go no further now, we are tired, we want to go back home”— they had all conspired together, had nearly revolted. If I had been Alexander, it is possible I would have murdered the thirteen who had urged the others to turn back that night. We had almost arrived at the farthest boundary Alexander had once reached.

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a trapped prey Something stands still next to me sniffs me. A brute force that can strike at any moment. What does it want? What do I have that I can offer that I can throw before it to save myself? It rubs its rough hide against my body that is rigid like a tree. It withdraws but stops nearby. It’s in no hurry. It knows that I am a trapped prey and it is a free hunter.

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even today The moment he expressed his doubt— that perhaps it was the earth that circled the sun frenzied mobs gathered around him impatient to kill him as they had killed Galileo. What is true or false is beside the point.

It is the unthinking acceptance of the believers that terrifies me even today.

Translated from Hindi by Alok Bhalla



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R O B I N

S .

N G A N G O M

Six Poems understanding I can understand on this virtual day even without smelling, let alone touching it.  So, I’ll not say a word about the sea giving up a toddler. I can even understand this groundswell of pity as if humanity was testing the waters of feeling, after adapting a short brackish tragedy, despite pleas from the gentlest mourner not to use the image of drowning but only remember a child’s smile, in an age whose only metaphysical worry is, “what can be saved?” trees, animals, or children, for instance, late after the mocking, “ecstatic destruction.”

forgetting When we became forgetful We cannot remember what gives us pause On days which seem to never end. To forget is to die once more Through Moses’s Egypt to the Wuhan spectacle. Creatures, animate or not Still journey on bravely slighting borders Coal, dazed refugees, torpedoes, mountain goats, Even as pestilence brokers have begun roaring: “The economy is dead! Long live the economy!”

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We notice streets bereft of children, Luxury yachts for the first time while A goods train leisurely flattens A curve of migrant workers And snow-crowned peaks Swim into view daily on grimy streets. We cannot mask an ineffable fear Unlike emperor penguins marching In a dignified line toward extinction.

Father on Earth With a hobbling gait my father whips out his dick and pisses like a dog. He’s 86 and lost his reason. Not quite, for when he loses his temper he blurts out: “Dog’s cunt.” But the man who never prayed when I was a kid and asked us to burn his horoscope is now humming hymns. What is the matter with him? Is it the strain of dementia which is supposed to run in the family? Is he penitent about his infidelities? I remember his gentle physician’s hands that mended my fractured fears as a child, his joke about village dogs refusing to bark at Rip Van Winkle, his histrionic tale of Bremen’s musicians. My mother, long-suffering and prejudiced could never catch a wink when he shouts in the dead of night as his demons needle him. But she often holds his hands and caresses them and talks to him as one would to a child. She’s been doing this for years now. So it must be love. My father now mimics my little daughter. In fact, he is the son I never fathered.



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funerals and marriages I’ve stopped going to marriages and funerals. Any demonstration of grief or joy unnerves me. Solemnity withers me and dark sartorial elegance moves no one. It’s not that I’ve forgotten kindness or to wish people happiness if they can find it. I could help the bereaved furtively after the mourners have eaten and left. I have become truly unsociable. I can’t fathom why anyone would like to be comforted except by people they love selfishly. You only need hugs and kisses from people who give you, when pressed, your morsel of flesh. I cannot be comforted, except by the woman I love illicitly. I often wonder about the efficacy of marriages and funerals. Could it be because others are as worried, as I was during my own wedding feast, that my friends would not show up for some mystifying reason? As regards funerals, I know that if the house of the dead cannot keep a demonic hold on me my absence will not make any difference. But I don’t want to be censured for not attending marriages or funerals. I wish people would not invite me to weddings or bring news of an old acquaintance’s death. If I could I wouldn’t attend even my own funeral. I remember the day I returned home, and without even seeing my father I went to my aunt’s house when I heard my cousin had died during my long absence. I tried to match my aunt’s grief by trying to show some tears in my eyes but ended up sniffing like a dog. After that, my cousin’s sister, my other lovely cousin, in whose body I first sang a liquid tune, gave me pineapple to eat and we smiled at each other. I used to dip my hands into her blooming breasts, a pair of frightened pigeons. But later, my dead cousin appeared in my dreams to play and protect me again as he did during our childhood. He took a long a time to go away and I had to spit three times to make sure he wouldn’t haunt me. I remember this film about slum-dwellers in Bombay and how after the tears and the burning they would bring out their bottles of orange liquor and get drunk and have a real ball. That’s one funeral I would like to attend.

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october We are waiting inside cottages of cloud-catching mountains for the resolute flutes of rain to stop. Herded all along the highway in slime a last wave of leaves, displaced by a regime, through perforated awnings of October trees. Something made us lonelier. We let too many immigrants into our hearts, Disproportionate future left us speechless.

spring Trees fated to lie down Whisper in the wind among pines that They want to resurrect in the forest’s spell. Unbidden, peach blossoms of torment Fan out under lukewarm clouds. Smoking boys with catapults come to kill birds and The plum, gnarled by winter, shouts at them To leave, because he is deadened Without birds hopping from his arms, the Squirrels scampering on his craggy shin. But the plum puts out immaculate flowers For a single hailstorm to ruin them fruitless. At night, under the yellow pollen of memory The tree is racked and cannot sleep and Wakes up rheumy-eyed at dawn.



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B I B H U

P A D H I

Two Poems Fever This is like reminiscing about a fever one has just gone through, with the temperature constantly touching the uppermost end of the thermometer. You could not think of anything except yourself—your body, your mind, the depletion of thoughts, the very painful loss of words. Even your memory does not belong to you, having traveled to a land you never visited nor heard of, but somehow know. The fever had laid you in the bed, without movement, without food, without much of a shelter. Is shelter only a house with rooms? You feel sure it could not be so. It is more considerate, taking care of your mind and heart, your small body, without the unscrupulous silence of a fever.

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Ancestral Roles This vibration is beyond the psychic, is almost perennial, quiet. We must work toward its perfection, apply ourselves to our commitments. Some things move out, having failed to act out their ancestral roles. Then they spend their time doing nothing except recalling the past day’s work. They get up from sleep have their lemon tea and relax. The day begins its round across an incalculable space, an indefinite time. There is yet another cup of tea and a waiting for another piece of sleep. Now sleep seems rare, belonging to an irretrievable past. The day is approaching its highest point, its moving away from all that was true in the morning, all that was new and fulfilling. The vibration is back again, quietly, disturbing no one, like a leaf on a tree that hardly knows what it is for. We look at the tree, inspired by its greatness, humbled by its mere presence. The leaves dance in green abundance, as if they were free, hardly taking note of their own end.



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M A N J U L A

P A D M A N A B H A N

The Pain Merchant “There was a time,” said Master-ji, the pain merchant, “when every household had plenty of pain to sell.” We were sitting at the very edge of my home village, out by the rocks. In the distance behind us, the high mountains scratched the heavens with their snowy peaks. Right in front of us, the bare hillside plunged at rakish angles. The plains spread away far below. “No longer true. People have forgotten that pain was once commonplace.” “Won’t you show me just a bit?” I asked, using my most wheedling voice. I was eight years old and the only boy in a house full of sisters and mothers. At home, I got whatever I wanted when I used that voice. “Just once?” But the merchant was immune. He intrigued me: I had never met someone who did not instantly give in to my demands. Plus, he looked so strange. Everyone I knew wore wool and felt; on their feet were embroidered slippers or leather boots. My mothers and sisters wore tunics and the men wore mirrored caps and turbans. The merchant, by contrast, was dressed in layers of greasy leather held together with lengths of string. His shoes were tied on with cords. A dark-brown hood partially obscured his face. Countless small pouches hung from his shoulders and down his back, like clusters of grapes. I could see that he wanted to please me, yet he shook his head. “I’ve explained before: my wares are perishable,” he said. According to him, recorded pain was like perfume. It became depleted with each use. “I can’t afford to show you anything unless you can pay.” “I can pay today, Master-ji,” I said. “I found something to trade.” He looked at me sideways, his face a mass of wrinkles. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or frowning. “Trade, eh?” he remarked, lifting and twitching his nose like a snout. “Come on then. Show me what you’ve got.” I knelt with my right knee on the ground and my left foot pointed forward. I lifted the cuff of my pants to reveal my ankle. On it was an old scar. “You see this?” I said, squinting up at the merchant. Then I removed my shoe and pulled off the sock, so my foot was naked. “It’s the kind of thing you’re interested in, isn’t it?” My mothers had told me that I’d had an accident when I was a baby. I had healed. Now no trace remained of the problem, except for the scar.  Master-ji knelt, reaching for my foot with both hands. I hadn’t noticed that

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he wore gloves with the tips cut off. He traced the contours of the scar carefully with his forefinger. Glancing up, he asked, “What was the cause of this injury? Did your mothers tell you? Do you know how long ago it happened?” “Yes, they told me,” I said. “It was when I was a baby. I don’t remember what happened.” Just then a shadow passed over us. A vulture. It wouldn’t bother us, of course. We were moving and talking. Even so, I tugged the ward-off out of my pocket and held it up, cocked and ready to send out a pulse. “Ahh, don’t bother,” said the merchant. “It’s got plenty to eat.” In the few seconds during which I glanced up at the vulture, the merchant had reached into his clothes and pulled something out. An instrument, it looked like.  It was shiny and metallic but also stretchy. Before I could object, he had placed it around my ankle and was deftly molding it into place. I had been told not to let strangers do anything to me without explaining their actions. “You should ask my permission before doing that,” I said. He glanced up and said, “Do you feel it? Is it touching you?” I shook my head. The thing had completely surrounded my ankle and my foot up to the arch, but I felt no sensation. “Fine then. You held your foot out to me, and I placed my scanner around it without making contact. That is all. No harm done. Look now. It’s reading …” The shiny surface of the thing had vanished. In its place was a kind of magnified picture of everything under the skin of my ankle. I could see the cordlike vessels of blood pulsing busily. The merchant was touching the surface of the gadget in a way that enabled him to reveal different views into the structure of my foot. He could increase or decrease the view. “We have gone below the muscles and soft tissue,” he said. “We can see the bone.” It was surprisingly white. He zoomed in, peering around the ligaments to see exactly what he wanted. “Do you notice these seams?” Silver-grey lines. “Surgery. It does not look like an accident. More likely a medical procedure. Perhaps you had a birth defect, eh? Your people told you that it was an accident. Easier that way, I suppose. Makes no difference. Pain is pain.” He tapped the surface of the gadget again, and the image faded and disappeared. The surface reverted to its metallic appearance. He waited until he heard a faint beep, then peeled the thing off. “What is that?” I asked. I felt as if I hadn’t been breathing or swallowing for the entire time the gadget was on my foot. “A dolcache,” said Master-ji, as if it was a common word. “For reading and recording pain.” He glanced at me once more, his face seizing up with wrinkles. Smiling. “Had you forgotten? You asked if I would accept this scar of yours as a trade. Not the scar, of course, but the pain within. The memory remains in the bones. To which my answer is ‘yes.’ I got a strong signal. Next question now: what sort of pain will you accept in exchange for what I took?” He saw my confusion. I was a child, after all. What would I know of the



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worth of things? Or maybe he heard the sound of distant voices. I had heard them too but didn’t say so for fear that he’d hurry away. As he had, twice before. I could never know when or how I would meet him again. He nodded with a birdlike twitch, as if making up his mind for both of us. “Alright,” he said as he got to his feet. “You cannot assess the worth of what you have. Nor can we remain out in the open any longer. Which means you’ll need to come with me. How much time do you have?” The answer of course was “none.” I wasn’t allowed to spend any time alone with strangers. But if I said that, he might not take me. So I lied and said, “I don’t know.” He told me our destination wasn’t far. Which was true. What he didn’t mention was that it was well hidden. No one would find me, not even the dogs. It was underground, with the entrance tucked under some kind of smelly heap. Probably the remains of a body. There were so many around, lying in the open, rotting. Trained to ignore the bodies, the dogs wouldn’t find me. Under the ground, the merchant had strung up a few lights. They were connected to a large battery, humming softly in the corner. The place must have been a basement at one time. There was some old furniture. He asked me to sit on a chair. Then he drew up a stool for himself and placed it in front of me. “Let me see,” he said, as he began to unwrap the many little bags that were slung around his body. “What shall I start you off with?” The pouches were connected to the cords he had tied around himself. As he unwrapped the strings and the pouches, he became thinner and thinner. The sheets of leather that I had thought were clothes were merely separators: beneath each layer were yet more pouches. “Oh,” I said, “that’s a lot of pouches.” “They’re not heavy,” said the merchant. “Pain has no weight.” Stripped down to his actual clothes, he looked very different. Diminished. A thin old man in a dirty black sweater and loose black pants. His feet remained bound in cords. His hair was white. He had arranged the strings of pouches and the leather separators neatly on the floor. He looked carefully at the array before making a selection. He sat down now on the stool, facing me. “Because you’re a child and this is your first time, I will give you three separate doses. Each one very brief.” He opened a pouch in his hand. Inside it was a slender thing, like a bracelet, except it was made of glass. Flexi-Glass. He flipped an invisible clasp and asked me to extend a hand. “It doesn’t matter which one,” he said. I was starting to feel afraid. Of being underground. Knowing that I could not be found. My mothers would be furious. The men would rage and pound their fists. I did not, of course, say any of this to him. My curiosity was still greater than my fear. “What will I feel?” I asked Master-ji. “Will it happen all at once? Or slowly?”

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Everything I was doing felt wrong. I should never have followed the merchant. I didn’t even know his name. My family must be mad with worry. “Maybe I should go home.” The wrinkles sprang into view again. Just a twitch. “Okay, only one dose then. And I’ll owe you two more. You’ve already paid me, don’t you see? I’ll have to meet you again until I’ve paid you back. Hold out a wrist.” I extended my right hand towards him, palm up, fingers curled. The bracelet he placed around my wrist felt cool against my skin, but weightless. “You see this small red dot?” he asked, pointing to the surface of the bracelet. I nodded silently. “I’m going to press it three times. That means you’ll have three seconds before the dose begins. It’ll last for ten seconds. Then it’ll stop on its own.” He was looking at me, so he must have seen that fat tears were spilling down my cheeks. Even so, he asked, “Alright?” I nodded again, unable to speak. He pressed the button three times. The red light turned green. A brightness pierced my wrist. That’s what it felt like. A needle made of lightning, stitching itself onto my wrist where the bracelet clasped it. I gasped aloud. My teeth jumped in my mouth. The sides of my nose rose up. My hair stood on end. And then it was over. The bracelet sprang open, and he caught it before it fell. “Ahh!” I said, panting. “Aaaah! AHH!” Master-ji was wrinkle-wreathed again, gazing at me with fondness in his eyes. “Your first experience of pain,” he whispered softly. “A sweet thing to see.” I sucked in my breath. My mind was whirling. I couldn’t speak. He read the question in my eyes. “It was from a young girl. She had been cut by a glass bangle. Her sensations were absolutely pure, untouched by sorrow or premonition. And freshly caught. I was there when the wound occurred, though I recorded it years later.” “I must go,” I blurted out. “Or else they’ll find me. Us.” Which would be terrible. Not for me, but for him. “But please, I want to know more!” We left without him responding to my demand. He did not even bother to put his layers back on. Up we went, via a different exit and thence towards the rocks. The voices calling for me were louder now. I could hear the dogs. “Pant loudly and pretend to be more tired than you are,” he said before hurrying away. “Let them think you got lost and have been frantic for some time. Tell them anything but not where you’ve been or with whom.”  My mothers became increasingly protective. Perhaps they could sense the tide pulling me away. My sisters did as they were told, but I had ants under my skin. I was always being told to hush. “You don’t need to know such things,” said my mothers when I asked questions. “Your ears will hurt with that kind of knowledge.”



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“But pain is banished from our world,” I would say. “So how can I hurt?” Then they would purse their lips and turn their faces aside, saying, “Only someone who has no knowledge of pain would utter such ridiculous words!” I didn’t dare tell them that I did have knowledge of pain. I met Master-ji many times after the underground visit. I learned ways to escape my home by stealth, leaving at night and returning before dawn. Since I had no more scars to trade with the merchant, I paid him by writing labels for his pouches. He had trouble forming his letters, though he could read. He found my labels very useful. Until that time, he had kept track of each pouch and its contents by memorizing its place on his strings. He chose what types of pain to expose me to, based on what he thought was appropriate to my age. He let me experience the harsh twang of hair pulled out by its roots. The tooth-rattling crunch of a broken nose. The deafening thump of a ruptured eardrum. Even the scratchy, whining ache of an infected throat. Each pain was richer and more intense than the one before. The more I sampled, the more I wanted to sample. The delivery method was always the same: a bracelet on the wrist. The pain was experienced in the parts of the body from which it had originated. The day I told Master-ji that I wanted to follow his path, he looked at me sadly and said, “I’m sorry.” It was never easy to read his expression, but from what I could tell, he was genuinely sad. “Some types of pain cannot be recorded,” he said. “You will come to know all of them if you leave your birth home.” But I would not be dissuaded.  Two years after my first experience of pain, I stole away from home. On a moonless night, Master-ji was waiting for me by the rocks. He knew ravines and streams that would be difficult for the dogs to track me on. Once we reached the plains, there was no chance of my being followed. He had told me that there were more clients for his wares on the plains. That they paid in metal coin. That they sought him out. All of it was true. He was moderately well known for the variety of his wares and their smooth, clean quality. Some people asked for period cramps. Some looked for a kick in the groin. Some longed for the dull hammering of a headache. Some wanted to feel the vicious scream of a bullet ripping through the gut. The more serious the wound, the higher the price. Calculated by the second. His most valuable item was from a man who blew out his brains in front of the merchant. “He did it for me,” said Master-ji. “So that I could collect that greatest and harshest of all pains in the instant it occurred.” We were sitting in a quiet spot beside a great river when he told me this. We were some distance from the city in which we had spent almost a month. We had eaten well that day and were taking our ease. “I’ve never seen that pouch,” I said. I felt a shiver run down my spine. A shiver of desire. Master-ji was looking away from me. “He was my brother,” he said. “He wanted me to have the benefit of his death.”

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“Oh my!” I cried out. “And how much did you sell it for?” He turned and looked at me. His expression was the saddest I had yet seen. “Nothing. I’ve never offered it for sale. Not even a half-second.” I couldn’t suppress my disappointment. “Wah!” I cried. “If you don’t use it, your brother would have died in vain!” But he would say no more about the matter. We moved on soon after that. In the years that followed, Master-ji taught me everything he knew of the trade. I learnt to record pain, to clean it, to play it back. The fact that fewer and fewer people had memories of pain meant that there was competition amongst those who sought it and those who sold it. People with prosthetic limbs or visible surgeries were usually tapped out. Either their memories had been drained or they no longer wanted to sell their pain. The easiest to find were those who had tattoos. The hardest were those who had undergone plastic surgery. We met others like ourselves on the dusty roads and rutted highways. We travelled mostly on foot but accepted rides when they were offered. Sometimes we bought ourselves donkeys. Once we owned a camel. I was usually the youngest person in any group of pain traders. They belonged to the older world and had their own memories to draw on. I was one of the very few amongst them who had been born after the cleansing. I wanted desperately to know more about that event, why it happened and how. Their answers were always vague, as if the speakers were embarrassed by the memory. “It happened suddenly,” they would say, “or maybe over a month. It happened by accident. Or perhaps by design. One day the scientists had found a way to record pain. The next day the world’s leaders were talking about purging it from our existence. The day after that, there was an explosion—a leak—something to do with the water. Or was it the rain? The air?” The one thing everyone agreed upon was the effect: there was no longer any sensation of pain. “You could fall on your face or step on a nail or swallow poison or poke out someone’s eye. There was no physical pain.” But there were consequences. Terrible accidents began to occur. Many children died from being crushed or smothered or choked because they couldn’t complain in time. A ruptured appendix was a death sentence. Thousands of women died during childbirth, unable to feel their own contractions. Mass murders and group suicides increased a hundred-fold. No one could have predicted that being pain free would unleash such a flood of violence. The world was broken, gripped by a madness that nothing could restrain. People began living in isolated, homogenous communities, clinging tightly to those they knew, distrusting all strangers, all outsiders. Meanwhile the technology for recording pain became freely available. “A friend sold the machine to me,” said Master-ji, “after buying it from someone who didn’t like it, who learnt how to use it from someone else. We didn’t ask questions anymore. If something worked, it was good. If it didn’t work, we threw it away. In the beginning, I lied about what the machine could



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do. I said that it would cure internal wounds. That childbirth would be safe for mothers once the pain of contractions had been drained from them. That burns would clear up miraculously if the pain was sucked away. All untrue. But I got amazing recordings. Then when I played them back for clients, they fell over with amazement. They screamed, they cried. The moment it was over, they asked for more.” I had witnessed it myself: the expressions of ecstatic agony, the open mouths, the eyes filled with tears. I had felt it myself: the explosion of violent sensation when acid met skin, the searing, silvery shriek of tearing flesh. Followed by the most divine relief, wave after wave of trembling heat and warmth. This was especially true when the source of pain was a grievous injury or life-threatening illness. I had seen clients who experienced physical reactions to the agony they were exposed to: sweating and even bleeding. I had known it myself. Once, when I wore a bracelet that transmitted pain from a woman experiencing a miscarriage, I found myself crying uncontrollably after ten seconds of extraordinary pressure deep within my groin. It was as if a volcanic, primordial force was passing through my body. The pain was huge and brassy, a great boom of raw life-energy, pounding its way out, towards death. In Master-ji’s waning years, the technology underwent a transformation that made it possible for recordings to be preserved indefinitely. Now at last, we could create a library of physical sensations. We opened a clinic alongside the library, where we could administer pain in easily controlled doses. Soon, we became reasonably prosperous. We bought a small house that we shared together, Master-ji living downstairs and me above. We could afford a couple of domestic helpers to run errands and do chores. One day, he called for a pot of tea and then asked me to accompany him to the little garden in the back of the house. When we were settled, he said, “My young friend, in all these years that we have been dealing in pain, there’s a question that I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Yet you have never asked it.” Age had slowed the old merchant down considerably. His eyesight had dimmed with time, his movements were enfeebled. But his expression was as sharp as ever. I really did not know what he expected of me. I felt deeply uncomfortable. He paused a long while before continuing, staring at me all the while. “How is it you have never once expressed the least interest in that other sensation? The one that some have called the Siamese twin of pain?” I shook my head, to say I did not know what he meant. Master-ji nodded, the wrinkles on his face seizing up with mirth. He looked like an aged walnut and gurgled deep in his chest. For a moment, I thought he was coughing or choking, then I realized it was the sound of his laughter. There was a sobbing quality to it too, though. “Ah, my poor boy,” he said when he had recovered his voice. “It is as I thought. You truly have no knowledge of pleasure, do you?” I frowned. I knew the word, of course. “Gladness. Joy. That’s what it means, yes?”

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Mānoa

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In the Silence

He looked away, sighing, and went silent again. For a while I wondered if he had dozed off, as he was wont to do of late. He stirred at last. In a somber voice he said, “Those who stripped the world of physical agony stripped it, too, of physical pleasure.” He paused. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you?” He turned to look at me. “Because who would be so cruel as to tell you of a joy you could never know?” No one, it turned out. Still gazing at me, the old man reached under the neck of the thin sweater which was still his favorite piece of clothing. He drew out a slender chain. At the end of it was a tiny pouch, made of leather and embroidered with gold thread. The moment I saw it, I guessed what it must be. I was filled with foreboding and began to shiver. “You have been so trusting, my friend,” said Master-ji. “For the most part I have not betrayed your trust. I have never lied to you. What I’ve done, however, is keep some truths away from you. Here now is one of them: while pain can be recorded, pleasure cannot. So even though my body remembers physical pleasure, neither I nor anyone else can share it with you. It is a glory, a fathomless bliss, which neither you nor any one of your entire generation can ever know.” I continued to shiver. “Here is a second truth that I withheld: prolonged doses of pain result in the injury that caused the pain. You have seen that, I think, even with minor doses? Well …” I guessed what he was about to say. I tried to forestall him. “Master-ji, please,” I cut in. “You don’t have to do this. Your time has not yet come.” He gurgled slightly, which I took to be a chuckle. “Huh. I disagree! Meanwhile, there’s a final truth that I have withheld. Instead of telling you, I’ll demonstrate it.” He opened the tiny pouch. Inside, there was a pain bracelet, just like all the others. He placed it around his own wrist, then urged me to draw my seat close to his. “I will press the red button several times,” he said. “When I’m done, I’ll give you my free hand to hold. That will allow you to experience whatever I feel without experiencing the injury.” He looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. “You will accompany me into the great silence, my friend! But unlike me, you will return.” A few moments later, I took his hand. I held it to my face. I felt the force of his brother’s death blast through him. I felt his spirit splinter into glittering shards. Then scatter, scatter, scatter. Until all that was left was an immense, shimmering void. And no pain. No pain at all.



Padmanabhan

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Pain Merchant

137

P A S H

Two Poems Our Blood is in the Habit of Celebrating Life Undisturbed by all seasons or occasions mocking even all the songs of gallows our blood is in the habit of celebrating life Even when words are bruised as they flow over rocks our blood is in the habit of singing Who makes the pain of cold winter bearable? Whose hands give comfort in ruthless times? Our blood is in the habit of caressing the flow of days and breaching the walls of time This celebration this song is enough— enough for those who till yesterday were swimming in the silent river of our blood our blood is in the habit of celebrating life.

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grass I am grass I grow wherever you are whatever you do. Bomb a university turn a hostel into a heap of rubble break the roof of our huts  over our heads but what’ll you do with me I am grass I grow on anything and everything. Destroy Banga erase Sangrur reduce Ludhiana to dust but green blades of grass will continue to grow and after two years … ten years passengers will once again ask the conductor “What is this place? Drop me at Barnala where dense grass grows.” I am grass I will do my work I will always grow wherever you are whatever you do. Translated from Punjabi by Alok Bhalla



Pash

n

Two Poems

139

E . V .

R A M A K R I S H N A N

The Darkest Word in the Dictionary You walk the day without the burden of facts. The evil is always at hand, it takes an effort to look beyond it. You think of the polar bear starving for the fifth day. She had cubs to feed. By now you know all the synonyms of despair but the clerk at the table surprises you. He is a linguist, he has just coined the darkest word in the dictionary. It does something to your body, for the mind cannot register it. The mind has its devious ways of dealing with facts. But the body will never lie, it will pronounce it backward and forward till the hair turns white and the eyes turn inward. I have a prayer for my children, for all children: May they find love. May they walk a land where they are not suspects. May they never hear the word I just heard, a word that should be banned from the dictionary. The man behind me said, “Say your prayers elsewhere. This is an office.” I said, “This is a prayer for everyone, including you.” His mobile rang and he said, “O God, O God,” and he ran weeping. The queue moves like a conveyer belt. When my turn comes, just before the lever is pulled, I will think of the tamarind tree, its stout roots

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pushing into the soil, its canopy like a carnival. Run your fingers on its fissured, weathered bark, and any word you speak becomes a prayer. Open its lumpy brown pods of fruits and you are in the land of folk tales. Eat its pulp that melts in your mouth like a rhyming proverb, and you are no more a dwarf like me, standing in queues your whole life. I move to the next table. Before the linguist there pronounces the unspeakable word for a second time, confirming it, I tell him, take this brown-eyed shiny seed, please pass it on to your grandchildren or any children. They will know one day what I meant to say to you, when they turn it in their hands like a globe that is out of shape.



Ramakrishnan

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The Darkest Word

141

K .

S A T C H I D A N A N D A N

Three Poems pardon dedicated to the Tamil writer Perumal Murugan, who was silenced by anti-socialist communal groups Pardon me for what I have written, for what I could not write, for what I am likely to write and for what I may never write. Pardon me for the trees’ flowering, for the flowers’ fruiting, for having hoarded so much of gold and water and spring inside the earth. Pardon me for the waning moon, for the setting sun, for the movement of the living, for the stillness of the non-living. Pardon me for filling the earth with so much color, the blood with so much red, the leaf with forest, the rain with sky, the sand with star and my ink with dreams. Pardon me for filling words with so much meaning, dates with so much history; for having hidden today inside yesterday

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and tomorrow inside today; for creating the Creator who fills gestures with dance and nature with symbols. Pardon me for the earthquake and the tempest, the wild fire and the raging sea. The Earth is a damaged machine. I am not someone who can repair it. I am a king without a country, A god without a weapon, a life without a tongue. Invent a god Who doesn’t ask for your head. Invent the fearless man. Invent language, invent the alphabet.



Satchidanandan

n

Three Poems

143

WALK, WALK Walk, walk, walk together Walk with the questions yet to find an answer Walk with the song without a roof Walk with the pitcher whose river has vanished Walk with the last leaf of the felled tree Walk with the consonants of the proscribed poem Walk with the blood from the stab wound Walk, walk, along the shade between the hare and the grass; through the fire between the word and its meaning Walk in red with the sun’s dreams Walk in black with the moon’s solitude Walk against the wind’s direction Walk across the water’s flow Walk, walk, from death to life with a palette of colours You are the sculptor and you, the sculpture Stop, and you will fall Walk without a pause like the Buddha leaving for Gaya like Jesus climbing Calvary like the Prophet hurrying to Medina like Gandhi marching to Dandi. Walk, walk on, never look back. Walk.

144

Mānoa

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In the Silence

the barbarians after “Waiting for the Barbarians” by C. P. Cavafy We were certain they would come. We broke the idols of those who might have stood against them, one by one. We waited in the capital to welcome them with goblets brimming with children’s blood. We removed our clothes to put on barks set fire to monuments, propitiated fire for the sacrifices to come, changed the names of the royal streets. Afraid our libraries might provoke them we razed them to the ground, letting only the palm leaves inscribed with the mantras of black magic to survive. But we did not even know when they came. For, they had come up, holding aloft our own idols, saluting our flag, dressed like we used to be, carrying our law books, chanting our slogans, speaking our tongue, piously touching the stone steps of the royal assembly. Only when they began to poison our wells, rob our kids of their food, and shoot people down accusing them of thinking did we realize they had ever been amidst us, within us. Now we look askance at one another and wonder, “Are you the barbarian? Are you?” No answer. We only see the fire spreading filling our future with smoke and our language turning into that of death. Now we wait for our saviour at the city square, as if it were someone else.

Translated from Malayam by the author



Satchidanandan

n

Three Poems

145

M U R Z B A N

F .

S H R O F F

The Earth Shall Be Enjoyed By Heroes They came for him after his clinic had shut, his secretary had left, and the neighborhood—usually bustling with activity—was a pale shadow of itself, stunned and frozen under the streetlights. There were three policemen and one policewoman, and among them an older constable, who was grim faced but polite. “Sorry to trouble you, Doctor-sahib,” he said from behind his whiskers. “You will have to come with us. There has been a complaint against you. Perhaps some mistake, surely some misunderstanding, but we have to investigate, you know.” He avoided the doctor’s eyes and stared at the floor unhappily. “Give me a few minutes,” said the doctor. “You can sit in the waiting room; I will switch on the A/C for you.” He knew what this was about. Or rather, he suspected. Those damn builders! Or was it those municipality guys? What did it matter? There was no difference between the two. Each was as insidious, as corrupt as the other. Look what they had done to his serene, beautiful neighborhood. Sent it under the hammer, sent it reeling, till it was disfigured. And Doctor-sahib, who had grown up here, could recognize it no longer. Anyone else in Doctor-sahib’s shoes would have been elated with the changes. Any other doctor, that is. Because more development simply meant more patients, and more patients meant more money. Also, people who bought new flats, costing upward of fifty million rupees, wouldn’t crib about a hike in fees. If Doctor-sahib had been a shrewd man of progress, he’d be salivating at the changes; he would have braced himself to benefit from the boom. The truth was: he didn’t see this rash of construction as a boom. He saw it as an epidemic. The virus of greed, as he called it, which had gripped the city’s caretakers and driven them mad. Why else would they permit construction on small plots in narrow lanes? Why else would they approve plans for residential towers that were twenty stories high, with seven levels of parking, when there was no road to take all that traffic? Why else would they sanction projects with no improvement to the infrastructure or to the sanitation? Madness! Sheer madness! Doctor-sahib would think when walking to his clinic. And not that he had kept quiet and been a passive spectator to all this random construction. 146

First, he had done a survey of the new buildings coming up in the lane behind his clinic. There were three 20-story buildings, cheek-by-jowl, with three apartments per story. That would mean a minimum of 120 cars per building, 360 cars rolling out every morning, on a road no wider than twenty-three feet. Then, via a letter, he had brought this to the attention of the housing department, the municipality, and the road transport organization and, not getting a reply, to the chief minister. When that failed to draw a response, he had written to the newspapers and moved the Bombay High Court for a stay order on the three other projects that were coming up in the lane. The high court had taken serious note of his objections and imposed a blanket stay on all projects in the neighborhood. That’s when the phone calls had started, and the death threats. That’s when they had vandalized his 1937 Jaguar Roadstar, causing grievous injury to its sleek black body and to his disbelieving heart. It was just as well that Doctor-sahib was a bachelor and had no family of his own. Otherwise, who knows, his adversaries would have harmed them as well. His single status emboldened him in his fight against his opponents. He was sure that the recent complaint was yet another ploy on the part of those thugs. Well, he wasn’t going to back out now. Worse case, he would call his old friend Aditya Sharma to the police station. Aditya was an accomplished lawyer. His name appeared regularly in the newspapers. He was often appointed as amicus curiae, a friend of the court, in order to arbitrate on matters of dispute. The police station was within walking distance of the doctor’s clinic, but the inspector had sent a jeep for him. That much respect he had for Doctor-sahib. And why not? Everyone in the neighborhood knew what a good man he was. The fact that he never took money from poor patients, that he had a nominal rate for retired persons, that he never refused a home visit during an emergency, and that he gave free medicines to those who could not afford them. Clearly, Doctor-sahib was an angel. So what if he never wore a white coat and had no wings to show for it? He had a heart of pure gold, and it was impossible to imagine the neighborhood without him. The police station had been recently refurbished. Its walls were painted beige, its columns white, the corridor leading to the senior inspector’s office was tiled with slabs of polished gray granite. A queue of complainants thronged the enclosure in the center, where several constables sat. The complainants appeared hot and bothered, while the constables chatted away happily. Senior Inspector Bedekar rose to greet Doctor-sahib. He was a tall, dark man, with a well-trimmed mustache. “Doctor-sahib,” he said, “I feel so bad about this. I know you are doing God’s work, but I had no choice, believe me.” His voice dropped. “The matter is quite serious. You will understand when I tell you.” He nodded to the others, who filed out quietly, except for the older constable with the whiskers, who moved to shut the office doors. Doctor-sahib looked around the room; he had been here before. The first

Shroff

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The Earth

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time was when a pavement dweller had stabbed his pregnant wife in a drunken rage, missing her belly by an inch. Then, when an urchin-boy, a brown sugar addict, had been caught stealing and been beaten so badly by the public that he could have died had Doctor-sahib not intervened. Doctor-sahib had gone to the police station to request that they send the boy to a de-addiction center. Then, of course, when his beloved Jaguar had been mutilated, and his heart was in so many pieces that he could barely file a complaint. But who could he file against? Who would have seen anything? Who would have the guts to testify against the culprits? The last time he had been here was when a fast-food outlet had brought chairs onto a sidewalk and blocked it. Doctor-sahib had appealed to the owner. “You see, sir, this is a public walkway, and you are preventing free movement. I request you to remove these tables and chairs.” The owner was a short, vulpine-faced man, wearing white clothes and a gold chain around his neck. He had looked at Doctor-sahib warily and said, “How is it bothering you? You just walk around, no? As it is, people walk on the main road all the time. Where are there any sidewalks left in Mumbai! So many hawkers and repair work going on all the time. All these people come from the villages and set up stalls anywhere. But I am from this area. So everyone knows me. Even the police. Even the municipality. And they don’t interfere with my business. They like to see me prosper.” Doctor-sahib understood the threat and the nexus. Sometimes he felt older than his forty-odd years. He felt defeated by the resistance he faced each time he tried to do something correct. Illegal encroachments had been one of his battles, and it was a losing battle, he would admit to himself. He tried to explain to the man in white that if everyone thought that way there’d be no law and order, no public spaces. But the man had looked at Doctor-sahib coldly and said, “So what you want to do? How far you want to take this?” Then Doctor-sahib had snapped. He had said to the man, “You will see,” and had turned and walked to the police station, where Inspector Bedekar had been most sympathetic. He had sent a constable with Doctor-sahib, who ordered the man to remove his furniture from the sidewalk. The owner had looked at Doctor-sahib with uncontained fury. But Doctor-sahib had chosen to ignore the hostile looks and said to him, “Sir, the Goddess Laxmi will respect you only if you respect others. What is in your destiny is going to come to you anyway. But for that, you don’t have to inconvenience others.” At once the goon’s face had softened. He had reached out and pumped Doctor-sahib’s hands vigorously. “You are a good man, Doctor-sahib, a good man,” he said. “You are my well-wisher. You are like my elder brother. So I will listen to you.” Doctor-sahib was not sure of the sibling honor conferred, but he was glad to have gotten his way. Now Inspector Bedekar spoke. “Doctor-sahib, we all know your reputation. We know how much service you do and how highly people think of you. We know you are a man of honor and that you have a large and kind heart.” He

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Mānoa

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In the Silence

paused and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk, his palms locked. “But there has been a complaint against you, a serious complaint, and it is our duty to investigate. So I hope you will let us do our job. Without judging us or thinking too badly of us.” “My dear Bedekar, why do you think I am here? If there has been a complaint against me, it is my duty to respond. As a responsible citizen, I have to help you do your job. Now tell me, what do my enemies have to say about me this time? What is their complaint?” A light smile played on Doctor-sahib’s face. Inspector Bedekar cursed softly to himself. Sometimes he hated his job. Especially when he had to investigate a complaint he knew was false. He was sure Doctor-sahib was innocent. But the complaint was serious, and he wanted to act promptly, before those presswallas got wind of it. Once that happened and the news broke, his hands would be tied. He would have to follow protocol; he would have to take Doctor-sahib into custody. The inspector flicked open his cell phone and held it so that Doctor-sahib could see the screen. “Know this woman?” he asked. “And this man?” He swiped at the screen. “The woman is Manju,” said Doctor-sahib. “She used to come to my house to collect my laundry which she would get washed at the dhobi ghat. I terminated her services sometime back, but I do see her as my patient. The man, I don’t know. Can’t say I have ever seen him.” The inspector realized that the constable was still standing, so he pointed to the chair next to Doctor-sahib. The constable pulled the chair to the side and sat down, such that the three of them were now in a triangle. The inspector pushed a notepad toward him and said, “Take notes, Dandekar. In detail, mind you.” Then to Doctor-sahib: “I hope you don’t mind?” And Doctor-sahib shrugged to indicate that he was fine with it. Reclining in his chair, the inspector said, “You say she is your patient. Since when? What do you treat her for, and when was the first time you saw her?” “Well, let me see. The first time she consulted me was when she had some swelling of her feet. She was coming to my home to pick up the laundry then, and after I examined her I attributed it to her carrying heavy loads of washing and wearing cheap footwear. I remember asking her to increase her water intake and to wear comfortable footwear, and, of course, I prescribed an anti-inflammatory tablet. But why? What has the complaint got to do with her?” “If you don’t mind, Doctor-sahib,” said the inspector, “I will be asking the questions from now on. Just so that we understand the situation better. And the faster we do that, the better it will be for you. I hope you trust me on that?” “Yes, of course,” said Doctor-sahib. He felt a bit uneasy and wondered if he should call Aditya. His lawyer friend would drop whatever he was doing and rush over. With him here, Bedekar would have to get to the point. He’d have to drop this cat-and-mouse game. “So, when she first told you about her problem, her swollen feet, did it occur to you to call her to your clinic? To examine her there?”

Shroff

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The Earth

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“No, she just showed me the swelling and I could see she had blisters. It was something very minor. I didn’t need to make a big deal out of it by calling her to the clinic and making her wait. It could easily be cured with a mild anti-inflammatory—and the right kind of footwear. Lots of water.” “And do you do this often? See patients at home and prescribe? Or was this a first?” “It’s not that she was a patient then. Or that I see patients at home. It’s just that her feet were troubling her, she had come to my door with a problem, and I was in a position to help.” The inspector nodded and waited; he was giving Dandekar time to get all this down. Then he asked, “And where were you when you examined her? In which part of your house?” “Why, the living room, I think. That’s where I would give her the soiled clothes, after taking stock of the clean ones she was returning.” “Please, Doctor-sahib, please think properly where you were when you examined her. It is important. I want you to be sure. Very sure. For your own sake.” “What do you mean for my own sake? And what do you mean you want me to be sure? What are you implying, Bedekar? I am not sure what you are getting at.” “Relax, Doctor-sahib. You are already misjudging us. We are only doing our job. This is our way of arriving at the truth. Please cooperate. It is for your own good. Trust me.” He looked at Doctor-sahib and saw anger in his eyes. Anger born out of hurt pride. “You say you want to help me and get at the truth, Bedekar. But you are not being very truthful with me. You are not telling me what it is I am being investigated for. Don’t you think I have a right to know?” “Please, Doctor-sahib. If I didn’t want to help you, I wouldn’t be questioning you myself. I would have delegated this to some junior officer and gone home to eat dinner with my family and watch TV. If I am here, beyond my hours of duty, it is to see that no harm comes to you.” “What do you mean harm? Who is trying to harm me? And what is this ridiculous line of questioning?” Doctor-sahib sprang to his feet and banged the table with his fist. “I want to know what the hell is going on. Or I am leaving.” Promptly, Dandekar rose to his feet, but Bedekar restrained him. He continued to address Doctor-sahib. “I must request you, Doctor-sahib, to sit down. Should you move from this room, I will have no option but to detain you. Using force, if necessary. You have been accused of rape, of molestation. By none other than your patient, Ms. Manju Kanaujia. Who, I believe, you saw this evening.” Doctor-sahib sank back in his chair. His legs felt weak, his arms numb; he could hear his heart pound. “Yes, I did,” he said. “She and her husband came to the clinic. I didn’t meet him, though.” It suddenly dawned on him. “Is he the man in the photograph?” he asked.

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Mānoa

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In the Silence

“Yes, he too was at your clinic. But you insisted on seeing her alone. Because you wanted to examine her in private. Without anyone watching.” “Is that the accusation?” asked Doctor-sahib softly. “Yes, that’s the story we have been told. That’s her statement in the first information report. Now we want to listen to your side of it. And we want to help you.” “What do you want to know? What precisely?” Doctor-sahib was tired and afraid now. Builders and civic officials he could deal with. Because they fought in the open and there was evidence of their crimes all over. Blatant, visible evidence. But this—a woman accusing him of misconduct, of rape—was unknown territory. Something like this could destroy him, destroy all that he had worked for. He would never recover. Never be able to face his patients again. Looking at the inspector, he said weakly, “I would never. . . never!!!” Bedekar leaned forward and said, “I know, Doctor-sahib, I know you wouldn’t. So tell me everything you know about this woman. How you came to know her. How you treated her at your clinic.” “Yes, yes . . . but first, may I have some water, please?” asked the doctor. “Of course. I am so sorry, I should have offered,” said the inspector. “Tea or coffee? And something to eat? A sandwich or a sev puri? The man down the road is excellent. He might still be open.” “No, I am fine with water,” said Doctor-sahib. “Just water will do.” Reaching for a jug, the inspector poured him a glass. And while Doctor-sahib drank, the inspector looked at his tense face magnified in the glass and thought, How frightened people are of the law, how they come apart at the seams; they just don’t see us as friends. Soothed by the break, Doctor-sahib started speaking. Manju Kanaujia had started coming to him two years ago, when he had gotten so busy that he did not have time to attend to his washing. His shirts and trousers he would give to the laundry, but the heavier articles—the bed sheets, blankets, curtains, and towels—he decided to give to a washer man, a dhobi. He had asked around and someone had sent her, saying she worked at the dhobi ghat, her husband was a washer man, and she was quite prompt in her deliveries. And so she would come every Sunday to deliver the washed clothes and pick up the dirty ones. This was around eleven in the morning, after he had returned from his club, where he would have played a game of squash and treated himself to a heavy breakfast. She was a real chatterbox. Would talk about her husband and kids. Her husband drank too much. That’s why she never let him do the ironing: he would end up burning the clothes. She would talk about the tough times the dhobis were facing: the water restrictions, the rising cost of detergents, the high electricity bills, and incidents of clothes being stolen from the drying lines. Her children had to make do with less. Their school uniforms were old and shabby and, unlike other kids, they could not afford to have birthday parties. He would listen out of politeness. And, at the end of her visit, would pay her more than he owed her, more than she had actually earned.



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“And how much more would that be?” asked the inspector, his eyes narrowing. “Not too much. Thirty or forty rupees extra. If, say, I had to pay her a hundred and twenty, I’d give her one fifty and tell her to keep the change. Or if it was one sixty, I would give her two hundred. She said she wouldn’t tell her husband about it; he would squander it on drink. Instead, she’d use it to give her children something special in their lunch boxes.” The inspector turned to Dandekar and said, “Please write that Doctor-sahib was always kind to her, he was generous, because she was needy and wanting extra money for her children.” Dandekar noted this diligently, in a slow, methodical scrawl. “Tell us about the time you examined her in your living room,” said the inspector. Doctor-sahib shrugged. “There’s not much to say. She was seated on the floor, and I on the sofa, and, from time to time, she kept rubbing her feet and groaning. I realized that she wanted to draw my attention to some discomfort she was feeling. So I asked her what the matter was, and she stuck her feet out and showed me the swelling. Then, on the soles of her feet, the blisters.” “And did you touch her feet or feel the blisters?” “Just the parts that were swollen,” said Doctor-sahib. “To see how bad the problem was.” “Okay. Now please don’t get upset and fly off the handle, but we need to know this. At any point, did you ask her to come into your bedroom, saying the light there was better?” “Certainly not! Is that what she said, the little bitch? In fact, I did not want to say this, but let me tell you something, Bedekar. I felt, even then, that there was something strange about her. While showing me her feet, she raised her sari all the way up to her thighs. And I was embarrassed, greatly embarrassed. I can be shy about these things even though I am a doctor. So I got up and moved away to write out a prescription for her. I even gave her a tube of ointment. How dare . . . how dare she say I invited her into the bedroom!” “Arrey, Doctor-sahib, let her say what she likes. If you have done nothing, then why do you get so angry? Just relax. We will get to the bottom of this. We will catch out her lies.” “Relax?! How do you expect me to relax, Bedekar? This is my reputation we are talking about. I think I am going to call my lawyer.” “You are, of course, within your rights to do that. And it’s likely that your lawyer will get you out of here in ten minutes. You have not been charged as yet. But then, we will have to request the court for your custody. Which they will grant, because this is a non-bailable offense. And that won’t be pleasant, I assure you. You won’t like staying in one of our cells. But why let it come to that? We are trying to help you. All we are asking for is some information, some clarity. Is that such a problem?” The inspector looked at Doctor-sahib gravely, reproachfully.

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Mānoa

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“I am sorry, Bedekar, I can see you are being patient. It’s just that I am tired. It’s been a long day. I’ve been seeing patients since morning. I’ve had three cases of dengue, two hospital admissions. I am tired. And hungry.” “Then this is the right time to have a sev puri. And wait, I am ordering a sandwich, too, for you. A toasted sandwich with cheese, tomatoes, and cucumber. You will like that, won’t you? And how do you like your sev puri: sweet or spicy? Just tell Dandekar here; he will order it.” “Well, right now, I could do with a little sweetness in my life,” said Doctor-sahib, smiling faintly. “Wait!” said the inspector to Dandekar, who had gotten to his feet. “It is custard apple season, so get a nice big glass of custard apple juice for Doctor-sahib. Get it from that juicewalla down the road. And tell him it’s for an important guest.” Then, turning to the doctor, he said, “You have this juice, Doctor-sahib, and you will not forget the taste, I promise!” Doctor-sahib smiled, but in his heart he felt a pinch of guilt. He knew the juicewalla, Babubhai, who had his stall at the end of the street. Babubhai had magic in his fingers. He made the juices to the right degree of sweetness. Doctor-sahib was a regular at his stall and Babubhai had often told him how the policemen would come and fill their containers with his juices. All for free. That was the price he paid for doing business on the streets of Mumbai. “Wait, I’d like to pay for this,” said Doctor-sahib to Dandekar, who was about to leave. “Relax, Doctor-sahib. You are our guest now. We can’t let you pay,” said the inspector. “Besides, we too will be eating.” He gestured to Dandekar, who promptly vanished, closing the door behind him. The inspector leaned forward and said in a confiding voice, “Good that he is gone and that we are alone. I can speak to you freely now, Doctor-sahib. Not as one who sits in this chair but as one who is your friend and admirer.” He paused, and Doctor-sahib waited. His mind was on the sandwich and sev puri. Not the ideal dinner for him—too high in cholesterol, in calories—but it would do. “Do you know, Doctor-sahib, why I am here so late, sitting with you and trying to get to the bottom of this case? Earlier I gave you the impression that I was staying back for you. Yes, that is true to some extent. But there is another reason. A more important reason. “You see these hands, Doctor-sahib? You see how healthy and strong they are? These are hands that have played many games—cricket, hockey, volleyball, badminton, table tennis—and they have helped friends during rock-climbing and mountain-climbing expeditions. These hands have served an ailing father, supported an elderly mother, and held the face of a newly wedded wife, to assure her that she will be looked after for her lifetime. But today these hands have blood on them, the blood of an innocent man. Let me tell you what happened this morning. “Last night, it seems, there was an altercation between two drunken men and a taxi driver. The men wanted to go to the other side of Grant Road to do

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some mischief, but the taxi driver refused to take them. He was a young boy from Bihar who had just gotten his license, and been advised by his friends to steer clear of that area. Anyway, he refused, but the men insisted. One thing led to another and the men pulled him out of the taxi and began to beat him. “Fortunately, two constables from our police station were passing by. They stopped the men and asked them what was going on, and the men said it was the taxi driver who had started it: he had gotten aggressive with them. The men insisted that the constables take the taxi driver to the police station and book him. These men, it seems, were the cousins of some minister. They pulled out their cell phones and asked the constables if they’d like to speak to the minister. “Hearing this, my men got nervous and hauled off the cabbie to the station, where they detained him till morning, till I arrived. The men insisted that the station officer file a complaint of assault, but the officer refused. Instead, he filed a complaint for disturbing the public peace. “Now, on my way to the station this morning, I get a call from the minister. I won’t say who he is, but he is a very important man in the state cabinet. He starts some conversation about these ‘outsiders’ and how, if we weren’t careful, they’d start to think they owned the city. Soon, they’d take our jobs and take over our city, he said. Every few seconds, he would stop and ask me, ‘Am I not correct? Am I saying anything wrong? You tell me.’ And, of course I had no option but to agree, because I didn’t quite know where this was leading. “Then he says these outsiders must be taught a lesson, they must be made an example of, and there was one such opportunity right there in my police station. He went on to tell me about the taxi driver who had gotten aggressive with his cousins, two men who meant more to him than his own brothers. ‘What exactly did he do, sir?’ I asked, to which he said, ‘You will not believe: daat dakhawale. He showed teeth.’ “He then went on to say that his two cousins would be coming to the police station and that I should teach the taxi driver a lesson in their presence. It was important I did this personally so that the message would get through that no outsider should mess with the locals. He ended by saying he hoped I realized how important this was for our community and for our state. “Hearing him, I felt repulsed, I felt nauseous. I had studied in a cosmopolitan school and college, grown up with outsiders, enjoyed their company, food, and hospitality. But now I was powerless. High command had spoken. The men came around noon. Their eyes were bloodshot from all the drinking they had done the night before. “In their presence, we had to beat up the poor taxi driver. We first asked him to apologize to the men, but he refused. He asked, why should he since it wasn’t his fault. Each time he said that, I would slap him, hoping that he would apologize and the matter would end there. I had barely slapped him a few times when he peed in his pants. He looked at me horrified, shaking with fright; then, slowly, he spurted blood from his mouth. “I decided that he had had enough. I instructed a constable to take him

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to Nair Hospital so that he could get prompt treatment. The two men were disappointed. They wanted me to beat him more, and seeing that I wouldn’t, they abused him on his way out. “The constable returned toward evening and told me that the driver had recently had oral surgery and that my beating had opened up his stitches. Thankfully, he could get treated in Nair Dental, which was just next to the main hospital. But he was very stricken, very shattered. He kept saying, ‘Inspector-sahib has been unfair to me; he did not even give me a chance to explain.’ “Now, Doctor-sahib, you might wonder why I am telling you all this. You see these hands? You see them before you? Well, tonight, if I had gone home early, my children would have come running up to me. They would want me to hold them, hug them, put them to bed. They would want me to take them in my arms and stroke their foreheads till they dozed off. “But how can I do that? How can I touch their soft, innocent faces with these hands and pretend that nothing has happened? How can I perform tender acts of fatherhood with hands that have, in all probability, ruined someone’s life, made him bitter—about the law, about justice, about our city, about life, and people in general? “I was brooding about this and wondering if I should call home and make some excuse and then go to the police gymkhana and have a few drinks, when your washerwoman came in with her complaint. “It was a serious complaint, saying you had molested her, penetrated her with your fingers in the course of a physical examination, which, under Section 375 of the Indian Penal Code, amounts to rape. The station officer immediately brought it to my attention. And because I know you well, and knew, at once, that this was bogus, I decided to stay back. Your case gave me a chance to stay away from home, away from the humiliation of having to face my children and pretend to be a hero. The truth is, Doctor-sahib, I am no hero. I am as much a victim of my circumstances as you are. But I would like to be one, and the only way I can do so is by saving you. Will you help me do that?” He looked at Doctor-sahib intently, and the doctor nodded. A few minutes later, the food arrived, and the two men ate appreciatively in silence, knowing that there was serious work to be done after this, work that would save them both a lot of heartburn. The sev puri was crisp and fresh, but the sandwich tasted a little leathery because it had gone cold while Dandekar waited for the juice to be made. Apparently, more sev puri and sandwiches were coming: two constables were bringing them. Doctor-sahib fretted about Babubhai; he knew the juicewalla was trying to put his son through college, saving up for that. Plus, Babubhai needed a new mixer, his old one was giving him trouble. As Doctor-sahib sipped the juice, relishing its creamy sweetness, he remembered that a pharma company would give him a gift every Diwali. Not that he ever asked. But the company would insist he name a gift of his choice, costing up to ten thousand rupees. This time, he thought, he would ask for a mixer

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for Babubhai, one of those heavy, professional models that work for a lifetime. Babubhai had given Doctor-sahib free juices all through his college days, and this would be his way of making it up to him. Pleased with this thought, Doctor-sahib rose and went to the washroom to wash his hands. Returning, he tapped a couple of oral fresheners into his mouth. Now he was ready to speak, ready to defend himself. Whatever it took to keep himself out of trouble. A peon came in and picked up the plates, then ran a wipe over the table. Dandekar came in and took his seat. His belly seemed distended; he looked as though he had eaten well. From under his desk, the inspector drew a can of air freshener and sprayed the room. Clouds of vapor rose and faded and the smell of spices gave way to a sweet lavender fragrance. Fed, sated, and convinced that he was now in the company of friends, Doctor-sahib began his story. After he had treated her swollen feet, the washerwoman had started getting extremely familiar. She had asked Doctor-sahib why he hadn’t married, why he didn’t have a girlfriend. How do I tell her I am married to my work? he said, and, besides, I don’t like anyone prying into my personal life. She had said to him that it was not good for a man to be without a woman, especially a nice-looking man like him. He had understood what she was getting at, but had brushed it aside, thinking, if he didn’t give it any importance, she would get the message. But then he had noticed that the cut of her blouses was conspicuously low and that, whilst counting the clothes, she would show an undue amount of cleavage. He turned red even as he spoke, even as he told this to Bedekar, saying that he had begun to feel horribly trapped by that woman. One day she told him that he was looking tired and that she could give him a good neck and shoulder massage. She smiled at him coyly and giggled, adding that her husband had taken the children and gone to his brother’s house, so she was free to spend time with him. When he replied that he didn’t need a massage, she had asked what he needed, if he had anything else in mind. A cold fear had gripped him. He did not know how to reprimand her, how to sack her. That evening, speaking to his sister over the phone, he had mentioned this and shared his anxiety and concern. She had promptly taken charge. She came over the next Sunday and, after taking stock of the washed clothes, had firmly told the washerwoman that her services wouldn’t be required anymore, and she was not to come to the apartment again, ever. The washerwoman had looked dazed and hurt. She had gazed reproachfully at Doctor-sahib, who simply pretended to be busy while, in his heart, feeling an immense relief. “It was as though I had been saved from a terrible danger,” he said. “But how was I to know the danger would follow me, pursue me all the way here?” Thereafter, she had started coming to his clinic on some pretext or other. A cough, a cold, headaches and backaches, which he diagnosed as menstrual

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cramps. She would ask that he feel the parts that were causing her pain, and he would pretend he hadn’t heard her. At first, he didn’t charge her; then he realized that asking for payment might work as a deterrent. When he’d ask, she would dig into her blouse, pull out a few rupees, and say that she would give him the balance the next time. And hearing this, he would flinch. He didn’t want there to be a next time. This went on for two years. She would come every month or so. “But why didn’t you simply tell her to stop coming? Say you weren’t interested in being her physician,” asked the inspector. “How could I do that? I can’t turn away a patient without a valid reason. If she came to me for some ailment outside my area of competence, then I could refuse. But all her problems were within my scope; I had no reason to turn her away. Till now, that is.” “So what happened this evening? What was her problem? And how did you treat her?” The inspector leaned forward over his desk. “No, wait, Bedekar; before that, I have to tell you something. One day she arrived at the clinic in a distraught state. She said to my secretary, at the reception desk, that she wanted to talk to me and would wait till the last patient had gone. When eventually I called her in, I left the door open and told my secretary that he should wait. I asked her what the problem was and she said that she hadn’t slept for four nights, so could I give her something to induce sleep. She kept pressing her forehead, saying she was going crazy without sleep, and it was all because of that husband of hers, who had brought ruin onto them. I did not want to probe into what looked like a domestic matter, so I thought I would give her a strip of sleeping pills and send her away, but she went on ranting. She said her husband was downright stupid and that because of him they would become homeless. She mumbled something about their ghat going in for redevelopment, and when the builder’s men had come around asking how long they had been living there, that stupid husband of hers had told the truth: that they had been there for only seven years. That did not entitle them to a flat in the new building but only to financial compensation, which, knowing her husband, he would squander in no time. Hai Ram, she said, what had she done to deserve such a man? Anyway, this time she had no ulterior motive and had made no advances, so I allowed her to vent her feelings and leave. And I even forgot to ask for payment.” After that, he hadn’t seen her for months—four to five months, at least. “Then why today?” asked the inspector, frowning. “Today she said she had been getting severe abdominal pains and some bleeding, too, from the vagina. I knew this was outside my area of competence. It was likely a gynecological problem. But since she mentioned the bleeding and the pains, I thought I should at least give her an external examination. That way, she’d know what to tell the gynecologist.” “What about the husband? Did he not accompany her in?”



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“Now that is what is strange. My secretary asked him to go in with her, but he refused. Later, my secretary told me that the husband was reeking of alcohol. His breath was foul smelling, overpowering, and maybe that’s why he did not want to come in. He did not want to face me.” “Hmm … ,” said the inspector. “Go on.” “I don’t know if you know how an abdominal examination works, but we do it in four parts. The first part is the inspection, where we look for lesions, scars, and swellings, from the sternum to the pelvic bone. The second part is auscultation, where, with a stethoscope, we listen to sounds from the abdomen. We check for sounds of bowel irregularity and constipation.” Here, the inspector interjected. He said to Dandekar, “You needn’t take all that down. Just say that Doctor-sahib gave the patient a thorough examination.” Then turning to the doctor, he said, “Please, go on.” “The third part is palpation, and here we physically test the painful and non-painful areas; we check for things like hernia and enlargement of the liver and spleen. And then there’s the fourth part, percussion, where we tap the abdomen for abnormal sounds.” “And what precisely did you find?” “Well,” said Doctor-sahib, “I am not an expert in this area. This is something only a gynecologist can confirm, but my hunch is that she has a vascular fibroid, which is stuck to some blood vessels, and these rupture and bleed each time there’s an abrupt movement.” “At any point, did you ask her to remove her clothes? Her sari and petticoat? Her undergarments?” “No, of course not,” said Doctor-sahib. “We don’t do that in an external examination.” “And, at any point, did you penetrate her with your fingers? Like, an internal examination.” “Certainly not!” said Doctor-sahib. He felt a dizzying heat rise to his face. His ears burned, and slowly the sensation spread to his neck. “And what advice did you give her? Did you prescribe anything?” “I asked her to go to a government hospital and consult a gynecologist. And I prescribed a drug, aminocaproic acid, to stop the bleeding. I even wrote out a note, detailing my observations for the gynecologist.” The inspector sighed. “Well, Doctor-sahib, I have no reason to doubt you. None whatsoever. But I must ask you again. Just for the record. Because all this comes under Section 375 of the Indian Penal Code, which is a non-bailable offence, punishable with ten years of imprisonment. I must ask you, Doctor-sahib: Did you, as a person in a position of trust, violate that trust and take advantage of your position as a doctor? Did you perform any kind of coercive, non-consensual act on your patient?” “No, sir, I did not.” “Then, Doctor-sahib, I must ask you to go home and get a good night’s sleep. You will need it. I am going to do everything in my power to help you.

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But if I am not able to get to the bottom of this by morning, you will have to get yourself a very good lawyer. Someone competent and reliable. Because the accusations against you are serious. Very serious.” “So you are not arresting me?” asked Doctor-sahib wryly. He tried to smile, but his heart wouldn’t let him. “Not yet. And never, I hope,” said the inspector. He, too, tried to smile, but didn’t quite succeed. Doctor-sahib took leave of the policemen. But at the door he paused, turned, and said, “I am not such a bastard, Bedekar, that I would molest a woman who had come to my door asking for help.” The inspector leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, and said, “I know. But what I think does not matter. It’s the world and its opinion of you. I am sure you know that.” Doctor-sahib felt a chill run down his spine. He shut the door behind him and looked at his watch: 11:30 p.m. It was too late to call Aditya, too late to call his sister, either. He was alone till morning, alone with his thoughts. The city he stepped out into was not the city of his birth. Everything looked different now. The streets looked bare and empty; the tall, gray buildings, under construction, looked like they were coming up only to devour the smaller buildings, to crush whoever dared to live there. He himself felt small, vulnerable, and dispensable. He felt as though one of the speeding cars would run him over if he wasn’t careful. And he had been careful. He had remembered to cover Manju with a bedsheet while examining her. Through all the stages, except the inspection, where he needed to check for signs of abrasion and growth. Damn! He had forgotten to mention this to the inspector. How could he let such an important detail slip? But then he had been so tense, so stressed out. He wondered if he should go back and clarify this. The sheet was still lying on the examination bed. Bedekar could send a constable to collect it. It would be strong evidence. Hope flooded his heart, but equally fast it dissolved into gloom, into despondency. What would that prove? Nothing, really! The washerwoman would lie and say that he had not covered her. She was a lying bitch, a cold-hearted slut. She had no clue what she was putting him through. She had no idea what this would do to his life and practice. His heart started pounding. He could swear it was trying to pound its way out of his body. Before him, the traffic signals blinked. Now yellow, now red; now red, now yellow. What should he do? Go back to the police station, where a friendly voice waited, a voice that could, with equal poise, write out his arrest warrant? Or should he return to the loneliness of his apartment? For once Doctor-sahib wished he were married. A man with a wife, anchored in a happy marriage: that would have amounted to something; it would have spoken for his decency. At once he felt ashamed. Why was he thinking like a typical Indian male who needed a wife only to reinforce his social status? The truth was: he had

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never felt the need to get married. He was shy with women, a bit wary of them, too. He could never tell what they were thinking, or what they thought of him. There had been a girl in college. She was intelligent and reserved. He had taken her to the prom, where all they had done was sit and watch other couples dancing. He would meet her in the college canteen, after lab work, and they’d walk to the railway station, where they’d enjoy a Frankie and an ice cream before parting. Somehow it was she who always paid, saying that she received a decent allowance from her father, a diamond merchant. They would chat for a while before parting, and there’d always be some reluctance, a need to linger. He had felt that was love, or something close to it. He had thought of confessing his feelings to her and asking her to wait till he finished medical college, which would be five years later. But no, it would take him longer than that to pay off his student loans, he calculated. So he had kept his feelings to himself, and she had gotten married as soon as she completed her twelfth grade. Because that’s what her parents wanted and that’s how it was in her community. Not that he had regretted it. His life’s plan was pretty much laid out for him. He had lost both his parents early in life and had been brought up by an older sister, older by twelve years, who loved him dearly and had taken heavy loans so that he could go to medical college and become a doctor. And he had! Forsaking all temptations and applying himself single-mindedly to his studies. His original plan was to do his post-graduate work in critical care medicine. But then his sister had gotten divorced. She had two young daughters to raise by herself, and Doctor-sahib had thought it prudent to start earning, paying back his student loans and his debt to his sister. Of course, he hadn’t told her that. He just spoke of an offer to purchase one of the shops in the neighborhood, which was going for a song because the owner wanted to hang up his boots and retire to his farm. The location was perfect for a clinic: it faced the main road, and there was no other doctor within a kilometer. Doctor-sahib had taken it, and from day one it was a success. Patients had poured in, and Doctor-sahib had attributed it to his late parents watching over him. Right now, he could do with their help, he thought. But no, he was staring at an empty apartment and a silence that loomed like an unseen wall between him and his peace of mind. I am not that kind of man, not that kind of man, he kept saying to himself. He did not remember when he changed into his pajamas, when he brushed his teeth—brushed so vigorously that his gums bled—when he went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. All he remembered was falling on the bed, facedown, between two pillows, and allowing himself to sink in deeper, repeating to himself: I am not that kind of man. Anybody can see that. Outside his window, a train hooted, sending its long, sad refrain down the tracks.

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Outside his window, pavement dwellers fought, the women haranguing the men and the men threatening violence. Outside his window, a few meters away, a ladies’ bar swung open its doors to customers: well-dressed men with money in their pockets and mischief on their minds. And, meanwhile, Doctor-sahib suffered the sleep of the troubled, the sleep of a frightened child, clinging with clenched fingers to the starched white edges of his pillows. No sooner had Doctor-sahib left the station than Inspector Bedekar leaned over his desk and jabbed at the intercom. “Send in Rupali Madam, please. Right away!” he said. Minutes later, a smartly dressed woman in her late twenties walked in with a file under her arm. She had a high forehead, soft hair bunched up loosely, large, clear eyes, and dark, well-cropped eyebrows. Her figure was elegant, her shoulders firm and erect, her khaki trousers neatly pressed and fitted in the manner of a fashionable cut. She held the file close to her chest. She stood before Bedekar. The name tag on her uniform read rupali karmakar. “What have you got for me?” asked Bedekar, pointing to a chair opposite him. Dandekar straightened up in his chair. His face was grim, impassive, unsmiling. Bedekar knew that Dandekar did not approve of women on the force and that he showed it. Well, he’d better get used to it, thought Bedekar. Sub-inspector Rupali Karmakar was one of his finest officers. If anyone could crack this case, it would be her. Seated, Rupali crossed her legs. Her smooth, pudgy hands rested on the file. Her deportment brought strength and beauty to her uniform. “What would you like to know, sir?” she asked. “My findings or my opinion?” “Opinion first!” said Bedekar. “We don’t have much time.” “Well, sir, it’s clearly a bogus complaint. The woman is lying through her teeth. As for her husband, his acting is so bad that even a child can see through it. If Doctor-sahib had molested her, as she claims, then would she not have screamed and gone rushing to her husband, who was waiting outside? But she did no such thing. She even asked Doctor-sahib’s secretary for an appointment for the following week. Also, sir, if, as she says, Doctor-sahib had made advances to her when she had visited his home and shown him her swollen feet, if he had invited her into his bedroom—then why did she continue going to him as a patient? Her story makes no sense.” “Yes, but I am wondering what would she achieve by doing this. What is her game? Is it revenge or obsession? Or are we missing something altogether? I am hoping, Rupali, you can find some answers.” “I am trying, sir; I am doing my best. But if it is revenge, why would she



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wait so long? Obsession? No, she wouldn’t take her husband with her. I think she and her husband have some plan. Maybe it’s extortion. And you need to know this, sir: while they were here giving their statement, the husband kept pleading and saying he needed to go out for a few minutes. He sounded very desperate. I think he is an alcoholic. He can’t do without his quota.” “It’s good to know this. Maybe that is something we can work on. What about the medical examination? Has it shown any injuries? Any signs of penetration, rough play?” “Nothing, sir. I sent her to Nair Hospital, and the report has come back as ‘normal.’ No bleeding, no injuries. Nothing!” “No bleeding, huh? That’s a point in Doctor-sahib’s favor. She had said that there was vaginal bleeding. Which is why she went to see Doctor-sahib in the first place.” “Would you like to see the first information report, sir?” She opened the file and pushed it toward him. He scanned it, then said, “It’s what I expected. Her statement makes Doctor-sahib look like a pervert. She says he made her remove her blouse, then her undergarments. Then, there is this statement which the presswallas will love: ‘He spent time inside me, probing with his fingers, despite knowing I was bleeding.’ I think, Rupali, this woman knows what she is doing, she has come prepared. Do you think the husband has set her up? I would like to know your thoughts.” “If you ask me, sir, she is the one in charge, she is the one who controls the relationship. While filing the complaint, she was doing all the talking and he would only nod like a goat. Sometimes I could tell that his mind was far away, probably on his next drink. And at times he would shiver. Out of nervousness or out of withdrawal, I don’t know.” “The addiction is an interesting angle. I would like to work on it. See if something turns up.” Turning to Dandekar, he asked, “Which is the adda closest to the dhobi ghat, where these Kanaujias stay?” Rupali interjected, “Narang’s den, sir. It is just around the corner from the dhobi ghat. Some of the dhobis go there to drink.” Dandekar scowled; clearly he was displeased with Rupali’s interjection. And seeing this, Bedekar had to make an effort not to smile. She continued, “With your permission, sir, I would like to go and make some inquiries at Narang’s den. This might be the right time to get a few tongues wagging. I am sure many of them will be knowing Gopal Kanaujia. They might have some information for us.” “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Madam going to such a place—” “Hold your tongue, Dandekar. No one’s asked you.” Rupali’s eyes blazed with indignation. “Dandekar is just trying to help,” said Bedekar quickly. “He is right. Your presence will make the men uncomfortable. They are not used to seeing a woman there. They will clam up.”

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“Well, I know how to unclam them,” said Rupali firmly. She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, her anger adding to her attractiveness. “That won’t help,” said Bedekar, smiling. “We want to win them over. We want them to give information willingly. I think I will speak to Narang myself.” “Well, I will take your leave then, sir,” said Rupali. “What do you want me to do with the Kanaujias? Should I continue questioning them or let them go?” “Let the woman leave. The man should stay. Say we want to ask him a few more questions. She will probably kick up a fuss, but you can say it’s only routine. That way no one can accuse us of being unsympathetic to her.” Rupali bowed and left, and the inspector dismissed Dandekar as well. Moments later, he punched the intercom and asked the operator to get him Narang. Two minutes later, she called back. “Sir, Narang on the line.” “Put him through.” “What can I do for you, Inspector-sahib? Don’t tell me you are about to raid me.” “I might, Narang, if you don’t cooperate. I am looking for some important information.” “Anything, sir; tell me what you need. You want me to come over?” “That won’t be necessary. First, let me tell you what this is about. But this is strictly between you and me. Don’t go opening your mouth to anyone. Otherwise, I will close down your adda.” “Don’t worry, sir; you can trust me. I am always on the side of the law.” “See, Narang, I want some information on a dhobi who might be your customer. He is here right now, and I think he is lying to us. He is trying to frame someone who is known to me. Now this dhobi thinks he is smart, that he can fool us. We will, sooner or later, get a confession out of him. But for that I need your help.” “Tell me his name, sir. Most of the dhobis drink at my adda. They have running accounts with me.” “His name is Gopal Kanaujia. Does that ring a bell?” “Of course I know Gopal; he is a regular here. He is a meek sort of a fellow, not robust, like some of the other dhobis. He usually comes alone, orders half a bottle, which he finishes in about three hours. Then he goes off staggering. Once or twice it seemed like he wouldn’t make it back home on his own. So I sent one of my boys to help him. What does it take, sir, to go out of your way for another human being?” “If I know you, Narang, you were only protecting your debt. Anyway, tell me about Gopal. Who is he friendly with? Anyone we can speak to at the adda whom you might know?” “Well, I could ask my manager, Manohar. He is the one who knows all the customers. Keeps a close watch on them. Let me ask him and call you back.” “Yes, but call on my direct line . . . You have my number?” Half an hour later, Narang called, and the two of them spoke for over twenty

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minutes. At a certain point, the manager Manohar also came on the line and spoke to the inspector, who kept nodding and saying, “I see, I see . . . This is interesting. Go on!” After putting down the phone, the inspector rang for Rupali, who came in promptly. “Have the Kanaujias gone?” he asked. “Sir, the woman left most reluctantly. But I told her she needed to get back to her children, which seemed to convince her. I could make out she was worried about leaving her husband behind. It’s as though she does not trust him. As for him, he is quite nervous, keeps saying he wants to go home.” “He is the weak link in their plan,” said Bedekar. “Now, if we play it right, we will have a confession by morning. But let’s do this right, Rupali. Listen to what I have learnt.” Rupali sat down and the inspector began. “It seems our friend Gopal has come into a lot of money of late. He has not only repaid all his debts to Narang but has also been drinking and bragging about how, in Mumbai, one needs to be smart, needs to look out for oneself, because no one else cares. What is strange is that he was very depressed sometime ago. He would drink heavily and curse his luck, and now, suddenly, he is very cheerful and social.” “Sir, any idea what exactly he was depressed about? Maybe there is some clue there.” “Well, it appears that he was going to be homeless, because the ghat, as you know, is going in for redevelopment, and many of the dhobis will be accommodated in a new building. The builder is also giving some compensation for the loss of livelihood, in addition to giving them a 325-square-foot apartment. But Gopal Kanaujia is not eligible for that; he has not lived the required number of years at the ghat. This had made him very angry and bitter. He was drinking heavily. To the point that he would pass out, and twice or thrice he had to be taken home by one of Narang’s boys. Now all that has changed, suddenly. He doesn’t talk about being homeless anymore. He says, instead, a man needs to be smarter than the city so that it doesn’t defeat him. I wonder, Rupali, where this new attitude is coming from. What has changed in the last few days? And if it has any connection to their complaint.” “It is very strange, sir. But if he has come into money suddenly, then that would rule out our extortion theory.” “Not quite. Perhaps he has discovered that extortion is one way to make easy money. Perhaps husband and wife have started some kind of a racket. The question is how do we find out? And we don’t have much time, Rupali.” The two lapsed into silence, thinking hard. Then the inspector said, “I have an idea. I am not sure if it will work, but it’s worth a try. But we will need Narang’s help, again.” Leaning across, he spoke to Rupali for a good fifteen minutes, and she listened attentively. Then he called up Narang and explained, saying, “You understand the importance of this, Narang? It has to be done right. We can’t afford to make even a small mistake.” And Narang said, “Don’t worry, sir; just leave it to me. Between Manohar and me, we will get this done.” 164

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It was an elated dhobi who left the police station, bowing and thanking the lady inspector who said he could go. She cautioned him to go straight home, to not stop anywhere on the way, and he nodded eagerly: anything to get out of there. Walking him out, this kindhearted lady inspector lowered her voice and told him not to speak to any press reporters about what had happened. “You understand why I am saying this?” she asked. “It will look bad on your family, bad on your wife, and worse for your children in school. You know how people are: They will not blame the doctor. They will say: what kind of man are you, that you could not even protect your wife? So if anyone asks you anything or contacts you about this, you just say nothing. Is that clear?” He listened to her and nodded vigorously. He hurried along, cutting through a back lane that led to the dhobi ghat. At one point, he pulled out his cell phone and thought of calling Manju to tell her he was on his way back. But no, she would ask him to come straight home—and he didn’t want that. What he wanted was a drink. Maybe two, maybe three. His lips were parched, his nose was running, he was getting cramps in his stomach. Besides, his head was all muddled. What had that lady inspector said? That the world would think of him as a coward. They would say he was unable to protect his wife. Yes, his brother-dhobis would say that. They would snicker at him, laugh at him, run him down. He had seen how some of them looked at Manju. With eyes of desire and inflamed mouths. They thought he hadn’t noticed, that he didn’t know. Well, he did! At once he felt shame. It was his fault, really. He hadn’t been much of a husband to her. How long since they had had slept together? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t say. It was the alcohol that came between them, it made him numb to everything else. But things would get better once they had that flat, their very own flat. Once he had done what he had to. Besides, he wasn’t doing it for himself. But for her and for the children. And so, along the same route where, an hour or so before, Doctor-sahib had walked home heavyhearted, where the weight of his humiliation had made every step difficult, here Gopal Dhobi trotted along, joyous in the realization that life was about to get better. The police had believed their story; there was money in his pocket; his wife was pleased with him; and soon, very soon he would be the owner of a flat, his very own. But what would he do with a flat if he didn’t have work? Ah, but theirs was a shrinking business anyway. The washing machines had made sure of that, and those municipality chaps who increased the rates of water and electricity. Being a dhobi just didn’t make sense anymore. If he had his way, he would sell the flat, take the money, and go back to his village. There he would build a house, a grand house, which people would want to visit. And he would keep a few cows and buy a tractor and a motorcycle. What about his drinking? He would have to give that up. Otherwise, people would laugh and say “Gopalbhai, what happened to you? You went to the city sober and came back a drunkard.” But right now, while he was rich, he might as well indulge. He was approaching Narang’s adda, where it might be crowded; he might have to stand and

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drink, but that was okay. Anyway, he did not want to spend too much time there, just a few quick pegs, a few doubles. But first he had to shut off his cell phone. He did not want Manju calling and disturbing him. He did not want her to pester him to come home. Not until he had had his fill. But a man who has never seen money before doesn’t know when enough is enough. It is so easy to forget once the first few glasses have gone down. Especially when Narang was being so hospitable and Manohar himself was serving. What big pegs Manohar was pouring! It must be because they had recognized him as an important customer. After all, in one swoop he had cleared all his debts. He had gone and thrown three thousand rupees at them—just like that! That would have told them who he was. And what he was capable of. And while he drank, he was joined by some others. People he knew and others he had only seen before. There was Bheem Singh Bahadur, who once worked as a maalishwalla on Chowpatty Beach, but had been forced to quit when they cleared up the beach. Bheem Singh now worked as a handcart pusher, transporting heavy loads to Cotton Green, Ray Road, and Masjid Bunder. When his day’s work was done, Bheem Singh rushed to Mumbai Central Station, where he worked as a coolie till midnight. There was Varun Paoli, who once ran a matka den and an extortion racket but, having fallen on hard days, now worked for Narang as a bodyguard. Paoli still had criminal cases against him and couldn’t leave the city, which is why he needed Narang’s hand of protection. And there was Jamal Haddi, an out-of-work sweeper addicted to the bottle. Jamal was dying of a terrible wasting disease, the poor fellow! You could see death in Jamal’s face: in his gaunt cheeks, sunken eyes, his black, inflamed gums, the bulging veins on his neck. And together they drank and spoke, and drank and cursed their fate, and they all agreed that this was one haraami of a city: how it pushed them, tested them, made them into something they were not. “This city will make you sell your own mother if you are stupid,” said Gopal. “But if you are smart, like me, you will know how to play it.” “What do you mean, brother?” asked Manohar solemnly. The manager had lingered at their table after serving the last round. “You have obviously understood something that we haven’t.” “Ah, forget it; I don’t give away my secrets so easily,” said Gopal slyly. “And yet you call us brothers,” said Manohar. “I thought you meant it.” “I do! But these days you don’t know who to trust and who not to.” “Why treat us like enemies, brother?” asked Bheem Singh. “We have told you our situation. Hidden nothing from you. Then why can’t you trust us?” “It’s not me, it’s my wife; she won’t like it. It’s her secret, too.” “Ah, so you are tied to your wife’s palloo,” said Jamal Haddi. “Then say so, we understand.” The men broke into laughter. “It is you who are tied to your wife’s palloo, Jamal Haddi,” replied Gopal

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angrily. “We know where you get your money from. Your wife’s dhanda, which is to entertain other men.” “That is a terrible thing to say, Gopalbhai,” said Varun Paoli quickly, seeing the color drain from Jamal’s face. “You know Jamal’s wife needs to support them. You know how much it costs just to keep our friend alive. I don’t think we should blame her for that.” “Yes, if you don’t wish to tell us your secret, that’s fine, Gopalbhai,” said Manohar. “But you don’t have to condemn our brother for what life has done to him.” A tense silence followed. Jamal’s eyes filled with tears. His hands shook, his lips quivered. In a broken voice he said that perhaps he should leave, he hadn’t come here to get insulted. “I beg your forgiveness, Jamalbhai,” said Gopal unhappily. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It just slipped from my mouth. Maybe I’ve had too much drink. It is I who should leave.” “Well, you can always make up, Gopalbhai, by sharing your secret with us,” said Manohar. “That will prove that you trust us. That you consider us your brothers.” And then Gopal spoke while the others listened, and at some point Manohar gestured to the table boy and ordered another bottle, and he filled all their glasses, Gopal’s glass to the brim. And then they drank and confided some more till they were all slurring. And in the midst of it all there was laughter and teasing and hopes and dreams drawn from the deepest corners of their hearts and placed on the table for all to see, all to know. And in this way, they proved they were brothers. It was 2 a.m. by the time they left. They had to leave Jamal behind, snoring on a bench. “One day, just like that, he will pass away,” said Manohar sadly. “It’s only a matter of time.” “It’s okay if he goes like that,” said Bheem Singh. “He shouldn’t suffer. That’s all I ask.” “How to avoid suffering, brother?” asked Gopal. “To live is to suffer, and especially for us who have neither a privileged birth nor education in our favor.” “Poor wretch!” said Varun Paoli. “I hope he enjoys a better life in his next birth.” They walked on a road lit by a cold, bright moon. Barely had they walked a few meters when Gopal lurched. Bheem Singh caught him before he fell and Gopal went limp in his arms. “Our friend has drunk too much,” said Manohar. “And maybe it’s just as well that he sleeps it off, for tomorrow his life will change.” “Yes,” said Bheem Singh. “After what he has done, it’s a wonder he can sleep at all. Nobody ever prospered from making someone else unhappy. That’s what I have come to believe.” “Quite true, brother,” said Varun Paoli. “I have learnt that the hard way. And our friend here is about to learn that, too.”



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Sitting in her shanty, surrounded by mounds of unwashed clothes, Manju felt a wave of panic. Where was that fool? And why was his cell phone switched off? She had called twenty or thirty times at least. And each time she got a message saying that the cell phone was switched off, please try again later. She sat on a chair while her children slept. The room was in darkness, except for a tiny red bulb, which glowed and illuminated some pictures on the wall. There were pictures of Lord Shiva, Lord Ganesha, Lord Hanuman, and Mother Durga on a tiger, fiery yet benevolent. Her eyes darted around the room—to the blue peeling walls; the thick wooden shelves holding tins of rice, pulses, and spices; the black, wall-mounted fan that whirred and swung its neck from side to side, then settled on her children. The little ones slept so soundly, their stomachs rising and falling rhythmically. Manju wished she could be like them. As innocent. As carefree. Her mind flew over the events of the day. She had done exactly as she had been ordered. She had gone to the clinic and played out her little drama. And then to the police station, which was the tough part. And she had excelled in both places. The only problem was that her fool of a husband might spoil it now. She wished she hadn’t left him behind. But what to do? The lady inspector had been so insistent, saying she needed to return to her children. But now something was wrong: she could tell. His cell phone was switched off. A thought crossed her mind: Could he have gone to Narang’s adda? No, he wouldn’t dare! Not when he knew she’d be waiting. She made sure the kids were sleeping soundly; then, wearing her slippers, she closed the door and stepped out onto the moonlit path. Behind her, the ghat rose against the dark, velvet night sky. The next morning it would erupt in a profusion of colors, brightly colored clothes fluttering on drying lines while the sun poured its magnificent rays on them. But right now it looked like a sage in meditation, pondering his fate. Covering her face with her sari, Manju started in the direction of the police station. She took the main road and set off at a brisk pace. When she arrived, the first person she saw was Narang. Next to him was Manohar, and beside them were two other men, both strangers. She did not know why, but suddenly she felt sweat breaking out on her neck. The men were sitting with the station officer, who smiled at her and said, “Welcome, madam, welcome. Sahib has been waiting for you. We were wondering when you would come.” “I am here to see my husband,” she said stiffly. “I don’t know what business you people have with him. We have already said what we had to. There is nothing more to add.” “Yes, madam, but we just want to make sure. You sit on the bench outside. Sahib is busy. He will see you in a while.” “I don’t want to see your sahib; I want to see my husband. Where is he?” She was now panicking, for she sensed—and she knew she wasn’t wrong to feel this way—that there was something terribly wrong in the way the station officer was speaking to her. It was like he was mocking her. Like she was some insect on the wall. Not to be taken seriously.

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“You just wait, madam,” said the station officer firmly. Then turning to Narang and the others, he began speaking in a low voice, pausing, from time to time, to note something in a book. She waited for a long, long time. Two groups of youngsters came in and filed complaints against each other. It appeared that they had been in an accident, and both groups were enraged. It took several constables to calm them down. This was followed by a woman in a burqa, who came with her brother and complained about her husband, who, it seems, was sleeping with another woman. Her brother was sure that the husband had married the other woman; he had stopped giving his sister money, and some of her jewelry was missing. The woman was hysterical; she wanted the police to arrest the other woman. Wasn’t there a law against bigamy? she demanded. And what about her jewelry? Could she file a complaint for theft? Hearing the commotion, Sub-inspector Rupali came out of her office and spoke to the Muslim woman. It was a domestic matter, she said, the police couldn’t get involved. If her husband had beaten her or she had proof of the theft, they could do something. But adultery was no longer a crime; the law had been repealed. She advised the brother to handle the situation with maturity. His sister should go and meet with the other woman and appeal to her good nature and conscience. The sub-inspector leaned against a desk, speaking to the complainants in a kind, soothing voice, and Manju could not help but admire her. How smart the sub-inspector was! And how confident in the way she dealt with the situation! As soon as the Muslims left, Manju rose from her seat and approached the lady inspector. “Madam, madam!” she said. “Please help me. These men are not allowing me to rejoin my husband. I am worried. He should have been home by now.” Rupali Karmakar stared at her. “You and your husband might be here a long time,” she said. “I hope you have someone looking after your children.” She turned and walked toward an office at the end of the corridor, and after the men had finished speaking to the station officer, they went into the same room. On their way, the men gave Manju a peculiar look. Something between pity and cold revulsion. Seeing that the station officer was free, Manju approached him. “Please, sahib,” she said. “Please let me see my husband. I just want to know he is fine.” “What is the hurry, madam? You will get your chance. Just be patient, no?” He smiled without looking at her. It was 4:30 a.m. by the time she was called in to the office at the end of the corridor. They were all there: Senior Inspector Bedekar, Sub-inspector Rupali Karmakar, a senior constable with long, stiff whiskers and an unsmiling face, Narang, Manohar, and the two other men. They were all seated, and appeared to be so united that she found herself trembling under their gaze.

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“Speak, madam. You have something to tell us,” said the inspector from his chair. “My husband!” she said. “He hasn’t come home. I am worried. He was here when I left.” “Ah, yes, but he is in no state to talk right now. And whatever he had to say, he has said already. Now it’s your turn. Perhaps there is something you want to tell us. Like why you think us to be such fools. Why you have wasted our time with your false complaint.” “What do you mean, sahib? I have told you the truth, everything that happened. I swear on my children that I would never lie to you. Never!” “Shut up!” said the lady inspector wrathfully. “One more false word from your mouth and I will make sure you never see your children again. You are an insult to women, to motherhood. You know very well what you have done. We have proof, solid proof.” Something in her face reminded Manju of Kali, the Goddess of Destruction. Tears rushed into her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them. Her whole body shook and convulsed. Yet no one asked her to sit down. Then Inspector Bedekar spoke in a kindly voice. “Look, we know about your plan. We know you’ve been offered a large sum of money and a flat in the new building in exchange for framing Doctor-sahib, in order to shame him. It is best that you confess. Your husband already has! He has done so in the presence of four witnesses: these three men and one who is not here.” He pointed to Manohar and the two strangers. Manju kept sobbing. She could not help it, the tears flowed as did the kohl from her eyes. “Arrey, Dandekar. What is the minimum sentence for someone who gives a false complaint of rape? Can you tell us?” It was Kali speaking again, and the voice made Manju shiver. “Why, madam, it is a minimum of seven years. But in that Azad Nagar case, the judge gave life imprisonment to the culprits.” “You hear that?” said the lady inspector to Manju. “You had better start talking, if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison.” Manju felt as though the ground beneath her had opened up and that she was falling, falling. What had that idiot husband of hers told them? How could he do this to her and their children? A bitter taste rose in her mouth, her stomach tightened, and she felt sick, so sick that she wanted to throw up. She fought back her tears and said, “Sahib, please listen to me. I know I have done wrong; I know I have committed a big sin. But please let me tell you why I did it.” “Go on,” said Bedekar. “But, first, have some water.” Leaning across, he poured her a glass. With trembling hands, she raised the glass to her lips and drank. Some of the water spilled and ran down her neck and into her blouse, but she did not care. She set the empty glass on the desk and began. “Sahib,” she said. “You know our ghat is going in for redevelopment. We are going to lose our livelihood,

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the only means of earning we have. But that would be okay if we at least got a flat, like our brother-dhobis. In our case, however, there is a problem. We have lived here for only seven years, but only the dhobis who have been here for ten years will get a flat. We pleaded with the builder’s men who came to check who is eligible, and we met with the municipality people and begged them as well. Please help us, we said. Somehow fit us in. But they would not listen. “Sahib, I have three children: two girls and a boy. Right now, we stay in a small eleven-by-fourteen-foot room. In that, we work, cook, bathe, and sleep. The light is not enough, and often, because of the poor ventilation, my children fall ill. Once, my younger daughter got dengue and we had to get her admitted to the hospital. Now you might say that that is life in the slums and it can’t be helped. But what mother doesn’t dream of a better life for her children? After all, dreams are all we have. “Sahib, when I heard that we would not be getting a flat, only some money, which my husband would spend on alcohol, I became afraid. Not for myself, but for my children. What would they do, I thought, if we became homeless? I know my husband. He would like to leave the city and go back to the village. And what would my children do there? “You see, sahib, I want my children to be educated. My older daughter is so clever, she wins prizes, and my younger one is smart, too; her teachers like her. The boy: he is playful, but good in sports. Here, in Mumbai, there is a chance they will become somebody. They will study and get degrees. But if we move back to the village, our elders won’t let me send my daughters to school. They will say it’s a waste of time, a waste of money. They will say that a woman’s place is at home, in the kitchen. And I will have no say in my children’s lives, no say in their future. “Yes, I know what I did was wrong. I pleaded with the builder’s men to help me, and they took me to meet their manager, a man named Mohite. He said he could help me, provided I did them a favor in return. He then told me about Doctor-sahib, how he was making life difficult for them, had got their project held up. He wanted to teach Doctor-sahib a lesson, and when I mentioned I knew him, Mohite said that would make it easier for them to put their plan into motion. I know it was wrong, very wrong, but you, too, might have children, sahib. You, too, might have dreams for them. “There is one more thing, sahib. I want you to know that this was my idea. My husband is innocent. He will do whatever I tell him. I beg you not to punish him for my sins.” She fell silent. The morning light pressed against the window and entered through the blinds, overpowering the harshness of the fluorescent lights. Manju stood with her hands folded, her fingers entwined. Inspector Bedekar leaned back in his chair and looked at her as though he was making up his mind about something. The washerwoman’s face was stained from the kohl that had run from her eyes and mingled with her tears. She looked lost, he thought, like a girl who had committed some grave error for the first time and was dreading the punishment

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that would follow. He would like to forgive her, he thought. For the sake of her kids. But he was not a judge; he did not have that luxury, nor that power. He was bound by the law, and that would have to run its course. All eyes in the room were on him. He would have to speak, have to choose his words carefully. “You have been foolish, sister,” he said. “Your greed could have sent an innocent man to prison. It could have destroyed him.” “I know, sahib; I realize that. What will happen to my children if we go to jail?” Her voice trailed off, and she fought back her tears. That Mohite: she wished she had never set eyes on him; she wished she hadn’t believed him and his promises. “I don’t know,” said the inspector. “I can’t say what the court will decide. You will have to wait here for now. We will send somebody to look after your children. And get you some clothes.” The lady inspector rose to her feet. Dandekar, too, closed his notepad and stood up. “Come, sister,” said the lady inspector, her voice kinder now. “Let her rejoin her husband, and give them some time together, so she can explain to him what has happened,” said Bedekar to Rupali. “That is if he has woken up,” she said. Dandekar held open the door for them, and Manju went out first. Inspector Bedekar fell back in his chair. He looked at the men before him and said softly, “It worked. It was a long shot, but it worked. And, Narang, I have you to thank for this. You and the others. You handled it well—as well as a policeman, in fact.” And Narang replied, “Don’t say that, sahib. You are embarrassing me. It is my duty, my God-given duty.” The grandfather clock on the wall showed six fifteen when Doctor-sahib’s phone rang. The sun had come up over the railway yard and lit the art-deco arches of his building. He had woken up twice during the night. The first time, he had imagined his sister’s voice: “Cutlet, what have you done, Cutlet? You have got yourself into trouble. How often have I told you not to trust people? Why did you take that woman as your patient? Why, why, after I went through such pains to get rid of her?” She never called him by his real name, and he did not mind that. He quite liked Cutlet in fact. It had come about when he was around seven or eight, because whenever she would ask him what he wanted in his lunchbox to take to school, he would say “cutlet.” It was always in the singular, which seemed to amuse his sister no end. She, of course, could prepare a whole range of cutlets: chicken, mutton, fish, prawns; and these she served with a rich, spicy tomato gravy. It became something of an addiction for him, and the nickname spoke of the bond he shared with his sister: the fact that she knew him so well. Perhaps even better than a mother, he’d sometimes think. Twelve years his senior, she had taken charge of him after their parents had died. She had held a secretarial

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job during the week and would take catering orders over the weekend. Then there had been that disastrous marriage of hers, and the divorce, which had brought them closer. It made him shiver to imagine how she would take the news of the complaint. How badly it would affect her. He went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water, then buried himself be­­ tween two pillows and tried to sleep again. It was as though he was trying to shut out the world outside and the voices in his head. “What, Doctor-sahib, just because you are a doctor, you think you can take advantage of some poor woman?” And “Saala, he is a predator and a pervert. Who would have thought he would turn out like that . . . after all these years?” When at last the voices had faded and he had been overcome by sleep, he had a nightmare. He was standing on a large, empty floor in a large, empty room, and there were tigers circling around him. They were just circling, eyeing him and drawing closer and closer, and each time the circle narrowed, they would stop and snarl at him. Their eyes glinted and made him shiver, made him sweat. In one hand he held a briefcase—his only weapon against them. When the first tiger sprang at him, he managed to shove the briefcase into its open jaws and save himself from a mauling. But the weight of the beast knocked him down, and he sank to his knees, drained of strength and numb with fear. As he fell, the other tigers moved in on him. One went for his face, another for his torso, a third for his stomach. He screamed and punched at the pillows, which flew off the bed. His mattress was soaking wet, his heart was pounding, his throat was dry, his lips were salty, he tasted his own tears. Then he woke up. He was reluctant to turn the light on. The darkness felt like a safe place to him, a tent into which he had retired after a long and exhausting journey. Lying in bed in the dark, he did some stretches to get the blood flowing in his veins. To calm his mind. He rose, thinking he would make some tea for himself; that would make him feel better. Then the phone rang, and the name Bedekar flashed across the display, sending bolts of fear through his heart. It must be bad news, he thought. They were coming for him. Coming to get him. But the voice was light, chirpy, and teasing. “Doctor-sahib, I hope you’ve had a good night’s sleep, because I have some good news for you. Our nightlong investigations have paid off. That woman has confessed. It seems you have upset some of our builder friends with your stay order, and they were trying to get even with you. Clearly, Doctor-sahib, you have made some bad enemies, and they almost destroyed you this time. I am the last person to discourage you from doing what is right, but you must think whether this issue is worth all this trouble. This time your enemies did not succeed. But the next time you might not be so lucky.” And suddenly Doctor-sahib felt alive, he felt normal. “So what happens now?” he asked. “You will have to come to the station and file a counter-FIR, and the sooner you do this, the better.”

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Doctor-sahib said he’d be there in half an hour. Forty minutes, at the most. “Not so fast, Doctor-sahib,” said the inspector. “I don’t want you to come empty-handed. I want something from you.” Doctor-sahib flinched. So here it comes, he thought. The catch, the pay-off! His relief turned to disappointment, to anger. Had the system spared no one? Not even a fine man like Bedekar? “You see, Doctor-sahib, I don’t take bribes personally, but I will have to take something for my missus. Some sweetener, to pacify her for my not going home last night. Now, close to your house is that Irani bakery, which makes the most delicious mawa cakes. I know they bake fresh batches every morning, from five to seven. So if you can you go there and get me a dozen, I will be able to avoid some fireworks at home. And, of course, I will reimburse you. No two ways about that! But you will have to hurry, lest they sell out.” And Doctor-sahib said, “Of course, of course! It will be a pleasure.” He felt like laughing, he felt like shouting. Damn those tigers! Damn those builders! They were not getting him yet. Not when there were men like Bedekar around. Unsung heroes who deserved to have their kids rush at them. Who, crossing their threshold, deserved the best welcome a man could get. He walked across to the balcony, threw open its doors, and welcomed the sun on his face. Below him, a newspaper vendor was busy making lots on the pavement, a flower vendor and her daughter knitted garlands of marigolds, a municipal worker swept moodily at the garbage, while young male cleaners, in shorts, scrubbed vigorously at the bonnets and windscreens of cars. A milkman passed by on his bicycle, pedaling slowly and striking at the large, shiny vessel that dangled from his handle. A vegetable vendor set up his cart, arranging the vegetables neatly in rows. Ah, thought Doctor-sahib, it’s nice to see people work and toil under an open sky. People who can’t be accused of anything other than an honest day of labor.

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K E D A R N A T H

S I N G H

Three Poems a two-minute silence Brothers and sisters this day is dying a two-minute silence for this dying day for the bird flying away for the still water for the nightfall a two-minute silence for that which is for that which is not for that which could have been a two-minute silence for the discarded peel for the crushed grass for every plan for every project a two-minute silence for this great century for its great ideas for its great words for its great intentions a two-minute silence brothers and sisters for these great achievements a two-minute silence.

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on recalling the year 1947 Do you remember Noor Mian, Kedarnath Singh? Wheat-colored, Noor Mian? Dwarf-like, Noor Mian? Noor Mian, who was always the last to return from Rambagh market after selling kaajal? Do you remember anything at all Kedarnath Singh? You remember the madarsa the tamarind tree the Immambara you remember the nineteen-times table from beginning to end but can you add, subtract and figure out on your old forgotten slate why Noor Mian suddenly left your basti one day? Do you know where he is now? In Dhaka or in Multan? Can you tell how many leaves fall each year in Pakistan? Why are you silent, Kedarnath Singh? Is your arithmetic weak?

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night of the full moon The moon like a lantern in a prison swings from the naked branch of tree and we all the prisoners on this earth are happy for at least something that can help us see each other’s faces.

Translated from Hindi by Alok Bhalla



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At the age of one hundred and five, Irshad sits in his hut in a refugee camp in southern Bangladesh. In the 1960s he was a radio broadcaster reading local news in the Rohingya language, as well as passages from the Koran. At the time, the Burma Broadcasting Service provided short programs for ethnic communities. After the military coup in 1962, the Rohingya program was canceled. © Greg Constantine 2018

P E N N Y

E D W A R D S

K O

T H E T T

K O

K E N N E T H

W O N G

To Write a History “How to write history / in a language / that has no past tense” asks co-editor ko ko thett in his poetry collection The Burden of Being Burmese. How to publish literature under a military regime with no future tense? In Myanmar today, the simplest utterance is punishable as the defamation of the state. A song, a poem, a music video, an elegy are all open invitations to a cowardly regime to pursue their authors with impunity. Official retribution for such expressive acts is governed by Myanmar’s penal code, an heirloom of the colonial era, and ranges from imprisonment without trial to the death penalty—invoked in July 2022 for the first time in thirty years to hang four regime opponents, including a former lawmaker and a veteran democracy activist. Extra-judicial brakes on expression include arbitrary execution, torture, and persecution of family members. Since February 2021, when Myanmar’s military leadership staged a coup, thousands of civilians have been gunned down in broad daylight for peaceful assembly, penning a slogan, voicing an opinion, posting on social media, or singing out loud. The scale of this crackdown on poets, writers, journalists, and artists reflects the regime’s fear for its survival, and its recognition of art’s explosive potential to express common cause and galvanize solidarity across livelihoods, ethnicities, regions, and generations who have dared to reject military rule in the search for a better, more peaceful, more humane society. Plans for the following Burma /Myanmar feature were hatched between Berkeley, Honolulu, Yangon, and Mandalay in the heady days of 2015, when the National League of Democracy won a landslide victory in a general election that installed the country’s first civilian president in more than fifty years. The University of California, Berkeley, where I teach, launched our first Burmese language program with the appointment of Burmese American blogger, poet, and translator Kenneth Wong. In May 2015, I visited Burma /Myanmar for the first time in a decade, to collect new writing in Burmese for my teaching. I hung out at the Pansodan Art Gallery and Café, met with journalist Kyaw Zwa Moe, visited cartoon exhibitions critiquing the military theft of resources, and returned with DVDs by rock star Phyu Phyu Kyaw Thein and reggae artist Saw Phoe Kwar. We funded 179

their translations with a small grant from UC Berkeley’s Center for Teaching and Learning. Soon after, thanks to an introduction by the writer Sharon May, Frank Stewart invited me to guest-edit a special issue of Mānoa presenting works from Burma/Myanmar. I returned to Yangon in 2016, attended the first Monsoon Literary Festival, collected armloads of Burmese books and chapbooks for a handful of kyat bills—new poetry, Burmese translations of Tagore and Charles Simic, bilingual issues, formal tomes, and scrapbook-like zines—and listened to big names and new voices grab the mic. The air was electric, time elastic, and the large hall occasionally hushed by a silent performance. In one act, two artists filled a huge wicker basket with books and then dumped them onto the stage, symbolizing the decades of censorship since General Ne Win’s military coup of 1962. Censorship was not new to Burma, a former British colony whose laws have buttressed the Burmese junta in its relentless repression of freedom of association and expression. Not too long ago, bookstores had had to manually paste over each print mention of Burma with the word Myanmar. Now, Myanmar’s censorship bureau had officially closed shop. A burgeoning independent movie scene had produced the brilliant satirical short Ban That Scene by director Htun Zaw Win, critiquing the costs of censorship and corruption in the film industry. These were wry stabs at a regime considered to be in its death throes. Pineapple and papaya and other fruits shimmered behind the glass vitrines of street fruit carts, polyester mini-skirts jostled with lungyi in stalls, and passersby hustled to and fro. ko ko called it a “Burmese High Street.” On the corner, an open-front café buzzed with laughter, music, the floating curls of cheroot smoke, and the froth of freshly poured drinks. Red plastic chairs and Beatles paraphernalia brightened the dim interior. The café sign read kosan, reflecting its new Japanese management. But local artists knew this as the Eugenia building. Poet laureate Min Thu Wun (1909–2004), co-founder of the khit san or new writing movement of the 1930s, once lived on this plot of land. Although his Eugenia was leveled to make way for the building that stands there now, his impact on the Burmese literary landscape is less easily erased. “In Burma, a Eugenia branch is like the olive branch,” ko ko thett explains, describing Min Thu Wun’s poem “Eugenia” (Thabyay Nyo), written the year after Burma gained Independence in 1948. “A peace branch?” I ask. “No,” ko ko replies. “A victory branch.” It is 2016. Call it poetic justice, or a twist of fate: Min Thun Wun’s son Htin Kyaw was the new president of Myanmar. Peace had won out. Or so we thought. Maung Day and ko ko order mojitos: Maung Day ordered his with vodka, ko ko his with rum. Soon there are six of us. ko ko lights his cheroot, and his then-fiancée Su San, who recently became Burma’s first graduate with an MFA in literary translation from the University of East Anglia, and is a contributor to this volume, lights up the room.

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A thin man at the next table rocks black drainpipes and a T-shirt with a gold Andy Warhol-like print of Aung San captioned, in English, the general. The day before was July 19, Martyrs Day, marking the incident in 1947 when General Aung San, the leader who had brokered Burma’s independence, was gunned down in broad daylight along with seven cabinet members in parliament. I had queued for hours to gain access to the Martrys Monument. A street seller hawked white bandannas with silhouettes of the seven martyrs. martyrs are immortal declared the T-shirt of the man in front of me, reminding me of the customs form I’d completed on arrival at the airport a year earlier, which declared “It is forbidden to bring in Immortal Materials”—a typo for “Immoral.” That form was replaced in 2016, along with the old airport. Gleaming super malls reflected new investor confidence. Beneath the urban glitter and the outward bonhomie of warring factions that now sat together in parliament, where the military faction clung to power through its mandated 25% seats, darker contests for power simmered. The military escalated its war of attrition against the Muslim Rohingya minority; its brutal persecution was goaded on and at times assisted by the extremist Buddhist movement, the Ma Ba Tha, and by silent complicity. Nobel Laureate Aung San Suu Kyi—the general’s daughter and ever a shrewd politician, concerned with retaining the backing of her support base—sat by while the international community turned a blind eye. But while the military and the pro-Democracy party shared a common apathy on questions of Muslim minority persecution, they parted ways in their approaches to public domain and national assets. For decades, the crony socialism of the military leadership had allowed top brass to amass private fortunes through the exploitation of jade, minerals, and timber. In February 2021, days after a fresh electoral victory by the National League for Democracy, Burma’s military seized the moment by seizing power, fearful of the newly elected party’s platform of financial reform—and no doubt emboldened by the brazen trashing of the electoral processes in the US on January 6. Democracy was overturned, kleptocracy restored. The resistance was spontaneous and widespread, demonstrating overwhelming opposition to the coup. But back in 2016, the power of wishful thinking fed belief in the possibility of a gradual and full transition from military rule to a civilian democracy. In meetings with Maung Day, Pandora, Kyaw Zwa Moe and other writers and journalists, we gathered over tea, mohinga, and Hainan chicken in newsrooms, family restaurants, and Singapore food outlets. Plans for the volume took shape and gained form the following year with the appointment of ko ko thett as poetry editor and Kenneth Wong as fiction editor. Our collection would be a celebration of a newfound artistic independence and the resumption of freedom of expression, an outlet for multi-ethnic writing in multiple genres that would bring new voices from Burma to an Anglophone readership after decades of isolation. The coup of 2021 made this project a new and urgent priority—though one



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that was fraught with risk for writers and artists whose work we had hoped to publish, many of whom were unreachable and in danger. At the time of going to press, some of our contributors remain in hiding. Some have served prison time for the crime of making art and seeking peace. One was slain by security forces days after penning the poem published here. In these circumstances, our proposed big issue shrank to a slim feature. Intended as a voluminous celebration of a thriving literary scene, it is a slender portrait of a fractured time. What we offer here, if not a broken branch, is a fragile assemblage. Stilted, awkward, tense, mournful epitaphs and eulogies, warnings and prophecies of the Covid-19 and coup eras, rub up against the quotidian camaraderie and anomie of urban drama and café society. More recent writings of witness jostle against Ma Sandar and Nay Win Myint’s short fiction of the 1990s. The murderous mayhem wrought by the military across Myanmar in the last two years has lent these gentle tales of market shopping, family cooking, and rural tea-shop escapades the wistful allure of an old normal, a place now forever out of reach. That nostalgia, in turn, will be alien to those members of the Rohingya and other minority groups who have long suffered persecution. The writings gathered here upend the boundaries that states, nations, and fundamentalist religious movements hold sacred, and for which they are prepared to kill. In Aung Khin Myint’s border town, mythologies and mayhem cross wires. Garuda feet meet 3,000 kyat bullets and Christ’s barbed crown in a place where “The borderline is a fiction that splits the river.” For the migrant laborers evicted from Thailand after the outbreak of the Covid-19 pandemic in early 2020, the border is all too real. Homeward bound, the recently exploited and suddenly unwanted retreat to the shelter of home, hearth, and the “love of fellow Myanmar people” in Khin Min Zaw’s poem. That love, as Rohingya poet Thida Shania reminds us, is selective. For Shania, genocide, not Covid, is the thief of breath: “What does this air suffer from?” she writes in “An Ox for a Wad of Paan.” “I suffocate when I breathe. // How can I cross the border? / Rivers bleed human blood.” Where the pall of murdered Rohingya rob Thida Shania’s lungs, butterflies crowd Maung Day’s rib cage in “Long Grass.” In Burma/Myanmar, butterflies epitomize spirits, past lives, and future destinies, and rage against “the futility of living.” Metaphors are a writer’s armor but offer thin protection against khaki-clad autocrats who view with deep suspicion all art that falls short of adulation for military rule. Armed with toxic tongues, snakes slither through our pages like a shadow of the military. In our opening poem, “Aphwar sighted a snake,” a grandmother violates Buddhist precepts, trapping a cobra in an air-tight spirit house, and so saves innocent victims from the reptile’s indiscriminate venom: “The whole family breathes again.” Posted by an anonymous writer soon after the coup, the poem gained a wide following for those who hoped the cobraheaded regime would soon breathe its last. Beyond this political prism, the

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poems here speak to larger questions of love, sex, death, loss, and other human and animal endeavors. Pandora’s “The Venomous” reverses the metaphor of predator and prey, sounding a cautionary note as it plays with the many hues, poses, and textures of a snake that has just shed its skin. “Don’t you dare think  /  I am soft /  If I change colors” and “If you don’t know anything /  Just coil up and be quiet.” In Ko Than’s poem “Biology,” the praying mantis takes no prisoners. Life is the price of climax, love is the sacrifice that makes survival possible, and the male brain becomes collateral damage in the pursuit of female pleasure. And the petal-binging critter of Pyait Sone Win’s “Insect in the Gala” burrows through ice, plasma, cake, and body matter to make its exit. In Eandra’s poem “Lily,” the voluptuous, ivy-tressed Lily works the room with the eyes of a crow, morphing from “a tiny she-snake from the wicker basket of a snake-charmer” to a “shaggy she-terrier” as she peddles her wares, promoting “beer with her scent” and “her scent with beer.” Sex and death, lust and rebirth, whispers of the rolling stones (“I get more than mere satisfaction”) and the punctured flesh of plastic voodoo dolls pale against the power of ideas in A Thi Na’s “Living with a Warlock.” “If you murder me in your imagination / I will die for real.” Mindgames resurface in Ju’s short story “The Window.” In this taut tale of urban malaise and masculine malice, a wife finds momentary triumph over her possessive, sadistic, and alcoholic husband in the fantasy realm she conjures around a window frame, and briefly manipulates his fear before he shuts off her one opening to a world beyond his grasp. Through clipped, spare language, Ju paints a blistering portrait of domestic terror behind closed doors, mirroring the violent misogyny of an isolationist, military regime. Our writers also explore grace, loss, and acceptance in older age. In Aidii’s poem “Ka Pi’s dentures,” a Kachin grandmother lavishes endless care on a set of false teeth that strike a poor contrast with her husband’s gold tooth and porcelain fixtures; they appear to stand for the friends she has lost, prompting her granddaughter to wonder whether she had ever had a best friend. In Ma Sandar’s short story “Mom Cooks Seven Rock Shrimps,” a loving wife splurges on some juicy shrimp to make her husband’s favorite dish, then watches aghast as their sons and daughters-in-law show up unannounced and devour the entire meal. The home is then emptied just as fast as the plates, but her gentle, dhamma-loving husband softens her hurt and disappointment with a light-hearted meditation. The tasty-looking shrimps whose value she had measured in kyat (Burmese currency) and kyat thar (a Burmese measure of weight, approximately 16 grams) only hours earlier, are now a measure of the couple’s virtue for having spared “the flesh and blood of other creatures” on which their progeny had feasted. This contemporary fiction rewrites the genre of didactic Buddhism, while evoking the possibility of a gentle, loving relationship. Addiction and appetite drive Nay Win Myint’s rural tale “Coffee of the



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Gods,” a wry parable on the cost of obsession and a throwback to a world before branding. Its title is a pun on the word Nescafé, and the word for spirits in Burmese (nat), and a loose play on the Burmese word to brew coffee. This popular story conjures the landscape of the author’s childhood in Upper Burma, and one man’s quest to obtain the perfect cup of coffee. The rugged world of Saw Lambert’s fiction transports us to an altogether different landscape. In the Dawna mountain range of eastern Burma, gun smoke mingles with cheroots and wild boar roam. The ghosts of earlier eras—English officers, Karen colonial regiments, and Japanese occupying troops—compete with benevolent and malevolent spirits, and a hunter’s lore restores balance to a landscape ravaged by war. In the bloodied landscape of Karen reggae artist Saw Phoe Kwar’s song “Land Mines,” unexploded ordnance waits to maim the lives of children, animals, and adults. Rock star Phyu Phyu Kyein’s song “War,” composed and created by the Scare Rock Band in 2013, calls for an end to war. As we go to press, Phyu Phyu Kyaw Thein has been hounded by the regime for her post-coup song “Tears” and remains in hiding. Saw Phoe Kwar was arrested on the day of the coup and remains incarcerated in Yangon’s notorious Insein prison, where journalist Kyaw Zwa Moe, who first introduced me to his music in 2015, also served time in the 1990s. Kyaw Zwa Moe reflects on writing, the role of the journalist, and his eight years as a political prisoner in an interview partly conducted in the Yangon offices of The Irrawaddy newspaper. After what has happened recently, the interview now has the feel of ancient history. The Myanmar military forced the closure of all independent newsrooms in 2021, forcing into hiding Kyaw Zwa Moe and countless other journalists committed to getting the truth out. We close our gathering of works with fire and ice. Tin Moe’s haiku-like reflection on last days, in translations by Anna Allott, Charles Bernstein, and ko ko thett, is the penultimate poem. We move from his cheroot-infused sunset to a glacial reckoning. Maung Yu Py’s “Under the Great Ice Sheet” submerges countries, wars, cultures, houses of worship, currency, and slavery in a layer of ice that has left God homeless, and yet . . . Our Burma /Myanmar seletion was aided by a growing global recognition of the art of literary translation, as reflected in new MFA programs in literary translation at the University of East Anglia and the Institut National des Langues et Civilisations Orientales, Paris, two of whose graduates have contributed to this collection. We are grateful to the many outstanding writers and translators who generously shared their work, and regret that due to publication constraints not all of the fine writing and elegant translations we received could make these pages. We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Henry Luce Foundation and the Translation Project Group of the Association of Asian Studies Southeast Asia Council in 2017 and 2018. In addition to all those named, we are especially grateful to Anna Allott, Peter Bartu, Alfred Birnbaum, James Byrne, Nance Cunningham, Jane Ferguson, Robert Hass, Judith Henchy, Ma

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Khin Mar Mar Kyi, Minh Bui Jones, Sharon May, Seinenu Thein-Lemelson, Myanmar Songwriter, Lucas Stewart, and Maw Shein Win. At the University of Hawai‘i Press, we owe a special debt of gratitude to Mānoa managing editor Pat Matsueda, and editor Frank Stewart, whose commitment to this project led them to see it through. We also thank associate editor Noah Perales-Estoesta and intern Li Shan Chan for their editorial assistance.



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In the back of a truck, a group of Rohingya travel for two hours from Shah Puri Dwip to a camp in Balukhali. They had fled Myanmar and crossed the Naf River into Bangladesh after the Burmese military attacked and destroyed their village in Maungdaw. © Greg Constantine 2017

opposite

Noor holds her ten-day-old son, Arfat. Born in the refugee camps, he has no legal identity. In 1994, Burmese authorities stopped issuing birth certificates to Rohingya. © Greg Constantine 2018

A N O N Y M O U S

Aphwar Sighted the Snake

Snake sightings in rural Myanmar are not uncommon. After the 2021 military coup, this poem appeared on social media. The unwelcome guest was taken to signify the coup leader, Senior General Min Aung Hlaing.

when she was about to change the water offering at the shrine. The cobra was in a coil. She didn’t tell anyone. She thought the unwelcome guest would be gone in no time. The snake didn’t go anywhere. Aphwar didn’t dare to make the usual water, rice and flower offerings to the Buddha. She was on her guard. She kept the shrine shut lest the snake should come down in the middle of the night and bite us. Flowers at the shrine began to wilt. The water offering was drying up. The snake was still coiling up inside. There was only one opening at the front of the shrine. We tried to shoo the snake off with a stick. The cobra stretched its hood, ready to attack us. “One animal, one fate. The snake will go away when the time is right,” Aphwar assured us. We didn’t feel assured. We knew the snake might be overwintering in our house.

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Children didn’t make noise anymore. The cobra was there to stay. It was feeding on tiny mice and house lizards that came for food offerings at the shrine. We thought the snake would be gone if we stopped offering food to the Buddha. The snake didn’t go anywhere. We decided to shut the shrine for good. The door was airtight. Father made it himself with pared timber. A few days later, the dead snake was carried off with a stick. Aphwar clicked her tongue in disapproval, “What a thick animal. It only leaves the shrine when it’s yanked out dead.” Now the shrine is clean. Fresh flowers are there. Accompanied by the sound of kyayzi Aphwar’s prayers are heard again. Children bounce around in the house again. The whole family breathes again. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett



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A

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Living with a Warlock I just wanted to eyeball those bloodshot eyes. You are a warlock ablaze, a spam in my inbox. To what past life do I owe this pleasure? Don’t kiss my nape with your knifelike lips. I don’t want your sacks of shambles. I never felt comfortable at witching hours. There were days I remained in the same nightie. Life expectancy improved, expecting someone. A desert island would do me good. Shouldn’t we jump over the fuse of a landmine? Any mad woman will need a hand. The more I struggle, the more I will prove my insanity. That’s why I will keep quiet in your black casket. Details of a pair of lips—a remote control. It took just one second to undress me. Whatever happened happened like the ebb & flow of tide. With resistance, the size of a tiny cross, craving rolled off like loose wheels. Every act of lasciviousness goes over the boundary of consciousness. Smash Venus’ hands, giving you new wings. This body couldn’t hold exhaustion out of lust. If you murder me in your imagination, I will die for real. Each time chests of inferiority pile up on one another Each time a plastic doll full of needle marks dies I would say I get more than mere satisfaction. Don’t give me shambles. Each time you unlock my box you are mine. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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Ka Pi’s Dentures Like corn seeds  Ka Pi used for chicken feed, my teeth fell into my cupped hands. Flashing my toothless gums   I smiled my broadest smile,  in my dream last night.  My teeth are full of cavities.  Ka Pa’s daughter I am I must chew my bones to dust.  Some of Ka Pa’s teeth are porcelain.  Ka Pa, who boasts a single gold tooth, says, “In my whole body my teeth are the most precious!” “Your teeth look like Na Pi’s,” says Cici. Every morning, Ka Pi takes  her dentures out of a water cup to breakfast.  After each meal, she’ll hold the dentures with both her hands, she’d sponge them with soap and rinse them in water  as if she were doing the dishes.  She is too feeble to walk out of her garden.  All her friends are confined in their homes too.  Everyone who visits our house is her best friend.  They keep chatting, and chattering.  She’s lost touch with friends her age.  She has never told her grandchildren about her best friends.  Did she ever have a best friend? Looking at Ka Pi from behind, washing her false teeth,  her granddaughter can’t help but wonder,  perhaps, one after another,  her real friends have abandoned her— just like her teeth. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett



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Blind in one eye from being beaten during forced labor, this man fled from Burma in the mid-nineties, one of an estimated 900,000 Rohingya now living in the southern part of neighboring Bangladesh. © Greg Constantine 2006

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The Border Town He is a bastard son of a bald hill in a camouflage jacket & a river whose reverse flow always brings back corpses floating on their chest. Local houses teem with Garuda feet—they can run, fly, swim, & morph into guesthouses anytime of the day. Dead homes are reincarnated as abysses, or little pagodas on hillocks, or child soldiers in oversized adult uniforms. God is a marble horse. His neigh is the Law. Between shops that boast mobile phone posters, the longing of long-distance relationships enjoys on-&-off connectivity. Where’s love? Where’s cash? Where’s work permit? Where’s the boat? Where’s the new life? Where’s the light? Where’s the stupa where lovebirds can die of broken hearts? Where the hell are birds? Where’s the bed? Where’s the other side of the river? For a bullet that costs Myanmar Kyat 3,000 a human life is on the house. He grew up sleeping around in those guesthouses on the border. Sometimes his father would welcome an indigenous ague to the bed beside his, so he could whine & roll around in his own bed. With eyes that shine like twin suns throughout the night he takes a good look at his father. Some other nights he would rest his head on his father’s giant spleen & dream on. In his dreams he, his father & every shit in the world are flushed down the mother river. Like Jesus, his father’s baldness wears a crown of barbed wire. Rubber trees flash their breasts & lactate on his face. He takes to his heels. The trees are left shaking with laughter. Another dawn has come down to the river for a drink. A ray of sunlight rises from the bottom of the river. The borderline is a fiction that splits the river in half. That imagination got his mother pregnant with him. Not that his mother was seemly—let’s not go there. Whenever he misses home, the border town hangs on to the razor wire border wall & plays the lonesome game, “Let’s Spit at the River.” Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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Back in the Tall Grass My hazy eyes explode into storms. Swamps and ducks fall out of my body through every hole. Flamingos disappear especially when you want to see them. This is Year of the Tiger for firemen. For people living in the streets, not a year of bean sprouts Whispering good news about free food into their ears. They feel stuck and dejected like water lilies. I know what storms are like better than everybody Because my parents raised me as a window. Dinner is getting cold, our raincoats becoming us. Go home, Michael Jackson! Go to bed, Lou Reed! The bedtime stories I was told when I was little Were about tall grass and murderers. Then I would be awake in a nightmare all night. Storms are to me what cacti are to deserts. One crocodile is too many, a thousand storms are never enough. As I move along in the tall grass, butterflies enter my body, Yellow ones in the throat, black ones in the lungs, Raging at the futility of having wings. Translated from Burmese by the author

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Lily Lily flutters her dark wavy eyelashes From her long ivy hair, from her cheeks, from her neck A bunch of rainbows bloom in the middle of the night Her thin top curvy and bent, her mini-jeans torn and tight Lily serves beer… Lily cringes more than necessary, Lily comes close more than necessary Lily mixes herself appositely… Lily has her own recipe, cultures her own yeast Lily cooks the pose of a she-cat in a pencil heel for an appetizer… Lily woks the glass-bead strings on her pearly breasts into munchies … Lily’s black irises are like a virgin crow stalking its prey Lily moves like meatloaf about to be snatched by a hawk Lily serves beer… Lily promotes beer with her scent Lily promotes her scent with beer Lily serves beer… Amid the buzzings of rowdy blowflies Lusty looks fume as Lily uncorks the syrupy-sweet laughter… pop! … Lily pours her froth of giggles To be forked at, gummed and swallowed With cloudberry lips, Lily serves … Lily’s nonchalant smile pierces their stares, Lily serves … Lily knifes words with her gibble-gabble, Lily serves … Lily wants to flow in their arteries, Lily serves … Lily serves like a shaggy she-terrier, cajoling Lily smashes herself to fit into a bottle for her masters, Lily serves

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Lily, her face uninterested at the news of homecomings, Transplants her life branch to branch to serve another beer… Lily the bait, Lily the cheery fisherwoman who chaffs … “Life is bitter, life is beer.” Lily serves another beer… “I am God’s glitch’ she serves … “I am a tiny she-snake from the wicker basket of the snake charmer,” she serves Because it is not bedtime yet … another Because, on Lily, the nights pour down … another Dawn unbudded, where the darkness lingers Where the day is yet to shed new light Lily serves beer… Lily has just served … Lily is serving … Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett and James Byrne

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P E N N Y

E D W A R D S

Interview with Kyaw Zwa Moe Sentenced to ten years in prison in 1991 for taking part in the democracy movement, Kyaw Zwa Moe was jailed first in Insein Prison, in Yangon, and then in Tharrawaddy jail. On his release in 1998, he fled to Chiang Mai, where he became a journalist with The Irrawaddy, a major news magazine founded by journalists living in exile in Thailand. Following the February 2021 coup, the offices of all independent media houses, including The Irrawaddy, were raided and sealed by the junta’s troops. The magazine continues to publish independent news. Now in hiding, Kyaw Zwa Moe has been publishing stories under a pseudonym. This interview took place at The Irrawaddy offices in Yangon in July 2015 and at Ashi Tea House, in Berkeley, in April 2016, well before the most recent turmoil in the country. It was first published as “Truth to Power” in Mekong Review (vol. 1, no. 4, August–October 2016, pp. 9–11). p.e. penny edwards Your book They Must Apologize to the People, a compilation of interviews with dissidents, is now in its third print run. How do you explain its popularity with Burmese readers? kyaw zwa moe Most of the interviews were done between 2010 and 2012, when our country was in transition. Many people in Burma had no idea how difficult life could be as a dissident, a political activist, a political prisoner, or as a refugee outside Burma. I think that’s one reason for its success—inspirational stories that bring out the experience and views of people with very different experiences of the past three or four decades. pe Some of the more intriguing titles are “Prisoner Monk” and “Fish-paste Democracy.” kzm “Fish-paste Democracy” is about the wife of a political prisoner and her struggles to support her husband while he’s in prison. At the same time, she’s taking care of her entire family and also helping the families of other political prisoners. It’s a sad story, but it’s also a survival story. There are wives and mothers like her who are really courageous and brave, who kept supporting husbands, sons, and fathers jailed for their beliefs, whose families were harassed

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by the authorities. The determination and courage of these women made that interview really inspiring to my readers. In Burma, Buddhist monks are respected as spiritual leaders, but monks who got involved in the democracy struggle were treated as criminals. I decided to interview a monk arrested for his political activism, because I wondered how many people in my country knew about the military junta’s treatment of religious leaders. The monk I interviewed, U Zawana, had been in the same prison as me, and is very articulate. He described his life in prison and how terrible he felt. The monks were sometimes badly tortured. Outside prison, monks are looked up to as religious leaders, but in prison it was a totally different situation. pe The Irrawaddy was founded as a print journal in 1990, but in January of this year you stopped print production. Why? kzm It’s not easy for traditional media to survive, especially in Burma. Print is very costly. Those media organizations that can keep publishing news can afford to lose money on their publications because they get enough revenue from other businesses they own. Another reason it’s difficult is because Burma has become the most connected nation in the world, with over thirty million mobile phones for a population of about fifty million. That’s why we decided to switch from traditional to digital journalism. But we are not new to digital media. We launched our Burmese and English websites in 2000. Millions of Burmese use Facebook for daily communications and as a source of news. Even the offices of the president and of Aung San Suu Kyi’s state counselors have their own Facebook pages, as does the Commander in Chief of our military. That’s why we believe that digital media is the right platform for The Irrawaddy to get information to our audience. pe There’s a Thomas Jefferson quote by your desk: “Information is the currency of democracy.” But social media can also spread misinformation and foster extremism. Platforms like Facebook have played a role in spreading hate speech in Burma that has led to violence. What’s your view on this? kzm It depends. We’ve been covering the radical Buddhist movement, Ma Ba Tha, which was growing over the past five years, especially under the previous government. Several times, the morning after we published a story about the ultranationalist movement, unknown groups hacked our websites. Sometimes the hackers posted stories about Ma Ba Tha’s mission to protect our race and religion. Sometimes they left threats. This is the ugly side of social media. But that doesn’t mean these groups are taking over or winning. Other media sites have posted a lot of good stories. And at the same time, the National League for Democracy [the political party founded by Aung San Suu Kyi] have shown how social media can be used to counter these groups and communicate with people.

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pe The censorship office was disbanded in 2012, but I’ve heard that two subjects are still taboo: the constitution and the military. Your thoughts? kzm Until the past five years, even after censorship was lifted in August 2012, the constitution and the military remained really sensitive topics. We had to be very careful what we wrote. There’s even a clause in the constitution that says you cannot criticize the constitution, which is totally wrong. And now the military is the only institution intolerant of a free press. pe Burma is a very literary culture, known especially for poetry and fiction. What status do journalists hold in that tradition? kzm In Burma, the professions of writer and journalist have overlapped since the time of King Mindon. More recent prominent journalists who were also very famous writers include Ludu U Hla and his wife, Ludu Daw Amar, who founded Ludu (The People) Newspaper in the 1940s, before Independence. Both were journalists who also wrote fiction. pe One of the reasons the British introduced the press in lower Burma was to combat “gossip.” Before Upper Burma was colonized, King Mindon had already established a press in Mandalay. kzm Mindon was very liberal and very educated, and he wanted his kingdom to have press freedom. I believe he was hoping to let people become informed and educated. At the time, he brought a very educated person to Mandalay, Bo Wizaya, who is regarded as Burma’s first journalist. Bo Wizaya was a bookworm and highly educated. He became the editor of Yadanabon newspaper, which was very successful at the time. pe I didn’t know about Mindon’s press law, but that’s another thing I’ve learned from touring your newsroom: “If I do wrong, write about me. If the queens do wrong, write about them. If my sons and daughters do wrong, write about them. If the judges and mayors do wrong, write about them. No one shall take action against the journals for writing the truth. They shall go in and out of the palace freely.” kzm After King Mindon passed away, his son Thibaw took the throne. Bo Wizaya quit journalism because the new king did not support press freedom at all. pe What did he do? kzm I think he went back to his town and was a teacher until the 1880s, and wrote some books as well. He was a poet. I think Burmese people like and look

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up to journalists who are also writers, such as U Win Tin, who died in 2014. He was a good writer, as well as being a politician and art critic. pe I noticed quite a few women at work in your newsroom. Are they journalists? kzm Yes, I encourage women journalists. I want my newsroom to be diverse. But that’s not to say that only women should write about gender topics and women’s stories. I encourage all my journalists to be aware of equality issues. We are also geographically and ethnically diverse. I have journalists from Mandalay, Mon state, Shan state, and ethnic Shan, Rakhine, Mon, and Karen writers. They think critically and give a different perspective to different stories. Sometimes you have to write from out of the box to get people to question whether their traditional thinking is right or wrong. pe How do you think the experience of exile has shaped you as a writer? kzm Living in exile, I traveled to the US, Europe, and Southeast Asia. That kind of experience probably made me a more broad-minded writer. But at the same time, in exile it is quite difficult to retain a real feel for your own country. That is the difficult thing … After ten years away, you are sometimes not really sure whether you are still connected with your own people. You cannot get a real sense over the phone, or from just reading stories written by other people. As a writer, as a journalist, you have to feel it, you have to see it, you have to be there. So there are advantages and disadvantages. If you are mindful of yourself in exile you can be a good writer and a good journalist, without misinforming people. pe How did your time in prison sharpen your awareness and your sense of place and space? kzm I was always thinking about things and my brain was working all the time. Even if I didn’t want to talk to my cellmates, I would think out loud and that turned into a discussion or sometimes a debate with my fellow inmates. When I didn’t have books, I tried to learn things like how to knit shawls. pe Knitting a shawl? Didn’t you say in your Free Speech Movement Café lecture last night on campus at Berkeley that it wasn’t allowed? kzm It was one of the options to kill time, even though it was also illegal; we had to hide the wool or knitting needles. Hiding them was also a form of keeping your mind alert. I always tried to make my shawls beautiful. I would

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try to make my own designs based on sample patterns, so I could give very unique shawls to my mum. In the prison, the political prisoners are like chickens locked up in a cage. Any natural disaster, any enemies can find you. There’s nowhere to run, so you have to be alert. Wardens can come anytime and attack you—I mean, torture you— if they find you doing illegal things. And even reading is illegal. pe You’ve mentioned in your stories that you do not regret your time in prison. Why? kzm I think if I hadn’t been put in jail, I would be a different person now—and I like myself now. In the past when I was tortured, I experienced what it is like to be so scared. And in the interrogation center, I suffered deep sadness when my mother passed away. That doesn’t mean I want other people to have such terrible experiences. But they were profound and made me different from others, and probably made me different from most other journalists. So I embrace my past. pe You seem very comfortable in yourself. You don’t seem to carry the weight of trauma. kzm When I was reunited with my brother after being released from prison, he was so surprised. He said, You don’t look like a former political prisoner, you don’t look like you spent eight years in prison. My brother is also a journalist and he had talked to many former political prisoners and had seen what many years in prison can do. But I think that the way you experience things has a lot to do with your expectations. If you prepare for the worst, then when you really face it, you can overcome it. Before I was arrested, I read a short book by Tolstoy. In it he discussed how he felt when he was nineteen or twenty years old, asking questions about the meaning of life. Just before I was arrested, I asked myself similar questions. My point is that when I was arrested, I tried to prepare myself to face the worst kind of situation. pe Would you say there are any particular literary influences on your writing? kzm I have liked reading since I was young. From the ages of thirteen to fifteen, I’d already read many quite serious books, mostly about history and communism. I read the work of Burmese authors like Dagon Taya, who was a contemporary of Aung San. Up until he died five years ago, I would talk to him sometimes by phone from Chiang Mai. He lived in Shan state. Dagon Taya was a very respected author. Thein Pein Myint was another very good writer who wrote a lot of political books and fiction; and Mya Than Thint was also



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a very good writer. All of them were kind of influenced by communism after the October revolution of 1917. pe What kind of damage did the military regime do to the intellectual life of the country? kzm The entire education system was destroyed. Many intellectuals and educated people left the country. Those who could not leave were stuck in a society where they had to take orders from unqualified people who were appointed to their positions by high-ranking officials in the military government. These people knew nothing about what they were doing, so of course after 1962 intellectual life was destroyed. Individual creativity also declined. However, some people actually become more creative under oppressive regimes. For example, artists could not write openly such opinions as “we do not like this government.” They had to find metaphors to get their messages to the people. At the same time, this meant they also had to experiment to see whether their audience and readers understood their metaphors. But the authorities were also Burmese and are supposed to know more than ordinary people. So the writers had to find ways to conceal their meanings as well as to reveal them. Some people probably became even better thinkers under the military regime. I mean, the government put us in jail because they wanted us to be ignorant, to be out of touch with society, but we came out of prison different from how they expected. pe When we first met last year, you told me that there was a large portrait of the famous rebel Saya San in Tharrawaddy Prison, where you served part of your sentence. What kind of impact did it have on prisoners, having that painting in the prison? kzm Saya San was not like Aung San, but he was nevertheless a symbol of rebellion against invaders—in his case, the British colonialist. In that sense he was a hero to the authorities as well as to the Burmese people. He was jailed and executed in Tharrawaddy Prison. That’s why his portrait is officially displayed there. For us political prisoners, however, he was inspiring as someone who fought for freedom and liberty, a hero when it comes to fighting against oppressive rulers. He fought against the British, but as fighters we were in the same boat with him. pe You described in your talk at Berkeley how a warden brought you a piece of paper to write on. Can you say a bit more about the relationship between political prisoners and warders?

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kzm The first warden brought me that piece of paper. Then later on we managed to convince other wardens to do the same. He was just a normal, honest person. I don’t remember how long it took me to convince him to bring me something, anything with writing on it. He was sympathetic because I was one of the youngest in my group and he was one of the youngest in his. Later, other wardens were willing to pass even big books to us. Sometimes they had to split a book up and bring one part at a time. pe

Like in installments?

kzm Yes. For example, a dictionary. Sometimes sympathetic wardens had to throw books or things over a high wall to get them to us from outside. They had to make sure that other wardens did not see. I know some wardens were fired and one warden who was caught was put in jail. pe

Why do you think some wardens took that risk?

kzm A few reasons. Firstly, they knew we were not criminals and had not done anything wrong. So some wardens, as human beings, have sympathies. Some wardens didn’t dare to help us—they were often poor like us and were suffering under the government. Their families also suffered a lot. The rules, regulations, and laws prohibited them from helping us. But some had the courage and they took the risk. pe When you were in prison what kind of role models were you aware of? I’m thinking of Nelson Mandela and others. Given that you were shut off from the world, was he in your worldview? kzm Yes, we had our role models. Not only Nelson Mandela—we knew very well that he had been imprisoned for twenty-seven years—also Martin Luther King. And in our own country, Aung San was leader of the nationalist movement in the 1930s and 1940s; back then, there were very good leaders like him. Before I was arrested, I read their biographies and they inspired me a lot. To be honest, I was inspired by anyone who fought for justice.



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After recently fleeing violence in Burma, Rohingya families gather on the riverbank outside the town of Shah Puri Dwip in southern Bangladesh, awaiting small boats to take them to the mainland. © Greg Constantine 2017

J U

The Window He notices something is wrong with his wife as soon as he gets home from work. She doesn’t seem her usual self. He believes he can read minds. Besides, his wife is not very good at hiding her feelings. Isn’t she wearing a decrepit smile? “Are you already hungry? Sorry, I had to go check a car.” Without a word, she takes the briefcase from him, places it on his desk and pretends to be busy. Something is definitely wrong. He waits discreetly until she turns around to face him. She doesn’t seem sullen. To his surprise, she has the disconsolate look of a woman who had lost something very valuable to her. And who doesn’t want him to know that. Something is hidden behind her clumsily averted eyes. Isn’t there also a trace of guilt on her face? As if he didn’t notice anything, he turns away from her. Their bedroom—a small one typical of any average flat—is neat and tidy as usual. There is a wide, dark glass window on its outer wall. The window is closed today. Doesn’t his wife always keep it open? The bedroom window is the only window in their flat. He knows that, if the window were shut, his wife would feel suffocated. She is the one who opens it first thing in the morning and closes it at the end of the day. Today the window is already shut before bedtime. He looks around the room. Their bed is draped in a tidy white sheet. Their clothes are hanging neatly at the rack next to the bed. He takes note of his wife’s light pink sweater that has been there since yesterday. She didn’t go out today, he thinks to himself. She doesn’t come into the bedroom while he is changing his clothes and surveying the room. At dinner she remains quiet. The huge rectangular Formica table that can seat ten seems too big for their household of two. There has never been a guest at their flat after all. As usual, they sit together at a corner of the table. The white radish sour soup is steaming hot and delicious. She is an excellent cook—a typical housewife, naïve, simple, and unattractive. To be fair to her, no one would glance at her more than once. He married her because he knew her interests would be confined only to the household and its immediate surroundings. She doesn’t know his monthly income. She doesn’t even know she should 205

be inquisitive about it. She only touches the daily grocery money he usually leaves under her pillow. They have a car but she doesn’t know how to drive. She goes to places only when he is free to take her out. She doesn’t know which bus to take if she wants to go downtown alone. Apart from Bogyoke market, she doesn’t know how to get to other places. She doesn’t know where her husband’s office is, or what he does all day outside. Even though she holds a degree in mathematics, she has no idea how to put a figure on anything. He wolfs down his meal, while keeping an eye on her. She remains extraordinarily silent. When he left for work before half past seven in the morning, there was nothing wrong with her. What is wrong with her now? There isn’t the slightest hint of happiness on her face while her fingers are expertly deboning a piece of fried fish for him. He attempts to cheer her up. He tells her an amusing story he has heard during the day. She replies with a slight smile that looks contrived. She doesn’t seem sullen. Whenever she is grouchy with him, she will make her presence felt—she will pull a face or stomp her feet, or make a racket with the utensils until she gets his attention. This time, she isn’t seeking attention to make a statement. She is simply concealing something from him, something serious, and attention is probably the last thing she wants right now. “What’s the matter with you, Aye?” he asks impatiently as soon as he finishes eating. She gives him a surprised look. When he eyeballs her, she lowers her eyes and says, “Nothing!” He is getting impatient. He pushes the dinner plate away from him and stares at her. “Something is wrong with you!” His question has turned into an accusation. She doesn’t make eye contact with him anymore, while she continues eating her meal quietly. And yet she doesn’t look as if she is having dinner. She looks as if she were drowning in a daydream. “Aye!” His snappish voice wakes her up. “Nothing, Darling! I’ve just got a headache.” He sighs restlessly. “No, you don’t have a headache. You are hiding something from me. I know it. Don’t lie to me! It’s written all over your face.” He sounds like a husband who has learned his wife’s emotional topography in two years of marriage. The harshness of his tone puts her on edge. She stops eating and begins to clear up the plates nervously. By now he is more than certain his wife is hiding something from him. He must sniff it out. There should be no secrets between a husband and a wife. A husband must know everything about his wife. “Aye! Tell me the truth. What’s wrong with you?”

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He can’t wait until she is done with the dishes. No more excuses this time. He needs an answer right away. “Oh, nothing, like I said. I told you already. Why don’t you believe me?” She sounds disappointed. “Why don’t you believe me?” isn’t good enough for him. He quietly follows his wife, who is heading for the kitchen sink, plates in her hands. “Aye …” His harsh voice breaks the silence. One of the plates slips from her hands into the basin. Still, she doesn’t turn around to face him. “Do the dishes later. Wash your hands and come with me to the living room. We need to talk.” “No!” Her refusal ripples with uncertainty. He grasps her arm firmly. “Aye! Do you hear me? You know me, right? Wash your hands right now!” She ignores him and keeps doing the dishes. Through her unkempt long hair he can see the side of her face, full of fear and sadness. For a moment, he feels pity for her. But he knows that now is not the time to be kind to her. It’s important to straighten things out as soon as possible. He grabs her arm and drags her into the living room. “Well? Sit down, Aye. What happened in my house today?” He sits opposite her in order to see her face. “Nothing special,” she replies. She tries her best to give him an uncomplicated look. A shadow of anxiety can be seen in her eyes. He can’t control himself any longer. He pulls his chair up closer to her. She recoils in horror. The tears welling up in her eyes glisten in the light of the fluorescent lamp. In an effort to control his anger he pulls off a smile. “Aye, listen! I have been keeping an eye on you for a long time. I know you are hiding something from me. If you don’t open up to me, every day will be a disaster the rest of our life. You need to know that there shouldn’t be any secret between a married couple.” She gazes at him vaguely and shakes her head. “No, I can’t tell you anything.” “What do you mean, Aye? You mean nothing has happened, or something has happened and you can’t tell me about it?” He has been working the whole day, and he would rather be resting. He looks carefully at his wife, sitting like a lifeless doll in front of him. Her eyes aren’t red or puffy. No sign of crying during the day. “What now, Aye? Don’t you want to tell me what you’ve been through? Don’t you trust me?” he demands. She just keeps shaking her head. “You’ve never kept a secret from me before, right?” She gives him a confused look.



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“I think some secrets should remain secret between a husband and a wife, don’t you think so?” He takes a deep breath. Aye has a secret. She is just unsure whether she should let that out or not. He needs to push her. “Look here! Aren’t you worried that if you decided to keep a secret from me, I would have to live with doubts about you for the rest of my life?” Aye glances nervously at him. “But …” After pausing for a moment, she looks away. He holds her hands and asks her. “But what? Aye?” “You don’t have to know everything about me,” she retorts. “WHAT?!” He sees red. He lets go of her hand and gets on his feet immediately. When he looks over her, her body cringes away from him. “I mean … I think some things are better left unsaid.” Her slight stammer adds fuel to his anger. He clicks his tongue in disgust and kicks the chair she is sitting on. “Did you go out today? Tell me!” A shiver runs through her. She looks up and shakes her head. He can see that her eyes are telling the truth. He goes on. “Did you go to the market?” “No!” That’s also true. She cooked the dinner with what she had bought from the market yesterday. “Any visitor today?” “None.” He is at his wits’ end. There’s no way she could have found out about his affairs with other women. “What were you doing this afternoon?” She stares at him in disbelief. She must be concocting a plan. He keeps checking her facial expressions. She doesn’t answer. “Come on, Aye.” “I don’t know what you are talking about. Whatever I do, it’s nothing to do with you.” “What did you say?” He suddenly sits down beside her. There’s no trace of fear in her eyes any more—only resentfulness. He gets even more irritated by her look. It’s too late to back off now. “Did the laundrywoman come today?” “No, she didn’t.” “So what were you doing the whole day?” “Watching a video.” He looks carefully at her. She keeps her head down.

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“What video? Did you go rent it?” “No, the one we have at home.” “What video?” She doesn’t reply. She is obviously lying. Why is she taking so long to recall the title of a film she has watched during the day. She is a local film buff. She never watches foreign films. “I asked you, what is the name of the film?” he raises his voice. No response from her. Maybe she’s thinking that she is being treated like a crime suspect. She presses her lips shut. He gets up abruptly, marches across to the TV shelf and checks the DVDs in the drawer. There’s a DVD of a Hollywood film he didn’t finish last night, along with other DVDs. No Burmese film there. He takes a look at his wife. To his surprise she is glaring back at him in defiance. A pang of cold anger runs through his chest. Between his wife and him there now exists an invisible wall that has never been there before. He paces restlessly in the living room, looking out for anything unusual. The light yellow tablecloth hand-crocheted by his wife and the glass vase with three flamingo flowers and emerald-green leaves are on the coffee table. His books and documents are in order on the office desk. The revolving chair is tucked beneath the desk. Two Japanese calendars he loves hang on the wall opposite the desk. On the other wall, there is a poster of his wife’s favorite movie star. Nothing unusual. The showcase in the living room is locked as usual. The wedding gifts they had received two years ago—an assortment of silver and glass ornaments, vacuum flasks, and small wooden sculptures are displayed in the showcase as usual. Nothing unusual. The closed window in the bedroom is the only suspicious thing in the whole flat. His pacing around suddenly stops. “Aye? You’ve closed the window!” His shrill statement terrifies her, but her eyes remain locked on the flamingo flowers. The sight of her frightened face pleases him. It has something to do with the window. He strides toward her. “Why did you close the window early today?” He demands the answer. She doesn’t response. His rage doesn’t work on her. “Aye?” “Because it was getting cold outside.” “Fuck you!” he thinks. With a bossy don’t-you-lie-to-me-anymore smile he turns around and walks towards the bedroom. It must be the window. What did she see from the window today? He enters the room quickly and jumps onto the bed. The window is above the headboard. As soon as he opens the window, a refreshing breeze comes in and caresses his face. The view through the window bars is the usual scene of their town. Streetlamps and trees look diminutive from their third floor of a six-story building. There is no building taller than theirs nearby. No window-to-window relations! He begins to investigate everything he can see through the window bars. The road at a short distance from their building is crowded with people

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and traffic. There is an empty alley in the back of the building. On the left side, where he is facing, are four or five two-story brick buildings of which he can see only the flat roofs. He hears a pop song coming from right beneath the building. He looks down and sees an open yard. A teahouse has recently been set up there. What tiny people enjoying their tea at tiny tables under the tiny trees. What about the tiny twinkling light bulbs hanging in the tiny trees! Looking from above, how funny everything beneath is. But he can’t even smile now. There are ten or fifteen young waiters hurrying from one table to another. The open shed at the other end of the yard must be the kitchen and the till. There is a woman behind the counter. She is probably the same age as his wife. He can’t make out her face. Even though he can see the faces of people coming into the teahouse, he cannot make out who they are. What did his wife see from the window? Can he see what she saw from here? His wife, who never closes this window, had closed it earlier. Maybe she saw someone from the window? Now he wants to grab her shoulders for a rough shakedown. When he turns around, he sees his wife gazing at him at the bedroom door. The light blue voile top she is wearing is flapping in the breeze from the window. Her long hair glistens in the light. She looks like a sleepwalker. “Aye?” His voice is cracking with doubt, anger, and agitation. “Come over here. Will you?” She ignores him, and doesn’t move an inch. He strides toward her from the window and drags her by the arm back to the window. “Come on, Aye. You have to tell me what you saw.” Her momentary resistance caves into the pressure. Her face goes pale with fear. He pushes her head toward the window bars. She screams in terror. Trying to control his anger, he turns her by the shoulders toward him. She faces his stare with tearful eyes. He releases his grip. “Why do you want to know about something I don’t want to tell you?” “Because you are my wife!” “Okay, fine! I will tell you about it if you must know. Don’t you regret it later.” She sounds like a seer. Her voice is calm and clear. “He was at the teahouse today.” He wishes what he just heard were the vroom of a passing car from the road. “He? Who is he?” He babbles, and then she smiles. It’s the very first genuine smile he receives from her this whole evening. It is as sharp as a razor. “My ex-boyfriend.” His heart is pounding. “No!” He cries out. She had no boyfriend before they got married. “Yes!” She confirms. She continues staring into his eyes. “He doesn’t drink. He is not bad tempered. He is not rude or offensive.” Her words hurt him deep in the heart.

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“He is not fat as a pig. He doesn’t smell of alcohol, or cigarettes. His underarms don’t stink. He doesn’t have garlic breath.” The cold tone of her voice falls like a slap on his face. “I am always his first priority. I never feel like a crime suspect when I talk to him. He never accuses me of anything. He never judges me.” She sounds more as if she is visualizing and narrating a dream. Awestruck, he looks on her with his mouth agape. “His eyes are always gentle whenever they look into mine. He doesn’t exploit people for money. He has no flat, no car, no workshop, and no warehouse …” He steps back a few inches. “… But he has love.” “ENOUGH!” She keeps talking, staring straight into his eyes. “He never thinks I am stupid. He never tells me I am useless. He never humiliates me about my flat nose. I will never be able to stop loving him or be disappointed in him.” “That’s all lies!” His voice cracks with anger. She continues, “He saw me when I was looking out of the window. Yes, he saw me. I am sure he will visit me in a few days.” He clenches his fist in rage. “Calm down!” he says to himself. “This bitch is trying to outsmart you. She is talking like a fool. Only a fool can make a fool of another one.” He comforts himself. “Through this window — ” He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her roughly. “Shut up!” “ … If I want to give him something, I can tie it with a rope and lower it to him. I can also receive gifts from him this way…” He slaps her face with all his rage. Covering her face in her hands, she goes quiet. He looks down at her trembling body. “Say one more word if you dare! Just one more word!” he snarls through his gritted teeth. He keeps an eye on her, with his hand at the ready for another blow. She doesn’t say anything. All he can hear now are the chatter and laughter of people from below, cars honking horns, and the music from the teahouse. He abruptly moves toward the window and shuts it tight. The room falls silent. Translated from Burmese by Thett Su San



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Picnic K Za Win (1982–2021) was killed by security forces in an anti-coup protest in Monywa on 3 March 2021. This is one of his final poems. k.k.t. Let’s go with the Lord Buddha. Let’s go with Mr. President. “Come along.” Let’s invite our poet friends.  The spring picnic should have been fun,  but it wasn’t. The Lord Buddha has forsaken us. Mr. President has abandoned us. Some of our poet friends  have gone home.  The wine bottle was knocked over. The face of the cake  straight out of the box was half eaten. My remaining friends and I started to scream  Edvard Munch screams.  The spring was bogus— only our screams were real.  Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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On My Way Home This poem is witness to the mass deportation of Burmese immigrant workers from Thailand in early 2020, during the first wave of covid-19. k.k.t. Yes, I am on my way home. At home I have Aphay. At home I have Amay. At home there are children of my bosom, who count on me. There is my little brother. There is my little sister. There’s a pair of oxen in hock; I ought to go back for them. Through the thatch roof of our house we can see the moon and the stars: I will have to patch it up. Yes, I am on my way home. The factory I worked for has shut down. The country I was in temporarily has revoked my temporary stay permit. I am returning to my place of birth. I am going back to my native land. Yes, I am on my way home. I am a daughter of Myanmar. I was born in Myanmar. I hold a Myanmar national identity card. The only language I know is Burmese. Wherever my children are born they will be from Myanmar.

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Yes, I am on my way home. Whatever pandemic I will face it together with Myanmar people. Whatever virus I want to ride it out at home. Whatever might ail me I want to die in the loving shelter of Aphay and Amay. How could I leave them? Bury me at my birthplace when I die. Yes, I am on my way home. I will abide by restrictions at home. I’d like to receive care at home. I’d like an embrace from home. Yes, I am on my way home. I’d like to live an honest and incorrupt life. I am on my way home. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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S A W

L A M B E R T

Kaw Tha Wah the Hunter Like most villages in Karen State, Kappali had a primary school. It was small, just one room with bamboo walls, a thatched roof, and a blackboard. Kaw Tha Wah and his sister Naw Thar Mee attended the school every day, as did their friend Naw Mu Htoo. Once, their teacher Naw Thay asked them, “What do you want to do when you grow up, my dears?” First, Kaw Tha Wah said he wanted to be a hunter like his father, for then there’d always be good food at home. Naw Thar Mee thought she’d like to be a baker. Of course, she was always thinking about eating. Finally, Naw Mu Htoo dreamed of becoming a weaver because she liked to wear beautiful dresses. After school the three children would help their parents in the fields, picking vegetables and looking after the pigs and chickens. Everyone in the village was a farmer working the same land, so nobody was richer or poorer than the next family. As the three children grew, Kaw Tha Wah matured into a handsome young man and Naw Mu Htoo into a beautiful young girl. During the plowing and harvesting seasons, the whole village would come together in the fields, and Kaw Tha Wah would tease Naw Mu Htoo. It was obvious to the villagers they had fallen for each other, and everyone was pleased. They all liked Kaw Tha Wah. His father taught him the art of hunting as well as farming. Whenever he had free time, Kaw Tha Wah would disappear into the forest around Kappali, and if luck brought him a good catch, he’d share the meat with his neighbors. One day in the forest, Kaw Tha Wah saw a wild boar and quickly fired his gun. Now Kaw Tha Wah was an excellent shot, but the boar’s skin was thick and strong, and the animal ran off into the bush. Kaw Tha Wah followed the bloody tracks deeper into the hills than he’d ever gone before. He saw no village, no path made by humans, and yet under the thick trees he came upon a wooden hut surrounded by wild boars. Kaw Tha Wah hid behind a tree and watched in surprise as a young girl in a long white Karen dress stepped out of the hut and began to feed the boars. One of them was the boar Kaw Tha Wah had shot. When the young girl saw blood on the boar’s back, she cried aloud and rushed into the hut to get medicine. After dressing the boar’s wound, the young girl stood up and shouted into the forest. 215

“Why did you shoot this boar? Shoot whichever boar you like, but never this one again!” Kaw Tha Wah knew the girl couldn’t see him. He just stared at her, captivated by her beauty, not caring about the boar anymore. Then, as if something broke the spell, he suddenly remembered where he was and rushed back home. He didn’t go hunting again after that, nor did he tell anyone about his encounter with the strange young girl. Instead, he spent his time cutting and stripping bamboo to weave into baskets. This was the time of British rule, and an Englishman was appointed Commissioner for the Karen people. In his travels around the plains and hills, one day he reached the town of Shwe Goun on the banks of the Salween River, only three miles away from Kappali. He heard of Kaw Tha Wah’s prowess at hunting and thought to himself, Well, if the young man has a gun, he might also be a rebel. So he told his police officers to bring Kaw Tha Wah to Shwe Goun. When Kaw Tha Wah arrived with his village chief, the Englishman took a long look at the gun, then asked the chief about Kaw Tha Wah. The chief replied honestly that Kaw Tha Wah had a good reputation in the village and everyone liked him. The Englishman decided to test Kaw Tha Wah. “If you really are such a good hunter, then you should be able to shoot. If you hit the target, I will release you.” The Englishman ordered his men to stake a bamboo pole in the middle of the Salween River. The river was wide and the strong currents rocked the bamboo back and forth. The Englishman handed Kaw Tha Wah his English rifle and told him to shoot the bamboo, but Kaw Tha Wah had never used a fancy foreign rifle before and asked if he might use his own homemade gun instead. Word spread around town and soon a crowd gathered on the riverbank to watch. Kaw Tha Wah cleaned his gun as best he could and filled it with gunpowder from a small leather bag at his waist. He looked long and hard at the bamboo pole swaying in the river, judged the strength and direction of the wind, then knelt on one knee. The crowd went silent and still. All eyes were on the bamboo pole. Kaw Tha Wah cocked the steel hammer with his thumb, closed one eye, corrected the alignment of the rear and front sights on the barrel, and slowly exhaled. He pulled the trigger and, with a bang, the bamboo splintered into bits. The riverbank erupted in cheers and shouts. The Englishman congratulated Kaw Tha Wah and told him he was free to go. He even presented him with his own rifle as a prize for hitting such a difficult target. On Kaw Tha Wah’s return to Kappali, the villagers had already heard of his feat and welcomed him back, especially Naw Mu Htoo. British Rule was coming to an end. The war spread even to Karenland, and a Japanese Army contingent was on its way. Naw Mu Htoo’s father, a junior officer in the colonial Karen Rifles, was ordered by his British superiors to defend the large town of Hpa Pun, many miles from Kappali. He asked Kaw Tha Wa’s father to look after Naw Mu Htoo and her mother while he was away. Only a

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week after he left, the chiefs gathered everyone to tell them that the Japanese were closing in and could enter the village at any moment. Naw Mu Htoo’s house was at the edge of the village, and Kaw Tha Wah knew the Japanese would search it first. So he went to Naw Mu Htoo to ask her and her mother to move in with his father for protection, while he and a friend, Pha Kha Lay Phoe, would guard their house. Pha Kha Lay Phoe slept early, but Kaw Tha Wah tossed and turned for hours, restlessly thinking behind his closed eyes of Naw Mu Htoo and their uncertain fate. Kaw Tha Wah was awoken by a loud rustling, to find two Japanese soldiers standing over him, the bayonets on their rifles gleaming even in the dark. Behind them stood an officer holding a coil of rope. Where was Pha Kha Lay Phoe? Had he escaped or been tied up outside? As the two soldiers lifted Kaw Tha Wah to his feet, a noise in the forest distracted them, and Kaw Tha Wah saw his chance. He hit one soldier and shoved the other to the floor and ran away. All the houses in the village were deserted. It wasn’t until morning that he found his family and Naw Mu Htoo hiding in the forest. They told him what had happened the night before. Pha Kha Lay Phoe had seen the Japanese soldiers enter the house where Kaw Tha Wah was sleeping and, assuming he’d been captured, ran to warn the other villagers. Just then, two men arrived with word that the Japanese were advancing quickly. It wasn’t safe for Naw Mu Htoo and her mother to stay there any longer, so the men were to escort them both to the village of Htee Ka Haw, far below the Dawna Mountains, where Chief Hpa Pa Law, who was related to Kaw Tha Wah’s mother, promised to keep them safe. The Japanese were still in the village, but Kaw Tha Wah couldn’t let Naw Mu Htoo leave without the basket he’d woven especially for her. He crept back into the village and grabbed the basket without being seen. He’d been meaning to give it to her later, but now this might be his last opportunity. “Little sister Mu Htoo,” he said, handing her the basket, “whenever you use this basket, think of me.” “Brother Kaw Tha Wah, how could I forget you? Here, to help you remember me too.” Naw Mu Htoo reached into a bag and pulled out a headscarf she had woven herself. She promised Kaw Tha Wah she’d follow the Karen tradition of raising a pig until he came back to her. Kaw Tha Wah smiled and swore she’d see him again before long. For the next couple of years, the villagers of Kappali lived in the forest, but the Japanese never stopped hunting them. One by one, they were all captured, including Kaw Tha Wah and his family. The soldiers dug a big pit in the center of the village and threatened they’d all be buried there. The villagers, both Christian and Buddhist, prayed together until a plane overhead dropped a flutter of leaflets telling the Japanese to surrender to the nearest British Army camp. Atomic bombs had devastated cities in Japan. The war was over. The soldiers fled into the forest, and the villagers celebrated their freedom with singing and dancing.



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The war destroyed most of Kappali, and many houses had to be rebuilt. Fields that lay fallow for many harvests had to be re-plowed. Kaw Tha Wah and his sister, Naw Tha Mee, worked hard with the other villagers, and by year end they had a good rice yield and a full store of fish. After the harvest, Kaw Tha Wah asked his parents for permission to see Naw Mu Htoo and they prayed for his safe journey, for the mountain path to Htee Ka Haw was rough. But Karenland was now at peace, and Kaw Tha Wah’s steps were happy and quick, knowing he’d soon be meeting Naw Mu Htoo again. Sleeping in ruined huts along the way, it took him four days to cross the mountains. Though he saw many animals, he didn’t hunt, eating instead the food his sister had prepared. Once he got to Htee Ka Haw, he went to see Naw Mu Htoo’s mother and father to tell them he’d come with his parents’ blessings. They welcomed him, for they knew how sad their daughter had been to leave him behind. Kaw Tha Wah rested, took a quick shower and a meal, then the parents left the two alone. Naw Mu Htoo’s father went to sit in the shade to cut bamboo strips while her mother dug roots and sprouts from the garden. Alone in the house, Kaw Tha Wah drew close to Naw Mu Htoo and said, “Sister Mu Htoo, wherever I was, I always thought of you. I came for you just like I promised.” “Are you sure? I thought you had forgotten me. I always put your bamboo basket next to my bed when I sleep.” “I believe you. I also carry your scarf with me every day.” They talked for a while longer, until Kaw Tha Wah couldn’t wait any longer and asked Naw Mu Htoo to marry him. “But the pig is still small,” she said. “Don’t worry about the pig. It’s not important.” Naw Mu Htoo’s parents had no objection, for they loved Kaw Tha Wah as a son. As his father was across the mountains, Kaw Tha Wah asked his uncle, Hpa Pa Law, to request Naw Mu Htoo’s hand in marriage in his parents’ stead in accordance with Karen custom. All approved and they celebrated with a cooked chicken. Kaw Tha Wah’s parents crossed the mountains for the wedding. The preparations took two days, and the ceremony was held before the whole village on the third day. The day before his parents returned to Kappali, Kaw Tha Wah decided it was time he started hunting again. With permission from his uncle, he set off into the Dawna Mountains, but however far he walked the forest was barren of wildlife. Tired, he rested under a large tree, examining the sights and barrel of his rifle, when he noticed an old man walking towards him. “My grandson,” rasped the old man, “could you give me a puff on your cheroot?” Kaw Tha Wah’s uncle had warned him how evil spirits guarded the lands around. “Grandpa, if you want to smoke, then open your mouth.”

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The old man yawned. Kaw Tha Wah aimed the gun and fired. “Grandson, your cheroot is so mild,” said the old man. “Then just wait a bit. I’ll give you a stronger cheroot.” Kaw Tha Wah poured more gunpowder and a heavier lead ball into the rifle. “Grandpa, open your mouth again.” This time Kaw Tha Wah quickly thrust the barrel of the gun deep inside the old man’s open mouth and pulled the trigger. The old man vanished in a swirl of smoke, and Kaw Tha Wah thought to himself, Now the forest is mine. From then on, whenever Kaw Tha Wah, Chief Hpa Pa Law, and his friends went hunting in the forest, they heard birds singing in the trees and animals running in the bush. They only shot what boar or deer they needed, and when the sun set behind the village, Naw Mu Htoo and her neighbors would cook for everyone. As they ate and drank and talked and sang together, Kaw Tha Wah thought to himself that only friends and relations united in love for one another could find real happiness. Translated from Sgaw Karen to Burmese by the author, and from Burmese to English by Khin Hnit Thit Oo



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M O E

W A Y

watch out maung maung (there is such a thing as retribution) I am here to represent everybody I arrived through the tempest Despite my infirmities I do not expect anything I, the delegate of the majority, would be gratified If only you knew my goodwill, if only you understood me Some of you may hold certain reservations Forgive me for not being able to wrinkle out all the differences What have I really done to serve myself As you see me now, I stand alone All alone, in the weather Please try to understand me I have never betrayed you In fact I am doing this not because I am too preoccupied with the business of representing you I am doing this only because it is my inherent need Life has instructed me to represent the majority That’s why I am standing here in front of you all Just to be misinterpreted, just to be walked on A few of you may have developed prejudices against me, I know But I am sorry, I work for the majority Pleasure is not even part of my desire Both my soul and my body are busy representing the majority From my position of genuine goodwill I do not expect anything in return With a clear conscience I continue to do what I am tasked to do I, the chosen one, am determined to realize My true calling, the purpose of my life Trust me, trust me, please, trust me I represent the majority. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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Coffee of the Gods 1 Sour Plum Hill was a small village, and as the name implied, overgrown with sour plums. A little over four miles away, the nearest village, Kyaungzu, was larger, hot and dry, covered in dust—distant, poor, with only a few houses: nothing special. When people wanted something like a special snack to tide them over when keeping the precepts on a holy day, or some other kind of ready-to-eat food, it was Kyaungzu they went to. Sour Plum had only a market. Still, it was a proper village, with a bicycle repair and barber’s chair. Some villagers grew sugarcane, so there was a small cane-juice stall. You could get a cup of brick-red syrupy tea, strong and sweet, at the small teashop. Over to the west, a little stall sold vegetable fritters, and another toddy wine. That was pretty much it. Visitors could get a haircut, have their bicycles repaired, and for two kyats, have as much cane juice as they wanted. They could go to Ko Loun’s shack in the palm grove for toddy wine, and to I Kun’s teashop for tea. What I want to tell you about now is I Kun’s teashop. More precisely, the small packets of coffee powder sitting on the upper left-hand corner of the table where he mixed up the tea. 2 I Kun had bought those powdered coffee packets a good while ago; he couldn’t remember exactly when. So long ago that, would you believe, there’d been only one customer for coffee in Sour Plum Hill. That was Chan Htun Aung: tall yet stooped, flat-lipped, with an unkempt beard and stubborn demeanor. He’d go to I Kun’s every morning for a cup. If anyone loved his coffee, it was him. He’d swallow it down in one long gulp and then puff on a Two Elephants cheroot before pouring a little green tea into the blackish dregs at the bottom of the cup and drink that. Then, he’d puff away on his cheroot, have two cups of green tea, let out a resounding belch, get up, and be off. In the evenings, the teashop closed up early, so before going home, he’d return to get another cup of coffee and let it sit. Just before bed, he’d drink it, weak and cold. He could go to bed only after having had a taste of coffee. The problem was that I Kun’s shop was no grand establishment. Keep in 221

mind that it was the kind of place that, to make a sign for it, he had just dipped his finger into enamel paint and written the name out on a sheet of zinc. Nor were the villagers the kind of people to sit in teashops as was done in the towns. A cup of tea cost nothing, but no one settled down for any length of time. The question then was, just whom did I Kun sell to? The horse-cart drivers crossing back and forth while the market was open would stop and have tea. Workers from the irrigation canal would too. Sometimes when villagers had a little extra money, they’d have a cup, or when they had guests, they might come get some. That was all who came. It was the kind of teashop that sold less than thirty cups a day. That wasn’t all he sold, however—he also had dusty bottles of soda water, ginger beer, and Wincarnis for sale. That’s how he made his living, selling odds and ends. Like I said, it was thirty cups of tea a day, but only one cup of coffee, which was for Chan Htun Aung. The packets of coffee powder I Kun got whenever he went to Kyaungzu to buy stock for his store in bulk were only for him. Sometimes the packets went moldy and even the flavor would go, making it hard to still call the contents “powdered coffee,” except for the memory of what they had once been. But no matter, none of that bothered Chan Htun Aung. He was just glad to get his coffee at I Kun’s. He’d decided his life was complete by having a cup in the morning and another in the evening. I Kun didn’t even close during Chinese New Year’s. Chan Htun Aung could always get his coffee, no matter how bad it might be. That’s how he and I Kun’s rather bad coffee had been good friends for many years. 3 One day, a junior worker from the irrigation canal came over to Chan Htun Aung’s house with a small plastic cup. His wife recognized him as the irrigation chief ’s cook from next door. He didn’t say anything, but just looked around for Chan Htun Aung. “Over there—Uncle Chan Htun Aung’s over there. What can we do for you?” “They told me to give him this.” “Give him what?” “Some kind of drink. The chief ’s wife told me to bring him some.” The villagers called the irrigation engineers “chiefs,” after the English who had camped there during the colonial era, and the bungalow that had been standing there ever since, the “chief ’s hut.” The two compounds stood next door to each other. The chief engineer and his wife would call on Chan Htun Aung and his family whenever they had some task for them, often bringing them some small token over in exchange. This time, however, the small cup was unusual. What could be in it? Chan Htun Aung came out front and saw the boy standing there, cup in hand. “I think it’s kahpi. The chief ’s wife asked me to bring you some.” In the village, they call it kahpi. Chan Htun Aung didn’t need to hear another

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word. He went straight back inside looking for a cup to pour the coffee into. After the boy went home, he sat on the bamboo frame in front of the house to drink it. What . . . what kind of coffee was this? When did they start making coffee like this? What kind of people came up with such a thing? Who drank it? How did something like this get to the village? This was the first time in his fifty years that he even knew this kind of coffee existed. He only wet the inside of his mouth with it to keep it from disappearing too fast. He nursed it, only letting it wet his lips. Each tiny swallow made every muscle in his body quiver and feel like he was giving off heat. One question after another mounted in his mind, but he could find no answers. After he’d swallowed up the last of it, he spent the rest of the morning moping, holding on to the empty cup. That morning he didn’t got to I Kun’s shop. He didn’t have to anymore. It came to him that the coffee he’d been drinking there all these years was in fact awful. That coffee, which he’d been drinking religiously once in the morning and once in the evening, was nasty. It was disgusting. People like to compare, and they have some ability to know what is what. He couldn’t blame I Kun; before he’d had that coffee from next door, what I Kun had been giving him was “coffee.” Now, where was he going to get this new kind of coffee every day? The thought that he was probably never going to have it again for the rest of his life made him miserable. “I’m going over to the chief ’s to ask them what kind of coffee that was,” he called out to his wife. Cup in hand, he straddled the fence to cross into the other compound. He couldn’t find the chief, who apparently had gone out to inspect a breach in an irrigation ditch. He spotted his wife receiving guests with bundles and packages. Seeing him coming, she asked, “What do you need, Chan Htun Aung?” He hesitated, but still he had to ask—that’s why he’d come. He had to find out what kind of coffee that was, didn’t he? “Oh . . . I just wanted to ask what kind of coffee Nga Hman brought over.” “Oh, that. I knew you liked coffee, so I had him take you some. My father brought it from the city. It’s called Nescafé.” “Sorry, what was that again?” “Ne’ coffee.” “Nat Kahpi” “Right, Nat Kahpi.” So, that was it. Coffee of the gods, the coffee the nats and Indra drank. Chan Htun Aung was satisfied. That one cup of coffee had made him look twenty years younger. He went home happy. “Ma Kyi, do you know what kind of coffee I just had?” “No.” “Coffee of the nat gods.” Chan Htun Aung told one house after another about the nat coffee. Whomever he met on the street, he told. He told Ko Thein from the barbershop. He



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stopped by the fritter stall and told Daw Kyi So there, then ducked into the cane-juice stall and told Babu. He went in and told Uncle Paw at the bicycle repair shop. No one seemed interested in the slightest. Who would be interested in some coffee they’d never tasted? Finally, he went to I Kun and went on about the nat coffee with great enthusiasm, but never having made a cup of coffee for himself, nor having heard of this nat coffee—much less tasted it—I Kun had no idea what Chan Htun Aung was talking about. When Chan Htun Aung got home, his wife served dinner. He didn’t eat a thing. He couldn’t stand the thought of the last traces of the flavor of that coffee, still lingering inside him, disappearing. Eventually evening fell. He was going to have to get some more coffee. But where was he going to get more of that stuff from the chief ’s hut? He had no clue how you made that nat coffee that had come out of nowhere. He wouldn’t be able to get another cup of it, now would he? He was going to have to make do with some of I Kun’s thick and sticky stuff like he always used to. The thought depressed him. It couldn’t be helped, he’d made up his mind. He went and got some, but put off drinking it until late. When he finally didn’t know what else to do, he took a sip, his heart pounding. Horrid. It stank. Awful. He couldn’t bring himself to swallow. He wanted to throw up. He tried to take another sip. No, he couldn’t. There was absolutely no way he could drink this. He kept picturing that cup of coffee from the morning, longing for that flavor. There was still a lot of coffee left in the cup, so he tried again. The stone-cold coffee going down his throat made him grimace. Drenched in a cold sweat, his chest burning, he shivered at the rank, sickening smell, and managed to fall asleep only much later, in the depths of night. He dreamt of a shimmering nat presenting him with a golden cup full of coffee. Smiling, he took it and drank. What on earth?! The nat in the dream was the boy from the chief ’s hut himself! 4 Trouble really started for Chan Htun Aung from the next day on. He’d become obsessed with Nescafé and the thought of how wonderful it would be to have something like that every day, but how hard it would be for him to always get it for the rest of his life. He’d never heard of a store having it, even in a big village like Kyaungzu. But wait, forget that—he’d never be able to have I Kun’s coffee again. Not just at night, but having to drink it in the morning would make him sick. Thoughts like that kept him from eating. He used to be able to skip a meal if he’d had some coffee, but now he couldn’t have any coffee at all. He lay in bed, calling out, “nat coffee, nat coffee.” His wife knew he couldn’t eat or drink anything as long as he was obsessed with his nat coffee, but where were they going to get it? Where would anyone from such a small village in the middle of nowhere go look for it? There was only one thing to do—she could go to the chief ’s hut and ask the wife for some 224

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more. Maybe they’d give her some if she told them what was going on. She went over the fence. “Have you still got any of that nat coffee?” “We don’t drink it all the time. Some guests brought it from the city. There’s maybe about two or three cups’ worth left in the jar. Look, why don’t we do this? The guests are leaving tomorrow, and we’re all going with them. Watch the house for us and you can take the jar.” “How do you make it?” “You boil some water, pour enough for one cup and mix in the powder, about a teaspoon and a half, and stir quickly. Add a little sugar if you like it sweet. “All right.” As soon as Chan Htun Aung’s wife got home with the jar, she put water on to boil and made a cup. When she gave it to her husband, it was the most grateful he’d ever been to her in their fifty years together. He was so obviously grateful. The life poured back into him immediately, and he felt refreshed, like a young man again. Day after day, he carried the jar around, never tiring of looking at it. “We could try to order a jar in the city,” he said. “It’ll be expensive. How would we order it anyway, from whom? The city’s so far away,” Ma Kyi replied. “Well, in any case, that’s where we’ll have to order some. I can’t live without it anymore,” he said. “All your life you’ve been drinking I Kun’s coffee. Can’t you keep drinking that? We’ll never be able to afford all this nat coffee,” Ma Kyi said. “Why not? I don’t want his coffee anymore, I can’t drink it! I’m going to die unless I can have nat coffee all the time.” “Maybe you’ll just have to die then. Where are you going to get it from? As it is, I’ve already stretched two cup’s worth of powder into ten. I’m practically mixing up fumes. Tomorrow it’ll all be gone.” Chan Htun Aung was dejected. The jar really was nearly empty. When it was gone, where was he going to get any more? He’d have to go back to that bitter, moldy powder on the corner of I Kun’s counter. There was no way he could do that. He clutched the jar of Nescafé with all his might and breathed in the addictive fragrance from the lid. 5 From that day, Chan Htun Aung lay in bed. After three days of him lolling around stroking the jar and two days muttering and moaning, his wife finally rushed off to I Kun to tell him the situation. She asked him to do something, anything. He closed his shop—which he’d never done even once before— promising he’d go to the city to look for Nescafé. But first he mixed up a proper cup of coffee for Chan Htun Aung and followed Ma Kyi home. When they got there, Chan Htun Aung was already dead, clutching the jar

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of Nescafé. His wife wailed and beat her chest. I Kun set the coffee he’d brought next to Chan Htun Aung’s head, then tried to pry the jar from the dead man’s grip. It wouldn’t budge—Chan Htun Aung’s fingers would not let go. With how much strength had he been holding on to it when he died? Now there was no prying his fingers open. Everyone who came to see tried to work them open. Even if it meant breaking the fingers and joints, there was simply no way to loosen his grip on the jar. Finally, they just put him in the coffin and buried him that way. 6 One day, twenty years later, a cowherd spotted a bony forearm sticking out of the ground in the village graveyard. Strangely the hand bones were clutching a glass jar. The boy tried to take the jar, but the whole forearm came with it. He tried to force it loose, but the bony fingers held on hard. When the news reached the village, they knew it had to be Chan Htun Aung’s forearm. 7 In the Sour Plum Hill graveyard, Chan Htun Aung probably still hasn’t let go of that glass jar of Nescafé. By now they have Nescafé, Maltova, Milo, Horlicks, tea mix, and coffee mix at I Kun’s sons’ teashop. You can get whatever you want there. Translated from Burmese by Patrick McCormick

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P A N D O R A

The Venomous I get delicate Each time I shed my skin Don’t you dare think I am soft If I change colors I only want to adapt To the shifting sand To the strange waters I am not the type that Flaunts my neck hood For hissing and missing. My wink can smolder My stare can hypnotize My bite can snatch a fly My head lying low doesn’t mean I’m asleep. Clear your own path Curl up in your own hole Watch yourself If you don’t know anything Just coil up and be quiet Don’t you try to invoke My recessive traits Next time I won’t just rattle. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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Land Mines Dialogue (in Kayin language) spk

What’s your name?

child E Bway Tee. spk

E Bway Tee, hmm, wow, what a beautiful name! So in Burmese … what is it?

child Chit Hnin Yay. [chit = love hnin = snow yay = water] spk Chit Hnin Yay… what a lovely name. [Addressing the child in Karen] What happened to your leg? child May bu bar [Kayin] Myay hmyoat mine. spk

What happened?

child A Moe [mother in Kayin], pu moh [addressing self], and my little brother were at the riverbank. While A Moe was bathing, little brother and I were playing near the woods’ edge. While playing, we stepped on a land mine and we were both hit by the explosion. My little brother died on the spot and I had to have my leg amputated. Because of this day, my mom often gets nightmares. Hey, no no no land mines, ya (repeat 7x) Nightmares from dark nights Mama wakes up startled every night Just like cursed land, these lives Who will come and clean up? The soiled fruits of a hate doctrine The seedlings of this Earth shriek and shed tears Just like cursed land, these lives Who will come and clean up? Hey, no no no land mines, ya Hey, no no no land mines, ya (Stop it all!) Hey, no no no land mines, ya Hey, no no no land mines, hey

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Innocent little flowers At night, damaged and scattered their petals fall off In the future, up to when will tragedies like this Keep going on? Little flowers of Dawna’s earth In the arrival of poisonous night, they flake off and wilt Hmm, those land mines . . . Please end, end, end them all! Hey, no no no land mines, ya (repeat 5x) Nightmares from dark nights Mama wakes up startled every night Just like cursed land, these lives Who will come and clean up? Hey, no no no land mines, ya (repeat 5x) Innocent little flowers At night, damaged and scattered their petals fall off In the future, up to when will tragedies like this Keep going on? Little flowers of Dawna’s earth In the arrival of poisonous night, they flake off and wilt Hmm, … those land mines . . . Please end, end, end them all! Hey, no no no land mines, ya (repeat 10x) End them all! Please, no more. Do no more Hey, no no no land mine … Translated from Burmese and Kayin by Shin Thu San



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P H Y U

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War In the smoke of the gunpowder scores fall Leading to streams of blood, in the hideous legacy of war Households that become lost Young children who become destroyed Our fellow countrymen whose futures are lost Minds fueled by hatred and revenge Peace just on paper contracts and in signatures Sacrifice falls on the people’s backs Behind that paper contract are lives Life between bullets is a life without meaning (Chorus) I’ll keep shouting … Put out the fires of wars Thriving nations are not built by bullets (repeat 2x) Not built by bullets Stop, stop, stop Stop the wars (repeat 3x) Behind the veils of gunpowder scores fall Leading to streams of blood, in the hideous legacy of war Households that become lost Young children who become destroyed Our fellow countrymen whose futures are lost Minds fueled by hatred and revenge Peace just on paper contracts and in signatures Sacrifice falls on the people’s backs Behind that paper contract are lives Life between bullets is a life without meaning

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(Chorus) I’ll keep shouting … Put out the fires of wars Thriving nations are not built by bullets (2x) Not built by bullets (Gunshots in background) Stop, stop, stop Stop the wars (repeat 6x) I’ll keep shouting … Put out the fires of wars Thriving nations are not built by bullets (2x) Not built by bullets I’ll keep shouting … Put out the fires of wars Thriving nations are not built by bullets (2x) Not built by bullets Translated from Burmese by Shin Thu San; original music and lyrics composed and created by The Scare Rock Band



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Insect in the Gala “Pardon me.” I have been saying this a thousand times At the party that celebrates life The ballroom is filled with gold balloons A rose-petal carpet for the guests How do you do? Soft music spills over the dim light and Fills the glasses Please take a gentlemanly swig Plasma has been liberally deodorized Stares slice into the sweet crusts Of the enormous fishing-hook-shaped cake Computer-generated applause is followed by A thank-you note to corpses Thank you for coming! In an aquascaped seawater aquarium Fried fish, both male and female, splash joyously CCTV cameras are buried in a gigantic ice sculpture I’ve been repeating “Pardon me” a thousand times After three-hour-long cordiality After bumping into the chaste Christmas tree After chewing up all the rose petals After dumping the cake into the aquarium After burrowing into the ice sculpture After swallowing the red blood cells After scrambling with white blood cells After conspiring with insignificant antibody drugs After leaving the gala After becoming an insecta non grata To a culture of bacteria Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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Mom Cooks Seven Rock Shrimps The fishmonger’s stall on the opposite side of the market swarmed with customers, but there was hardly anyone before the shrimp seller. People popped in to touch the shrimp and ask, “How much?” They left immediately with a heavy sigh, frustrating the shopkeeper, Ma Pu Sein. As a result, she had begun mockingly shouting, “C’mon in! You can touch these suckers for fun! They’re only six kyats for ten kyat thar.” Dear lord! Six kyats? Daw Hla May was standing in front of the shop, ready to ask, “How much?” But her mouth seemed to have shut on its own. At six kyats for ten kyat thar, it works out to about nine kyats for fifteen kyat thar. I couldn’t bear to eat it, she thought. The mound of shrimps before her eyes transformed into a pile of cash. Such a waste to swallow so much cash! “Aunty, don’t you want to buy some?” “Your price is a bit too rich.” “The price is high because it’s good stuff, Aunty. Look, this one’s head is still attached, see? Still fresh. This kind rarely comes by. Just get it.” Well, if I make some sour soup with young kinbon leaves, it would go quite nicely with these sweet rock shrimps. The old man at home loves them as well. Daw Hla May discreetly swallowed the saliva that had risen from the thought of red rock shrimps cooked under a blanket of sliced onion rings. “Come, how much do you want? Fifty kyat thar?” “Wow, don’t tempt me.” Daw Hla May involuntarily took a step back. “Your rock shrimps could make a millionaire go broke if he ate them daily,” she retorted. “Because these are good quality, Aunty. If it’s cheap, it’s low-quality stuff, right?” Ma Pu Sein raised her voice, pointing her chin at the seller across from her. They both sold the same type of seafood, but she had bragging rights because the shrimps in the rival stall were of a lackluster shade of red, with their heads already detached. The woman in the other stall shot a glance at them and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Really good price here! Good price! Look at these hefty rock shrimps, only three and a half kyats for ten kyat thar! ” 233

Faster than a computer, Daw Hla May’s brain did the math in a flash. If I go for those instead, it would cost only half as much. But I won’t pay thirty-five kyats per peiktha just to eat some spoiled shrimps. I’d rather pay sixty and eat the good stuff. What’s wrong with that? It’s only once in a while. The old man at home has complained at least twice. “Now that I’m retired, you don’t make me decent meals anymore,” he whined. With these thoughts, Daw Hla May took two steps forward. Boldly, she grabbed hold of the bright, fresh rock shrimps, and then ordered in a firm voice, “Put about fifteen kyat thar on the scale.” I haven’t even eaten them yet, but oh boy, even buying them tastes so delicious, she thought, smiling to herself. “Look here, I’m giving you so much.” “Your scale is accurate, right?” “You can take these and weigh them anywhere you want, then come pay me. I ask for a fair price; I don’t cheat.” Before the shrimps were packed into her basket, she counted them one by one. Altogether seven pieces. With that many of that size adding up to fifteen kyat thar, the vendor was obviously not a cheat. “Don’t be silly; I don’t need to go weigh them elsewhere. I’m just double checking out of habit. I trust you.” Thus cajoling the vendor, Daw Hla May handed her a ten-kyat bill. Today, she was going to dip her tongue into great flavors. Just earlier, at the gate of the market, she had bought some kinbon leaves, for sixty pyas a bunch. Blending them with watercress, she’d make some sour soup. She’d put some garlic and ground chili into the boiled fish-paste sauce. Then she’d pluck some curly eggplants growing in the corner of her backyard … As she imagined it, the saliva began flowing. On the way back from the market, she ran into Daw Aye Sein, from the house across from hers. “Ma Ma May [Sister May], what did you get?” she said. Daw Hla May was quite glad she’d placed the rock shrimps on top of the bed of kinbon leaves and watercress, and glad to notice Daw Sein Aye’s eyes were looking into her shopping basket. Not a lot of folks could afford to eat something priced six kyats per ten kyat thar. “Guess you’re whipping up a sumptuous meal because your sons and daughters-in-law tend to come by on Saturdays.” Reminded by Daw Sein Aye’s remarks, Daw Hla May found her half-shut eyes suddenly growing wide. That’s right. Today is Saturday. Since the old man is no longer working, I’ve lost track of weekdays and weekends. Wish I’d bought twenty kyat thar instead. So thinking, Daw Hla May grew regretful. For the two of them, they could scrape by with her husband’s monthly pension. But when the kids came, they wanted to splurge a bit. How satisfying it was to watch her sons’ expression as they gulped down her home-cooked meals! Because she and her husband had sent all three sons through school, they were able to find decent jobs, earning good salaries, making a comfortable living. “I’m just glad they’re doing well. I don’t need them taking care of us in

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return,” U Aung Myat, her husband, often said. On the other hand, being the mother was different. And Daw Hla May couldn’t help but always wonder what she should give her sons, what she should feed them. Truth be told, though, she also wished her sons would give back a little bit. Hmm, even if each gives only fifty kyats, that would add up to 150. With that, I could make donations, accumulate good karma, she thought. Perhaps the sons and daughters-in-law assumed the two elderly parents could live comfortably on retirement income; perhaps they were pretending not to notice that wasn’t the case. Either way, they wouldn’t pitch in even twenty-five kyats each, let alone fifty. When they came over, they brought along some mangoes and cakes now and then. But aside from that, not a penny. As much as she wished they would help out, she didn’t have the heart to make a demand. Once, when she said it out loud, she got into an argument with the old man. Her husband made it clear: he didn’t want to depend on the sons. He didn’t want their help; nor did he think he was entitled to it. He simply wanted to wake up early every day, take a stroll, sit and read his dharma books, sometimes discuss religion with his buddies, meditate in the evening, pay homage to the Buddha, share his merits with the world, then sleep soundly. He didn’t ever get restless at night, rolling around in bed sleeplessly. No, not him. “Hey, wife . . . Hah, you!” Preoccupied with her own thoughts and walking straight ahead, Daw Hla May came to a sudden stop only when someone grabbed her hand. She found her husband staring at her, laughing. She responded with a dazed look. “I was just coming back from my stroll. I saw you, so I thought I’d wait for you. What in the world were you thinking about?” “Just this and that.” U Aung Myat took the basket from Daw Hla May’s hands. “What, rock shrimps?” “Yes, your favorite, aren’t they.” “I do like them, but they must have cost a fortune.” “Well, just once in a while,” Daw Hla May retorted, throwing him a sidelong glance. While U Aung Myat carried the basket, she walked alongside him, saying, “Just the way you like them, I’ll fry them with large onion rings on top. And I’ll make you some sour kinbon soup. How’s that?” Her tender words were interrupted by a pair of adolescent boys nearby, who blurted out a song: Yo, grandma, wouldn’t you call your old man Darling, Sweetie, or something like that? Daw Hla May blushed at their teasing. In the end, us two old folks have to keep each other company. Our sons have found their own companions. That’s how things work. In our youth, we too left our parents to seek company elsewhere, didn’t we? Daw Hla May reflected as she sliced the onions into large rings. The older the couple got, the more attached they became to each other. The attraction was no longer the sensual, physical kind from their youth; a cooler, quieter



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kind of love had taken over. Without grandkids to care for, life seemed a bit boring; yet, truth be told, it was quite peaceful. But when their middle son’s first child was born, both the son and his wife worked, so they would drop off their kid at the grandparents’ home every afternoon and Daw Hla May and her husband became babysitters. On top of her usual household chores, Daw Hla May had to sweep and clean the place, wash and bathe the child, prepare baby food, and feed the grandkid … not a single moment to rest for Grandpa and Grandma. Her neighbor Daw Khin Wai said, “You’re so naive. When my kids said, ‘Mom, why don’t you come and get the grandkids to keep you company in the afternoons?’ I told them, ‘At my age, I can barely manage my own affairs, or make my own meals on time. Do you intend to rob me of the little time I have left to tie my sarong?’ That’s how I shut that door in advance.” Daw Hla May was prompted to reply, “Well, that’s not right either. We should pitch in as much as we can.” True, it was tiring, but playing with the grandkid, calling her “my little Pootoo!” made her forget how tired she was. But when the kid had an alarming bout of fever, Grandpa and Grandma got blamed. The daughter-in-law noted grimly, “Dengue fever came from the mosquitoes that bit the kid in the afternoons,” as if the grandparents had been neglecting the kid during their watch. So the child was no longer sent to the grandparents’ home. Thus, saved from babysitting by the child’s dengue fever, Grandpa was finally able to return to reading dharma books. Daw Hla May, on the other hand, had to get down on her knees and scrub off the pee-stain blotches that remained on the living-room floor. Yet, as she toiled, she missed the grandkid. After that, none of the sons asked them to watch their kids. Must be from fear of dengue fever. Grandpa and Grandma had obviously failed the trial run for grandchild babysitting. U Aung Myat came into the kitchen. “Wow, smells so good!” he said. He pulled up a chair and sat next to Daw Hla May as she dropped the slices of red onions onto the bright red shrimps in the pot. “I want my eldest boy to eat these. He loves this kind of shrimps,” said U Aung Myat fondly. “All three of our boys love these, dear. We used to feed them these shrimps whenever we could manage. I wonder if their wives ever cook them.” “Don’t you worry, dear. Knowing your sons, they’re probably saying to them, ‘Oh wife, this boiled egg you made is so delicious!’” “You think they’ll come today?” asked Daw Hla May expectantly. Whichever son came, she planned to feed him the shrimps, wanting to delight in his blissful expression as he dined. As she was thinking of her boys, Daw Hla May was thrilled to hear her eldest son’s voice: “Mom, what are you making?” “This smells great!” came the middle son’s voice. “I know. It’s shrimp, right?” the youngest son’s voice followed.

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Daw Hla May was all a fluster. Ever since the sons had gotten married and moved away, the three had rarely visited Mom and Dad at the same time. Usually, one was coming as another was leaving; they kept missing one another. What? Did they all conspire to meet here today? “How come everyone’s here?” “We all met at a wedding. That’s why, Dad.” One by one, the sons entered the kitchen. From the living room came other voices. It seemed they had brought along their wives. “Since we’re still hungry, we thought we’d swing by Mom and Dad’s home.” “How come you’re still hungry after a wedding?” “It’s like this, Dad. The daughter of our mutual friend, Ko Ba Thaung, got married. Since her family isn’t that well off, they held the reception at home. And since the wedding was from 8 to 10 in the morning, we assumed they’d at least offer us mohinga [noodles with catfish chowder]. So we didn’t eat anything beforehand. Once we got there, we found out we were getting only a smidgeon of ice cream, measured out on a spoon tip. The plain cake slices, too, were strictly rationed out.” “Hee-hee, with that kind of portions, we got even hungrier after eating. It was like tossing sesame seeds into an elephant’s mouth.” “Ha-ha, hey! We hit the jackpot. It’s a feast here today! Mom’s made shrimps!” “Look at them, all bright red! Can we eat them?” “Oh, darling, why don’t you wait till we get home to eat?” a daughter-in-law asked. “No way. You’re going to feed me nothing but boiled egg rubbed with oil.” “How I miss Mom’s cooking!” “Well, for old time’s sake!” While they were talking among themselves, Daw Hla May hurriedly got dinner ready on the little round table, which could only seat five. She filled the plates with rice while her husband discreetly gathered up five kyats and dashed off to the diner at the end of the street. He soon returned with a container of rice and two cucumbers. It was a festive dinner with rock shrimps, kinbon-leaf soup, ngapi dipping sauce [made with fermented fish paste], and fresh-cut vegetables for condiments. With six seated at a five-person table, it was a squeeze, but the sons seemed quite cheerful. “Eat, eat, we were hoping you’d come,” said their dad with a smile. “I’ll offer the first bite to my lovely wife,” said the eldest son, spooning a big piece of shrimp onto his wife’s plate. “Well, I’ll offer my husband the first bite.” “That’s why I love you. Let me do the same for you. Here.” “Hey, hey, stop flirting in front of everyone! I’m going to feed myself with my own hands. Darling, you’d better dig in.” The dinner continued, punctuated with frequent bursts of laughter. “Oh, don’t leave behind that last shrimp; it looks so lonely.”



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As the eldest son reached for the sole surviving shrimp, his wife suddenly remembered the host couple. “Darling, is there anything left for your mom and dad to eat?” With a slight smile, U Aung Myat uncharacteristically told a little lie. “We’ve already finished eating.” Daw Hla May, however, couldn’t manage a full smile. Though she was delighted to feed her sons, she resented that the morsels had gone to their wives’ plates. Never mind that there was nothing left for herself, but the fact that her old man didn’t get to eat a single bite pained her. Sons are sons; daughters-inlaw are daughters-in-law. Condemn her if you must for not seeing them as her own flesh and blood, but she honestly couldn’t. Nor did they love her as their own mother, she reasoned. When it came to their own mothers, they would have asked much sooner, “Is there anything left for Mom to eat?” They would have set aside a few pieces for the parents before dishing out the ceremonial first bites to their men. “So delicious! Look at our bloated tummies,” said the sons, interrupting Daw Hla May’s thoughts and bringing her back to a sincere smile. Well, perhaps their wives don’t cook shrimps all the time. It’s only when they come to my place that they get to eat like this, so let them enjoy. And how could they possibly eat unless their wives also get to eat? Of course, isn’t it natural? With these thoughts, she began feeling magnanimous toward the wives. When the youngest son’s wife got ready to wash the dishes, she ended up saying, “Leave them, leave them. I’ll do it.” Nevertheless, the girl insisted, “No, that’s not right, Mom, I’ll wash them,” and finished the task. The two older sons’ wives wiped the table and swept the floor. The kitchen was restored to its tidy state. “Take note, darling. At my parents’ home, I grew up feasting every day like this.” “Mom, the sour leaf soup you made is the best; nobody can match it.” “Even the ngapi dipping sauce—when Mom makes it, it tastes and smells so sweet.” One after another, the sons sang their mom’s praises, prompting U Aung Myat to beam with pride and chime in, “That’s my incomparable wife!” All the sons and their wives burst out laughing. Daw Hla May flashed a smile, half in embarrassment, half in satisfaction. When the sons and their wives left, it was 11 o’clock. Deserted all of a sudden, their boisterous home became quiet again. Mom’s rock shrimps were all gone, divided and taken home by the sons. “Well, Mom, let’s eat.” “Starving?” “Of course, starving. I had to tell them we’d eaten so they wouldn’t hold back. Then I couldn’t eat in front of them because of my own words. Thank goodness they left quickly.” U Aung Myat set up the little round table again, then reached for the rice bowl. Earlier, watching his sons’ satiated faces, he had felt full too. But now, he realized he was so hungry his chest seemed to be on fire. 238

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“Wait a moment. I’ll warm up the dishes,” said Daw Hla May as she put the leftover sour soup—barely one portion—on the stove to warm up. She also whipped up some more ngapi dipping sauce. She diced up tiny bits of cucumber, vigorously combining them with rice in the remaining shrimp sauce in the pot. As she did so, she also thought about buying half a kyat’s worth of peanuts and mixing it with rice for their evening meal. “Here you go, Dad. Start eating. I’ll scoop up some sour soup.” She emptied the mixed rice from the pot’s bottom into U Aung Myat’s plate, then poured some sour soup. “Mom, you take half.” “It’s OK. You eat, Dad.” “Let’s split it half and half. Give me your plate.” U Aung Myat returned half of the rice to her plate. “Difficult to let go of the addiction to delicious tastes, isn’t it? All living creatures succumb to the dictates of their desire, don’t they, Mom? That includes us. We’re afraid of getting hurt, of dying, but when it comes to the flesh and blood of other creatures, we say, ‘how delicious!’ We don’t stop and ask, ‘Is it fair? Is it acceptable to munch on their bodies?’” “Yes, dear.” Daw Hla May nodded in agreement. The phrase “the flesh and blood of other creatures” struck her like a thunderbolt. The bright red shrimps appeared in her mind, but the image soon started to dissolve. “The kids devoured everything to the last bite. Of course, at their age, how can they grasp these concepts? We, by contrast, have one foot in the cemetery. Even if we don’t always abide by the dharma, it’s time we acknowledge it—right, Mom?” “Of course, dear.” At this, the red shrimps disappeared from her mind completely. She smiled unreservedly at her husband, who was looking at her affectionately. “That teasing song we heard from the kids earlier, so sweet. How does it go? Yo, grandma, wouldn’t you call your old man Darling, Sweetie, or something like that? Ha-ha!” “No way I’m calling you that.” Daw Hla May discreetly threw a glance while biting down on a piece of cucumber. The taste was refreshingly sweet. Translated from Burmese by Kenneth Wong



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K O

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Biology To have sex with her just once I’ve fed her my head. She looks aroused, munching my skull. I don’t need a head for orgasm. To reach the climax for herself she will chomp on the rest of me. This is the way of life for a pair of praying mantis. This is sacrifice—for love. This is love— sacrificed for survival. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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An Ox for a Wad of Paan What does this air suffer from?  My lungs suffocate when I breathe. Why does the sun look desolate?  There is twilight without dawn.   How can I satiate hunger?  An ox swapped for a wad of paan. Where can I hide my body?  Corpses, everywhere in every house. How can I die in my land?  My kin have been buried alive. How can I cross the border? Rivers bleed human blood. What happened to the Queen of Justice? I search for her everywhere — nowhere I find her

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Three Poems An active member of Aung San Suu Kyi’s pro-democracy movement, Tin Moe wrote poems expressing his disillusionment with the military government. He was then imprisoned for four years in the notorious Insein Prison. In 1999, he escaped Burma and received political asylum in the United States. He died in exile in Los Angeles in 2007. f.s.

Passing Stogie smoked Sun set Take me home After Tin Moe and ko ko thett

Great Guest Cigar’s burnt down The sun is brown Will someone take me home Translated from Burmese by Anna J. Allott

Visitor The cheroot is out The sun is about to set I’m ready to meet my maker. Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett

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Under the Great Ice Sheet Under the great ice sheet A great country has been buried alive. Under the great country A great church where God no longer shelters. Under the great church The great wars, welded together six feet under. Under the great wars A great museum of culture, dilapidated and yellowing. Under the great museum Banknotes without value. Under the banknotes Slaves with protruding bones and sunken eyes. Under the slavery A Stone Age cave sealed by stones. Under the Stone Age cave Regressive evolution. Under the evolution The ocean—the mother of Mother Earth—who died in labor. Under the ocean A great ice sheet, unanticipated. Under the great ice sheet … Translated from Burmese by ko ko thett and James Byrne

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A man closes a hut during a downpour in Thankali Camp. © Greg Constantine 2018

A B O U T

T H E

P H O T O G R A P H E R

Greg Constantine is an American/Canadian documentary photographer based in British Columbia, Canada. He has dedicated his career to long-term, independent projects about underreported or neglected global stories. His work explores the intersection of human rights, inequality, injustice, identity, belonging, and the power of the state. He spent over a decade working on the project Nowhere People, which documented the lives and struggles of stateless communities in nineteen countries around the world, and he has spent the past six years working on the project Seven Doors, which exposes the use of immigration detention. He is the author of three books: Kenya’s Nubians: Then & Now (2011); Exiled To Nowhere: Burma’s Rohingya (2012), which was named a 2012 Notable Photo Book of the year by Photo District News Magazine and the Independent on Sunday; and Nowhere People (2015), which was recognized as one of the Top Ten Photo Books of 2015 by Mother Jones Magazine. Exhibitions of his work have been shown in over fifty cities, including at the Palais des Nations in Geneva, European Parliament in Brussels, Saatchi Gallery in London, Customs House in Sydney, Kenya National Museum in Nairobi, the U.S. Senate Rotunda in Washington, D.C., and at the U.N. Headquarters in NYC. Exhibitions have also been shown in Budapest, Kyiv, Rome, Madrid, Perpignan, Bangkok, Manila, Kuala Lumpur, Jakarta, Tokyo, Phnom Penh, and Yangon. He has been documenting the persecution of the Rohingya for the past sixteen years, and is the guest curator for the exhibition Burma’s Path to Genocide, now being shown at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. He was a 2015 distinguished visiting fellow with the International State Crime Initiative at Queen Mary University of London, and in 2016, he earned his doctorate from Middlesex University in the U.K. He was a 2017 artist-in-residence at Salt Spring Island in British Columbia, Canada. In 2018 to 2019, he was named an independent scholar fellow. Currently, he is a 2022–2023 early career fellow with the Independent Social Research Foundation in the U.K.



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In general, Burmese people do not have surnames; the first word of their complete name is therefore used here in alphabetizing. Honorific prefixes indicating relationships (such as Daw, Ko, Ma, Maung, and Saw) are common and are disregarded for the purpose of this listing. A Thi Nar began writing poems in 2014, mostly for social media. She has collaborated with other poets on three collections of poetry, all published in Yangon: The Fifth Primate (2016), Siri Poems (2016), and DNA 17+ (2017). Aidii was born in Hakha, Chin State of Myanmar, in 1990, and studied at Yangon Film School. She directed two award-winning documentaries: Solomon (2013) and The Barber (2015). In 2014 she established Aidii Weaving House in Hakha as a social enterprise and in 2018 curated two major exhibitions of antique, traditional Chin, and Rakhine clothes at National Museum of Myanmar, Yangon, and at S. Van Hre Villa, Hakha. She has published five books of poetry in collaboration with Chin and English translators. Anna J. Allott was senior research associate in Burmese at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, where she taught for more than fifty years and was instrumental in founding the Burma studies program. Awarded an O.B.E. in 1998 for her services to British–Burma relations, she has published widely on Burmese literature and language. Her edited books include (with L. E. Bagshawe) Wartime in Burma: A Diary, January to June 1942 (Theippan Maung Wa, 2009). She is the author of Inked Over, Ripped Out: Burmese Storytellers and the Censors (PEN American Center, 1993), a seminal study of censorship in Myanmar during the socialist years (1962–1988). Aung Khin Myint has written ten collections of poetry and a number of essays on visual arts and literary criticism. He received the Union of Burmese Poets’ Poetry Prize for his debut poetry collection, naigandaw thichin (National Anthem). His most recent book of poems is trojan myin ye athar (Trojan Horsemeat), published in 2018. Anna Badkhen is the author of seven books. Her latest is Bright Unbearable Reality, an essay collection. Her awards include a Guggenheim fellowship, a Barry Lopez Visiting Writer in Ethics and Community fellowship, and a Joel R. Seldin Award from Psychologists for Social Responsibility for writing about civilians in war zones. Her essays, dispatches, and short stories appear in such periodicals and literary magazines as the New York Review of Books, Granta, The Common, Scalawag, Harper’s, Paris Review, and The New York Times. She was born in the Soviet Union and is a U.S. citizen.

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Claudia Bernardi is an installation artist and printmaker born in Argentina. She assisted the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team when it exhumed mass graves during investigations of human-rights violations. In 2005 she founded the Walls of Hope School of Art and Open Studio in Perquín, El Salvador, a community project in which children, youth, and adults work collaboratively. Her paintings have been exhibited at the International World Peace Center in Hiroshima, the Centre for Building Peace in Northern Ireland, the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Art, and elsewhere. Her writing has been published in numerous anthologies, including To Mend the World: Women Reflect on 9/11 and Transforming Terror: Remembering the Soul of the World. She is a professor at the California College of the Arts. Charles Bernstein is an American poet, essayist, editor, and literary scholar. One of the most prominent members of the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E or Language Poets, he is the Donald T. Regan Professor, Emeritus, Department of English, at the University of Pennsylvania. Alok Bhalla is a scholar, translator, and poet based in Delhi, India. Among his books are Partition Dialogues: Memories of a Lost Home, The Place of Translation in a Literary Habitat, and the four-volume collection Stories About the Partition of India, which he edited. His books of translation into English include Dharamvir Bharati’s Andha Yug, Intizar Husain’s A Chronicle of the Peacocks, Ram Kumar’s The Sea and Other Stories, and Nirmal Verma’s Dark Dispatches. He was a Lady Davis Visiting Professor at Hebrew University, Jerusalem; fellow at the Rockefeller Centre in Bellagio, Italy; and fellow at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla. James Byrne is a poet, editor, translator and visual artist. He was the editor of The Wolf, an influential international literary magazine, from 2002 to 2017. With ko ko thett, he translated and edited Bones Will Crow, the first anthology of contemporary Burmese poetry to be published in English (Arc, 2013). With Shehzar Doja, he edited I Am a Rohingya, the first book of Rohingya refugee poems in English. His most recent poetry collections are Everything Broken Up Dances (Tupelo, 2015) and White Coins (Arc, 2015). He is currently a visiting professor at Cornell University. Cao Kou was born in Nanjing in 1977 and is considered one of the most talented young authors in China. Among his many books are the short-story collections Song of the Gold Chain Man, The Floor of Pipes, and Headscarf Girl, and the novel Life in the Time of Saddam. Chen Zeping was a professor of Chinese linguistics at Fujian Normal University, Fuzhou. He taught for extended periods at Southern Oregon University and Ehime University in Matsuyama, Japan, as well as in Malaysia and Indonesia. In collaboration with Karen Gernant, he translated more than ten books, including the novels of Can Xue, Alai, and Zhang Yihe, and the short stories of Kangkang Zhang. Ajeet Cour was born in 1934 and has published dozens of works of fiction, short stories, and poetry, as well as an autobiography in Punjabi. Among her awards are the 2006 Padma Shri, one of the highest civilian honors in India; 1979 Shiromani Sahitkar Award; 1984 International IATA Award; 1985 Sahitya Akademi Award; 1989 Bharatiya Bhasha Parishad Award; and 1989 Punjabi Sahita Sabha Award. She served as the chairperson of the Academy of Fine Arts and Literature in New Delhi.



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Maung Day is a poet, artist, and translator. He writes in Burmese and English. His eight books of poetry include Pleasure Sea (2006), Surplus Biology (2011), and Alluvial Plain of Ogres (2012). His translations from English include the children’s books The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and Charlotte’s Web. He has translated into Burmese such poets as Adonis, Robert Kelly, Tomas Tranströmer, and Wislawa Szymborska, and has translated many Burmese poets into English. Boubacar Boris Diop was born in Dakar, Senegal, and is a Francophone author of novels, plays, and essays. He was awarded the Senegalese Republic Grand Prize for Les Tambours de la mémoire and the Prix Tropiques for The Knight and His Shadow. His Doomi Golo was the first novel to be translated from Wolof into English. The Zimbabwe International Book Fair listed it as one of the hundred best African books of the twentieth century. In 2022 he was awarded the Neustadt International Prize for Literature for Murambi: The Book of Bones.  Frederick Douglass was born into slavery in 1818. At age twenty, he escaped to the North by impersonating a sailor. In 1841, after attending an anti-slavery convention on Nantucket Island, he became a lecturer for the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society and a colleague of William Lloyd Garrison. He published his own newspaper, The North Star, participated in the first women’s rights convention, held at Seneca Falls in 1848, and wrote three autobiographies. He was internationally recognized as an uncompromising worker for justice, equal opportunity, and women’s rights. He was a trusted advisor to Abraham Lincoln; United States Marshal for the District of Columbia; Recorder of Deeds for Washington, D.C.; and Minister-General to the Republic of Haiti. Eaindra was born in the Irrawaddy delta. Her first book, As If It Were for a Poem, was released in Yangon in 2012. It was followed by a collection of short fiction, Knife Painting (2015), and a bilingual collection of long poems, A Poem Writes a Woman (2017). Her work is also included in Bones Will Crow: 15 Contemporary Burmese Poets. She is a founding member of the Aesthetic Light Foundation, a charity that promotes the well being of Burmese writers living in Burma. Penny Edwards is a cultural historian. Her second book, Kingdoms of the Mind: Burma’s Fugitive Prince and the Fracturing of Empire, is forthcoming from Columbia University Press. Her translations from French and Chinese include Soth Polin’s novel L’anarchiste and Yo Yo’s short fiction “Once Upon a Mountain.” She is professor of Southeast Asian Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. Catherine Filloux is a playwright who focuses on human rights and social justice. Her more than twenty plays and librettos have been produced in New York, across the U.S., and in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. She has given readings and workshops and has overseen productions of her plays in Cambodia, Sudan, South Sudan, Iraq, Morocco, Northern Ireland, and Bosnia. A cofounder of Theatre Without Borders, she received the 2017 Otto René Castillo Award for Political Theatre, the 2015 Planet Activist Award, and awards from the Kennedy Center Fund for New American Plays, the O’Neill, the MAP Fund, and the Asian Cultural Council. She is the immigrant daughter of a French-Algerian mother and a French father.

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Karen Gernant is a professor emerita of Chinese history at Southern Oregon University and a translator of contemporary Chinese fiction. In collaboration with Chen Zeping, she translated more than ten books, including the novels of Can Xue, Alai, and Zhang Yihe, and the short stories of Kangkang Zhang. Brian Haman is a researcher and lecturer in the department of English and American Studies at the University of Vienna. He completed his Ph.D. in literature at the University of Warwick, U.K., and has studied or held research appointments in Europe, China, and the U.S. Since 2017, he has been an editor of The Shanghai Literary Review. His forthcoming books include an anthology of contemporary Chinese-language poetry in translation as well as an edition of the unpublished works of exiled Austrian Jewish writer Mark Siegelberg. Ju is a medical doctor by training and has been one of Myanmar’s leading women writers since the publication of her debut novella, Memoirs (1987). Because of her advocacy of women’s empowerment, her novels have caused controversy among the male literati. Her publications include seven collections of short fiction and twenty novels, one of which, The Other Side of the Wall, was translated into English. She publishes her own work and that of other authors through Ju Publishing House, in Yangon. K Za Win was a Buddhist monk for much of his young adult life. In 2015, he marched for education reforms with students along the 350-mile route from Mandalay to Yangon, where the rally was shut down and he, along with most of the student leaders, were arrested and jailed. After spending a year in prison, he published his best-known work, My Reply to Ramon, a collection of long-form poems. In addition to being a poet and rights activist, he was also a Burmese-language teacher. In the aftermath of the 2021 military coup, he was on the frontlines of the protests and was killed by Myanmar security forces at a protest in Monywa. Khin Min Zaw is from Pathein. While a student at Rangoon University, she became active in the 1988 democracy uprising, first with the university’s student union and later with the National League for Democracy. In 1990 she was arrested, interrogated, and jailed for her political activism. She later published a memoir, I am Khin Min Zaw, about the period. Khin Hnit Thit Oo is a philanthropist and social entrepreneur. In 2019 Channel News Asia named her one of its Champions for Change. A graduate of Khon Khaen University, Thailand, she created the not-for-profit foundation Forever LNGO and the LinkAge Vocational Training Restaurant, to help improve the lives of street children in Yangon. She is pursuing a second master’s degree, in translation, at Institut National des Langues et Civilisations Orientales, in France. ko ko thett is a bilingual poet and author of several collections of poetry and poetry translations in Burmese and English. He has been featured at literary events from Sharjah to Shanghai, and his poems and translations have appeared in literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He was the poetry editor for Mekong Review from 2017 to 2022. His most recent volume is Bamboophobia (Zephyr, 2022). He lives in Norwich, U.K.



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Saw Lambert (1941–2015) was an ethnic Karen educator and writer born in Karen State, where he served as headmaster of several schools. As vice-chairman of the Karen Culture and Literature Association, he oversaw annual summer schools for youth in remote villages. He taught classes in the Karen scripts, poetry, and history—subjects then banned in government schools. He passed away shortly after the publication of his first short story. Joseph Matthews was born in Boston and raised there and in California; he is a longtime resident of San Francisco. He is the author of the novels The Blast, Everyone Has Their Reasons, and Shades of Resistance; the story collection The Lawyer Who Blew Up His Desk; and the post–September 11 political analysis Afflicted Powers: Capital and Spectacle in a New Age of War, with I. Boal, T. J. Clark and M. J. Watts. Patrick McCormick has lived and worked in Southeast Asia for seventeen years, sixteen of them in Burma. He holds a Ph.D. in Southeast Asian history from the University of Washington, Seattle. Through the University of Zurich, he was involved in research on language contact in and around Burma, and represented the École française d’Extrême-Orient in Rangoon for three years. He has also worked as a consultant on education and language policy. Fiona Mc Laughlin is associate professor of African languages and linguistics at the University of Florida, Gainesville. Charlotte Mew (1869–1928) was born in London, the eldest daughter of seven children. Her first published work was a short story that appeared in The Yellow Book in 1894. In 1912, she fell in love with May Sinclair, a leading novelist and suffragette. Although Sinclair encouraged her writing, she did not reciprocate Mew’s feelings. Mew published one book in her in lifetime, The Farmer’s Bride, which was praised by Thomas Hardy, Virginia Woolf, Siegfried Sassoon, and Edith Sitwell. Woolf called her “the greatest living poetess.” Hardy wrote, “Miss Mew is far and away the best living woman poet—who will be read when others are forgotten.” After her father lost the family’s money and died, Mew became the sole support of her mother, a sister, and two other siblings, who were institutionalized with mental illness. She and her sister vowed never to marry, for fear of passing on the illness. When her sister died, Mew look her life by drinking lye. Moe Way was born in 1969 in a hamlet in the Irrawaddy delta and now lives in Rangoon. His first collection of poems was The Length of a Wavy Hair (1994), which was followed by The New Form of Life (2002) and Now He’s Rough, Now He’s Soft (2009). He runs The Eras, a leading Burmese poetry press that focuses on the publication of Burmese poets inspired by L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry. Kunwar Narain (1927–2017) was one of India’s foremost poets, thinkers, and literary figures. His seven decades of work include poetry, epics, stories, translations of world poetry, criticism, essays, conversations, and writings on cinema and the arts. His honors include the Sahitya Akademi Award and Senior Fellowship of India’s Academy of Letters; Padma Bhushan; and the Jnanpith. His foreign awards include the Warsaw University medal and Italy’s Premio Feronia, given to a distinguished world author.

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Nay Win Myint was born in Kounzaung Village and lives in Mandalay. His writing includes short stories, novels, essays, travel articles, and translations into Burmese. He received the 1985 Sarpay Beikman prize for Byàingmè-hnín Achà Wutthúdo-myà (The Black Egret and Other Short Stories) and the National Literature Award in 1992 for Hséhnit Kyò Wutthú-myà (Twelve Strings Short Stories) and in 2007 for Ein-galè 16-lòun (Sixteen Little Houses). His work has been translated into German, Japanese, and English. Robin Singh Ngangom was born in Imphal, Manipur, and writes in English and Manipuri. He studied literature at St. Edmund’s College and North Eastern Hill University, Shillong, where he is a lecturer in the department of English. He is the editor of New Frontiers, the journal of the Northeast Writers’ Forum, and is a nominating editor of Manipuri writing for the Katha Translation Awards in New Delhi. His books of poetry include The Desire of Roots (2006), Time’s Crossroads (1994), and Words and Silence (1988). He received the Katha Award for Translation in 1999. Bibhu Padhi has published seventeen books of poetry and has been included in numerous anthologies and textbooks. His poems have also appeared in such magazines as Contemporary Review, London Magazine, Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, Wasafiri, American Scholar, Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine, Southwest Review, TriQuarterly, Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, Queen’s Quarterly, and Indian Literature. He lives with his family in Bhubaneswar, India. Manjula Padmanabhan is an award-winning Indian playwright, artist, illustrator, and writer living in Newport, Rhode Island. She is the author of fourteen books of prose and plays and has illustrated over twenty books for children. Her play Harvest won Greece’s first Onassis International Award for Theatre in 1997. Ann Pancake is a native of West Virginia. She’s published two short-story collections, Given Ground (2001) and Me and My Daddy Listen to Bob Marley (2015) and the novel Strange as This Weather Has Been (2007), named one of Kirkus Review’s Top Ten Fiction Books of the Year and Best Appalachian Book of the Year. She has also received a Whiting Award, an NEA fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, the Bakeless Prize, and the Barry Lopez Visiting Writer in Ethics and the Community fellowship. Her stories, essays, scholarly articles, and journalism have appeared in such publications as Orion, The Georgia Review, Mānoa, Poets and Writers, The Journal of Appalachian Studies, and New Stories from the South, the Year’s Best. She teaches at West Virginia University. Sudama Pandey (1936–1975), known as Dhoomil, was a Hindi poet from Varanasi who wrote revolutionary and protest poetry. He published a single collection of poems, Sansad se SarakTak (From the Parliament to the Street); his books Kal Sunana Mujhe (Listen to Me Tomorrow), Dhoomil ki Kavitaen (Poems of Dhoomil), and Sudama Pandey Ka Prajatantra (The Democracy of Sudama Pandey) were published posthumously. In 1979, his work was recognized with the Sahitya Akademi Award. Pandora is a Burmese poet, essayist, and blogger. She has published two anthologies of Burmese women’s poetry, the first of their kind in Myanmar. Her poems have been anthologized in Bones Will Crow: 15 Contemporary Burmese Poets (2012), and translations of her work have been published in Asymptote, Poetry Review, and Sampsonia Way. She currently works for the Intellectual Property Office of Singapore.



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Saw Phoe Kwar is a reggae artist and former national soccer player for Myanmar. His passion for the genre grew when he worked with West Indians on a cargo ship in the early 1990s. The title of his acclaimed 2015 album, Go Rest on a Big Branch, draws on the Burmese idiom “don’t meddle with what you don’t understand” or “go away.” Phyu Phyu Kyaw Thein is a singer, actor and performance artist. Born in Yangon in 1981, she obtained a medical degree but left the profession when she became a celebrated performer of rock ballads in the 2000s. Since releasing her fourth album in 2013, she has performed and promoted new work by local composers, including The Scare Rock Band. She has been a UNICEF celebrity ambassador since 2008, a celebrity ambassador for anti-human trafficking since 2010, and Secretary General of the Myanmar Music Association since 2013. After the 2021 coup in Burma, she was charged by the regime for publishing “Tears,” an anti-regime song, on social media. Pyait Sone Win started writing poems in high school and has since been published widely. She is medical doctor specializing in public health. Ma Sandar was born in Yangon. Her first novel, Don’t Know Because I Am Young, was published in 1972. Since then, she has published over a hundred short stories, two novellas, and thirteen novels. She won the National Literary Awards in 1994, 1999, and 2002. Five of her books were made into successful movies, including A Yeik (Shadow), a novel about childhood trauma. Avtar Singh Sandhu (1950–1988), known as Pash, was a radical Punjabi poet born in Talwandi Salem, a village near Jalandhar. He wrote his first book of revolutionary poems, Loh-Katha (Iron Tale), at the age of twenty while imprisoned and tortured. He was arrested again in 1972, during student unrest in Punjab, and in 1974, during an all-India railways employees’ strike. He became involved with Punjab Maoists and edited the magazine Siarh (The Plowline). He fled with his family to the U.S. in 1986; the day he returned to India in 1988, he was assassinated by Sikh separatists. A Hindi translation of his collected poetry received the Sahitya Akademi award. K. Satchidanandan is a Malayalam poet born in 1946 in Pullut, Kerala. In addition to novels and plays, he has published over twenty books of poetry, sixteen collections of translations of poetry, and twenty-one collections of essays. His books in English include While I Write: New and Selected Poems. His honors include the National Sahitya Akademi Award, Oman Cultural Centre Award, Ashan Award, Odakuyal Prize, Ullor Award, and World Poetry Peace Prize from the UAE. He was nominated for the 2011 Nobel Prize in literature. Shin Thu San graduated from the University of California, Berkeley, in 2016 with a degree in Southeast Asian Studies and a focus on languages (Hindi, Indonesian, and Mandarin) and Burmese history and literature. She lives in Berkeley. Murzban F. Shroff is a Mumbai-based writer whose fiction has appeared in over seventy-five literary journals in the U.S. and U.K. He is the recipient of the John Gilgun Fiction Award. His short-story collection, Breathless in Bombay, was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize in the Best Debut category from Europe and South Asia. His India collection, Third Eye Rising, was included in the Esquire list of Best Books of

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2021. His debut novel, Waiting for Jonathan Koshy, was published in India and China in 2017 and released in the U.S. in 2022. Khushwant Singh was a writer of novels and short fiction about India, historian of the rise of the Sikhs, and editor of such journals as Imprint and The Illustrated Weekly. His experience during the Partition of India inspired him to write Train to Pakistan in 1956, which became his best-known novel and adapted for film in 1998. He was also a member of the Indian Parliament and one of the few who opposed the Emergency imposed by Indira Gandhi. After receiving the Padma Bhushan, he returned the prestigious award to protest the Indian Army’s 1984 raid of Amritsar. Terese Svoboda is the author of twenty books. She has received the Bobst Prize in fiction, the Iowa Prize for poetry, an NEH fellowship in translation, the Graywolf Nonfiction Prize, a Jerome Foundation prize for video, an O. Henry Prize for a short story, and a Pushcart Prize for an essay. She is a three-time winner of the New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship and has been awarded Headlands, James Merrill, Hawthornden, Hermitage, Yaddo, McDowell, and Bellagio residencies. Her opera WET premiered at L.A.’s Disney Hall. Ko Than Tun was born in 1953 in Homelin, in western Burma. He was a prisoner of conscience in Monywa, Mandalay, and Insein prisons. He has been recognized with a national poetry award for his collection The Night’s Storyteller (The Eras, 2018). Thett Su San is a Burmese literary translator specializing in contemporary women’s fiction. In 2020, she became the first Prospect Burma scholar to graduate with a master’s degree in literary translation from the University of East Anglia, U.K. She is curator and series editor at Strangers Press for Burmese short stories in English translation. Thida Shania is a Rohingya poet, artist, and mother. Her poems are included in I Am a Rohingya and Picking Off New Shoots Will Not Stop the Spring: Witness Poems and Essays from Burma/Myanmar (1988–2021). Tin Moe (1933–2007) was born in Kanmye, eighty miles southwest of Mandalay, and wrote twenty-five books, eighteen of them poetry collections. He moved to Yangon in 1967. After the pro-democracy uprising in 1988, he was incarcerated for four years in Insein Prison. In 1999, he was granted political asylum in the U.S. He received the 2004 Prince Claus Award for Literature in the Netherlands. Walter F. White graduated from Atlanta University in 1916, and a year later helped establish the Atlanta branch of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. He later became NAACP’s executive director. A writer and investigative reporter, he covered forty-one lynchings and eight race riots for various newspapers. His book Rope and Faggot: A Biography of Judge Lynch (1929) was a major exposé of lynching in the U.S. Following WWII, he published A Rising Wind (1945), which inspired President Truman to desegregate the military in 1948. Kenneth Wong is a Burmese-American author and language instructor. His short stories, essays, and poetry translations have appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle magazine, AGNI, Eleven Eleven, The Irrawaddy, and Myanmar Times. He teaches Burmese language at the University of California, Berkeley.



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Maung Yu Py published his first book of poetry, The Bird That Was Killed When the Sky Capsized, in 2000. His subsequent books include There Is a New Map for That Little Island Town Too (2007) and With the Big Television Turned On (2009). His work also appears in Bones Will Crow: 15 Contemporary Burmese Poets. He was arrested in 2021 while attending an anti-coup protest in his hometown of Myeik, in southern Myanmar, and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment.

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P E R M I S S I O N S

All rights to work in this issue are reserved by the copyright holders. Anna Badkhen “Forgiving the Unforgiveable” from Bright Unbearable Reality. NY: New York Review of Books, 2022. Printed by permission of the author. Claudia Bernardi “An Angel Passes By: Silence and Memories at the Massacre of El Mozote” from Writing Toward Hope: The Literature of Human Rights in Latin America, edited by Marjorie Agosín, New Haven: Yale UP, 2006. Printed by permission of the author and publisher. Cao Kou “The Wall Builder,” translated by Chen Zeping and Karen Gernant. From Asymptote Journal (2022). Printed by permission of the author and translators. Ajeet Cour “Dead End,” translated by the author and Khushwant Singh. From The Beacon (February 2021). Printed by permission of the publisher. Maung Day “Back in the Tall Grass,” from Asymptote Journal (2018). Printed by permission of the author. Dhoomil (Sudama Pandey) “He chuckled quietly,” translated by Alok Bhalla. From The Beacon (February 2021). Printed by permission of the translator and publisher. Boubacar Boris Diop “Murambi: The Book of Bones,” translated by Fiona McLaughlin. From Murambi: The Book of Bones. Bloomington: Indiana UP. Printed by permission of the author and publisher. Frederick Douglass “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?” from Oration, Delivered in Corinthian Hall, Rochester, by Frederick Douglass, July 5th, 1852. Rochester, NY: Lee, Mann & Co., 1852. Public domain. Eaindra “Lily,” translated by ko ko thett and James Byrne. From Bones Will Crow: An Anthology of Burmese Poetry, edited by ko ko thett and James Byrne. DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois UP, 2013. Printed by permission of the author and translators.

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Penny Edwards “Truth to Power,” Mekong Review, vol. 1, no. 4 (August–October 2016), pp. 9–11. Joseph Matthews “The Blast” from The Blast. Oakland, CA: PM Press, 2002. Printed by permission of the author and publisher. Charlotte Mew “The Trees Are Down” from The Chapbook (January 1923). “The Farmer’s Bride” from The Nation (3 February 1912). “The Road to Kérity” from The Saturday Market. NY: Macmillan, 1921. Public domain. Nay Win Myint “Coffee of the Gods,” translated by Patrick McCormick. From Shwe Amhyutei (May 1993). Printed by permission of the author and translator. Bibhu Padhi “Fever” and “Ancestral Roles” from The Beacon (March 2022). Printed by permission of the publisher. Ann Pancake “Crow Season” from Given Ground. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 2001. Printed by permission of the author. Pandora “The Venomous,” translated by ko ko thett. From the International Gallerie, Burma–Myanmar: Looking Back, Looking Ahead 15:2 (2012). Printed by permission of the translator and author. Pash “Our Blood Is in the Habit of Celebrating Life,” translated by Alok Bhalla. From The Beacon (March 2021). Translated by permission of the translator and publisher. Saw Phoe Kwar “Land Mines,” translated by Shin Thu San. From the album Go Rest on a Big Branch. Yangon, 2015. Printed by permission of the translator. Phyu Phyu Kyaw Thein “War,” translated by Shin Thu San. From the album by Phyu Phyu Kyaw Thein Thou Shalt Be Remembered, original lyrics and music written and created by The Scare Rock Band, bobo Music Production, 2015. Printed by permission of the translator. E. V. Ramakrishnan “The Darkest Word in the Dictionary” from Guftugu (2022). Printed by permission of the author. Ma Sandar “Mom Cooked Seven Rock Shrimps,” translated by Kenneth Wong. From Ma Hay Thi (August 1984). Reprinted in Short Stories, volume 2. Yangon: Paramee Sar Pay, 2001. Printed by permission of the author and translator.

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Terese Svoboda “Alphabet” from Theatrix: Poetry Plays. Tallahassee, FL: Anhinga Press, 2021. “Thanksgiving” from Glimpse. “Forty-the-Roy” from Giantology. “Caned” from Poetry. Printed by permission of the author. Thida Shania “An Ox for a Wad of Paan” from Picking off new shoots will not stop the spring: Witness poems and essays from Burma  / Myanmar (1988–2021), edited by ko ko thett and Brian Haman. Singapore: Ethos Books, 2022; NY: Gaudy Boy, 2022. Printed by permission of the author. Tin Moe “Passing,” translated by Charles Bernstein. From Near / Miss. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018. Printed by permission of the translator. Walter F. White “Election Day in Florida” from The Crisis (January 1921). Public Domain. Maung Yu Py “Under the Great Ice Sheet,” translated by ko ko thett and James Byrne. From Bones Will Crow: An Anthology of Burmese Poetry, edited by ko ko thett and James Byrne. DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois UP, 2013. Printed by permission of the author and translators.

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