Bamboo People (3 page)

Mother hands me a few kyat notes. I don’t want to take them, but she insists. “Just in case,” she says, kissing me. “Please, Chiko.”

Daw Widow opens the front door. The light dazzles my eyes, making the house seem even more like a cave.

Pausing on the threshold, I lift my hand. “See you tonight!”

“A lesson tomorrow, Ko?” It’s Lei. She’s called me “older brother” ever since we were little. I don’t mind—girls use that word for their sweethearts, too.

“A lesson tomorrow, Lei!” I answer, and close the door behind me.

The rickshaw speeds through the tree-lined streets. I huddle into the back of it, remembering Mother’s advice to avoid eye contact.

Sidewalk vendors are beginning to set up wares for the afternoon. The rickshaw veers to avoid children playing in the streets. These little ones should be in school, but they don’t have a choice. Schools have been closed so many times that nobody can learn much.

Thanks to Father, I can teach kids like these; I know I can. My work with Lei made me sure of it. But I don’t have any formal record of classes or examinations. Will the officials count that against me? I’ll have to speak up, stand up for myself, convince them to test my abilities.

The lobby of city hall feels crowded. Young people mill about, mostly boys. Father used to encourage me to join in the neighborhood soccer and cricket games. I’d obey reluctantly and hurry back to my books as soon as I could. But after these months of Mother insisting I stay inside, I’ve missed being around boys my age. I count ten, including myself, most wearing
longyi
but a couple in trousers, like me. Four girls are also in the room.

“We’ve been waiting two hours already,” says a short, wiry boy to one of the girls. “It must be a lie. Let’s go.”

I feel a twinge of alarm. Could he be right?

“Let’s wait a bit longer, Ko,” says the girl, clinging to his arm.

He must be her brother; they’re too young to be sweethearts. She looks like she’s only about twelve, and the boy just a year or two older. Her faded sarong is as dirty as his
longyi,
and their street accent grates on my ears. Their cheeks are smeared with
tanaka,
a light-colored paste that common people use to protect their skin from the sun. Why are these ragged, illiterate kids even trying to become teachers? Maybe this is a trick. The wiry boy is pulling his sister to the door. I’m so uneasy now that I follow them.

But it’s too late.

Bang!
A side door bursts open.

Soldiers pour into the room.

They’re shouting and waving rifles. I shield my head with my arms.
It was a lie!
I think, my mind racing.

Girls and boys alike are screaming. The soldiers prod and herd some of us together and push the rest apart as if we’re cows or goats. Their leader is a middle-aged man. He’s moving slowly, intently, not dashing around like the others.

“Take the boys only, Win Min,” I overhear him telling a tall, gangly soldier. “Make them obey.”

“Yes, Father,” the soldier answers immediately, jabbing the butt of his rifle into the boy wearing the torn shirt.

The boy cries out and collapses. Was he hit
that
hard? Is he all right?

Cursing and shoving soldiers surround him and me and the rest of the boys. One of them shouts at the other side of the room, “You—girls! Go home.
Now!”

Three of the girls obey quickly, escaping through the door, braids flying behind them. Only the girl in the faded sarong stays, her eyes fixed on the boy beside me. He’s still hunched over, one hand on his back where the rifle hit him.

The tall soldier, Win Min, strides over. “Go!” he tells the girl.

“No! My brother and I came together!” The girl’s voice is hard. “They’re supposed to be hiring street sweepers, the radio said.”

Street sweepers? I
have
come to the wrong place. I’ll tell them there’s been a mistake.

“Go home, girl. Tell your family your brother has a job. He’ll send money. Now leave.
Quickly!”

“No!”

Swearing, the soldier grabs the girl and tries to drag her to the door.

She flails her fists in his face, twisting and squirming to loosen his grip. “I’m not leaving without him!” she screams. The soldier raises the stock of his rifle.

The boy straightens up suddenly. “Go!”

His sister stops fighting and is shoved outside, but I can still hear her wailing. The soldiers begin to steer the boys toward the door.

I manage to catch the captain’s sleeve. “Sir,” I say. “I came to take a teaching exam. There’s been a mistake—”

I catch his sideways glance as he yanks his sleeve out of my hand and steps back.

And then I can hardly believe what happens next. The tall soldier is there before I know it. He sways back on one foot. He lifts his other high in the air and smashes his boot against my jaw. Hard.

I fall on the tiled floor, gasping for air. The whole side of my head is on fire.

“Get up,” the soldier tells me. “Our captain doesn’t make mistakes.”

Most boys learn to take and give blows when they’re young, but this is the first time I’ve been struck, and I’m shaking with shock and pain. I manage to get up somehow and join the rest of the boys, clutching my jaw and straightening my glasses, which fell askew with the kick.

A battered army bus waits in the street. Rickshaw drivers perch on their cycles, arms folded, pretending not to watch. It’s no use calling for help—people hurry past, eyes down, wanting to avoid trouble. Can I make a run for it, taking cover behind the rickshaws? At least get a message to one of the drivers for Daw Widow?

But the soldiers flank our line. The street boy is behind me. His sister, hurling insults and threats, tries to fight her way to him, but she’s pushed back roughly. When it’s my turn, there’s nothing to do but climb aboard, my heart racing, my sweaty shirt clinging to my back.

I find a seat by a window. My chin and cheek are starting to swell. The short, wiry boy in the torn shirt slides in beside me. His hair is spiky and sticks up like a bush. With the
tanaka
paste smeared on his cheeks, he reminds me of an act in the circus that used to come to Yangon.

Taking the front rows and lighting cigarettes, the young soldiers boast loudly about how easy it was to gather us up. The captain chooses a seat in the middle of the bus, just behind the tall soldier, two rows ahead of me. The bus starts moving. Pushing me back, the street boy leans across my chest and thrusts his head though the open window. His sister is sprinting beside the bus.

“Let him go!” she shouts. The bus picks up speed, and the girl can no longer keep up. “Ko!” I can hear the desperation in her last cry.

“Stay near the tea shop!” the boy shouts. “I’ll come back for you!”

At least he got to say good-bye.

The captain’s head swivels, and his eyes glitter under the bushy single line of his eyebrows. Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he watches my half-standing seatmate. The street boy, to my amazement, stares right back. For a long minute, their eyes meet. Then the captain takes a drag on his cigarette. Smoke puffs out of his mouth and wafts toward us.

I’m reminded of a picture in
The Arabian Nights
of a genie casting a spell on a captive prince. The captain’s magic works just as well. The boy beside me sits down and closes his eyes, lids dropping like window blinds.

I try to soothe my bruised face against the cold glass as the bus hurtles along. Is this really happening? Where are they taking us? When will they bring us back? I have to keep track of the journey so that I can send word home about my location.

We’re already on the outskirts of the city and heading north, where rice paddies and coconut trees line the narrow, flat highway. Women are harvesting rice, their bodies bent, their bamboo hats shaped like upside-down bowls. Thin, straight streams sparkle like wires, dividing the wet fields into squares. The last rays of the sun redden, spilling into the water like blood.

How will Mother feel when I don’t come back? Will she be able to sleep alone in the house? I remind myself of Daw Widow; she’ll never leave Mother alone. I think of Lei and rub my eyes, thankful that my seatmate’s are still closed.

The last light disappears behind the coconut trees.
Coward, Chiko!
I tell myself.
Be a man!
I try to picture Father, remembering how steady his voice was as he called out that last request even as the soldiers were pulling him away. If only I could hear that calm voice again! Or catch one more glimpse of his face! I need to know he’s somewhere on the planet, breathing, talking, healing, trying his best to get home.

Suddenly I remember the gift Lei and her mother gave me. I unbutton my pocket and fumble inside. Is Father’s photo gone? Did it fall out in the confusion? No, thanks to Mother’s strong sewing, everything in my pocket is safe, including the money she gave me. I’m about to take Father’s photo out when I notice the captain is still half-turned in his seat. I can’t risk losing this gift, and I don’t want another kick; I’ll have to wait until later. Quickly I refasten the pocket button and zip up my jacket.

A few of the soldiers start singing a popular song from a film. One looks like he’s only about fourteen.
Village boys,
I think, listening to their accents. The captain takes off his military jacket, leans forward, and tells a joke. His soldiers laugh as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard. That joke is stale in the city; I’ve heard vendors who come to our door tell it a dozen times.

Win Min turns and folds his commanding officer’s jacket carefully. The captain pats the gangly boy’s shoulder, making him beam.

The bus rattles on as it grows dark, but I manage to keep track of our direction, thanks to Father’s geography lessons. Now we’re heading northeast toward Thailand. We’ll soon reach the hilly country, where tribal people plant rice. Father used to tell me about people like the Shan, the Wa, and the Kayah, who call themselves the Karenni. The government is trying to get rid of them and take their land, but they have a right to be a part of our country. After all, they’ve lived here for centuries.

The bus begins to swerve as the road curves uphill. A chilly breeze blows through the top half of the window, and I struggle to close it. The street boy sits up and reaches to help. Our eyes meet briefly. He looks even younger now than when I first spotted him. How old is he, anyway?

“My sons,” the captain says suddenly in a loud voice. “Tell these new recruits our policy about escaping from camp.”

“I will, Father,” Win Min answers, jumping to his feet and lowering his head. Why does he call that man his father? “You won’t try to escape, believe me. You’ll be guarded until your training is finished, in case one of you is stupid enough to try. The six of us are the captain’s best men in this platoon. He counts on us like sons. A few of you could rise through the ranks and join us. If you’re brave enough, that is.”

The boy beside me grunts. “We’re going to a military camp,” he mutters. “Ready to be a soldier?”

A
soldier? Me? No!
I
can’t fight! I have to get off this bus!
But we’re already miles from the city, climbing higher into the mountains along the border. I swallow hard and rest my head against the glass.

A voice whispers near my ear: “We’ll escape. I’ll find a way.”

If I weren’t so anxious, I’d laugh. Escape? With soldiers everywhere, assigned to watch us day and night? Is this boy really that stupid? I turn away and close my eyes.

After what seems like endless hours through the dark mountains, the bus stops with a jolt. The driver turns off the engine. The captain and his soldiers climb down first.

“Recruits out!” someone shouts.

One by one we emerge into the cool night air. The captain watches us disembark, and a shiver runs through me as I feel his keen gaze. I pull my jacket tightly around me and follow the others. The street boy stays close to me.

It’s hard to see anything in the dark. All I can make out is one wide, low building, another smaller one, and a muddy, open field between them. We enter the larger building, with the soldiers filing in after us and the captain bringing up the rear. About two dozen other soldiers are milling about inside, but they stiffen into attention as soon as the captain enters.

This place was once a gym, and two netless rims stand like sentries at either end of the hall. A few kerosene lamps spill pools of yellow light onto the hard floor, and blankets are piled here and there. A large poster is taped over the entrance. Military Training Centre, it declares.

A short, squat man walks over. Like the captain, this man is older, and the younger soldiers lower their heads before they salute him. In turn, he bows and salutes to the captain. “I am Sergeant U-Tha-Din,” he tells us. “I am in charge of this platoon’s training. We specialize in jungle warfare and search-and-destroy operations against insurgents and narcotics-based armies. Two sections have already almost completed their training, and you’re next. Any questions?”

“I’m hungry,” somebody behind me calls. “When do we eat?”

“Tomorrow,” answers the sergeant, receiving a loud groan in response.

One of the soldiers who captured us speaks up. “You spoiled city brats don’t know the meaning of the word
hungry.
But you’ll find out. Right, Father?”

Their “father” is standing in a corner. The word still sounds strange, but so many boys my age have lost their real fathers. Maybe they’re looking for a replacement.

The captain nods, his eyes searching the room. They find the wiry boy beside me and then move over to measure me. I feel pinned under his cold stare; a wave of nausea rises through my stomach. Why is he focusing on us?

The street boy yawns. I can hardly believe it. Here I am, trying to keep from throwing up, and this kid is about to take a nap. Doesn’t he realize the man has singled him out?

“We’ll fit you for your uniforms in the morning, but for now you each get one blanket and a
longyi
to wear at night,” the sergeant says, pointing to two piles on the floor. “You’ll store your belongings beneath your blankets during the day—there is no stealing in this camp. Why? Because
everyone
joins in when we beat a thief.” He holds up a battered tin cup. “There’s one of these for each of you, too. Get water from the river across the field. It’s well past midnight already, so make it quick, and don’t use the river for a toilet. Go into the trees behind the field for that, at least for now. Part of your training will include building latrines for the camp. The bell will ring at five thirty.”