From one of several pockets on her cargo pants Caroll Dunham extracted with some difficulty, a scruffy, postcard-sized book. Gold-embossed numbers, 2009, were stamped into its threadbare leather cover. 'Read this,' she said to the woman seated next to her on the flight to Singapore. 'It's beautiful.'
She removed a flattering photograph of Aung San Suu Kyi of Myanmar from the centre of the book. The delicate, attractive face was arresting and magnetic, the eyes alert and intelligent. Caroll turned the photograph over and showed the other woman what she wanted her to see, text printed on the back.
'As a mother, the greater sacrifice was giving up my sons, but I was always aware of the fact that others had given up more than me. I never forget that my colleagues who are in prison suffer not only physically, but mentally for their families who have no security outside - in the larger prison of Myanmar under authoritarian rule.'
For a moment, the two women studied the words in silence. One of them tried to imagine what Aung San Suu Kyi sounded like in real life. Was her voice high and hysterical, rasping and breathless or deep and smoky like a blues singer's? Was her public speaking tone scolding, accusatory, demanding, or warm and inviting, or cold, domineering...commanding?
'I know exactly what she means,' said Caroll. 'I've sacrificed almost everything for her cause, too. Everything but my life...' The other woman looked at her enquiringly. 'Oh, yes, there are many who have sacrificed their dreams, families and career opportunities for Aung San's cause. I'm not alone.'
A reflective pause followed. 'Have you heard of John Yettaw?' Caroll suddenly asked. 'No?' She cleared her throat, swallowed the phlegm. 'Earlier this year, while Aung San was still under house-arrest, he swam across a lake to her house to warn her that her life was in danger. He was arrested swimming back across the lake, three days later. Aung San was sent to prison for allowing Yettaw into her house for two days. Where are you from again? Nim-what did you say?' She nodded knowingly. 'Oh, Namibia, yes. Yes, the name sounds familiar.'
After a short silence, she continued. 'I know Yettaw...a friend of a friend of a friend kind of thing. The volunteer community in Myanmar supports the international call for Aung San's release and believes the way she has been treated in her own country is a gross violation of her human rights. She's been under house-arrest for almost fifteen years, can you believe that? She hasn't seen her children in years and her husband passed away without seeing her.'
Caroll inserted the photograph back into the book but didn't close it. From the open book, Aung San Suu Kyi stared up at them, her expression indecipherable; the perfect listener, a silent participant in their conversation. 'Of course, I agree with you, Yettaw is insane. He's in prison, now. It's not a healthy environment - Myanmar - for an unhealthy mind. Too much intrigue, insecurity, secrecy and the like. You feel as though you're being watched or that someone's listening in on conversations. Maybe I'm just paranoid but the military government has spies everywhere even, in the volunteer and charity agencies. It must have affected his mind.'
An impossibly beautiful air hostess beamed a perfect smile down at the three people seated in the row. Her striking physical appearance and polished attentiveness instantly transformed them into beaming, over-friendly passengers. She offered them drinks from a trolley. The unobjectionable beverages such as coffee, tea, decaffinated varieties included, hot water, sugar and milk crowded the upper tray while little labelled bottles of alcohol tinkled merrily on the lower tray, happily in cahoots with bottles of innocent water and a variety of juices.
They opened their fold-out trays. Caroll, seated in the middle, acted the official spokesperson for their row after she asked the others what they wanted to drink. Her heavy American accent softened. Yes, they'll have drinks, thank you. Yes, alcohol is fine, thank you. A double vodka and lime for her, a single whiskey and dry lemon for the other woman, and a Coca Cola for the heavy-set teenager in the aisle seat. The air hostess dispensed the drinks from the trolley with fluid efficiency and advanced to the next row where she beamed the same smile and asked the same question.
Caroll sipped her vodka. 'I've been volunteering in Myanmar for many years. This is my sixth trip back.' She said. 'After all these years the place is still a mess. Some countries just can't be fixed, you know? That's what I think. Those poor people are in need of just about everything and more. But, I love what I do - won't do anything else. The hours are long, the facilities poor, supplies are always short and most of the time, my feet are killing me. We pay taxes in Wisconsin for public services such as schools, hospitals, power and private companies provide the rest. Myanmar is totally disorganised. Is it like that where you're from? Nim-bibia, you said? Ah, yes, Namibia.' She tapped the side of her head lightly and smiled. 'Just knocking it in so I won't forget the name again.'
The teenager paused the movie he'd been watching, removed the earphones, rose slowly out of his seat, shuffled slack-shouldered and loose-limbed in the direction of the toilets at the back of the aeroplane. The two women noticed he was watching a film, a horror, in which an innocent-looking girl wasn't as harmless as she appeared to be.
'I was born into a Mormon family and converted to Buddhism many years ago, way before it became fashionable. Now, everyone claims to be Buddhist and temples everywhere you look. Don't even talk about yoga... I'm happy volunteering in a Buddhist country; it sits right with me. Aung San is a devout Buddhist. My family wants nothing to do with me, of course. The Bible-belt!' And, she laughed, softly. 'I believe everyone should worship the gods they like, the way I could choose, and not be made to suffer for their preferences. It doesn't work that way in real life...' her voice trailed off.
'Aung San is a fierce advocate for democracy, do you know that? When she's released, and wins the election, everything will improve for everyone.' She looked faintly surprised. 'How do I know? I just do. She's a saint. Her compassion for others is inspiring. She suffered and sacrificed so much for freedom...for justice. She's the change, the new horizon Myanmar desperately needs. I can go on and on forever about her, sorry. It gets tiring, I've been told. Is your country...is your country democratic? Oh, it is? That's great. Good for you guys.'
The teenager shuffled back to his seat, plonked down, plugged his ears and pressed play. His eyes flickered self-consciously in the direction of the two women. Inaudibly, the suspense and horror unfolded in the film as the innocent-looking girl physically metamorphosed into a terrifying monster - an incredibly disfigured creature after the style of Hollywood's simplistic depictions of evil. In reality, of course, evil looked innocuous, brushed teeth, went to the toilet, ate breakfast and, sometimes, played the piano, quite well.
In unison, the women looked down at Aung San Suu Kyi's picture in the little book resting on Caroll's plastic fold-out tray. Her tan-toned face stared back up at them, the expressive dark eyes glinted with strength and determination. Viewed from a certain angle, her expression could appear quite cold despite the blood-red warmth of her dress...a deep red that seeped upwards into her lips, warmed her cheeks and stained pink the gladiolus choked by a knot in her dark hair.
'Ah, yes, always that question, what do I do? I'm a trained nurse and volunteer at a clinic in the capital, Yangon. My job is to save lives...' She nodded. 'On my off days, I teach little ones art with material donated by organisations back home. I volunteered for many years in Rakhine State where most of the Rohingya live...', with a swiftness that surprised the other woman, Caroll drained her glass in one gulp. 'So glad I had the foresight to ask for a refill,' she said with a self-deprecating smile at the unopened little bottle of vodka standing on her tray.
The change in Caroll's mood was imperceptible but couldn't be missed; something troublesome lay a sentence away. The vertical lines running down to her lips sharpened as her mouth contracted and a distant look veiled her eyes - all was not well. Momentarily, the other woman realised that Caroll's friendly banter underscored by flashes of disarming smiles was a mask; one that could be slipped on and off with ease, relative to the audience and time of day. It appeared to be quite a thin one, too. Doctors, nurses, customer service personnel, receptionists, air hostesses had the same breezy, broad-spectrum friendliness.
She sniffed and, again, from out of one of many pockets on her pants a folded white tissue appeared. She wiped her nose with a quick sideways motion, a little embarrassed. The other woman couldn't be sure but she thought that Caroll's eyes looked watery. 'Alcohol and altitude,' Caroll smiled at her again, 'don't mix.' Without looking directly at the woman in the window seat, she asked, 'Have you heard of the Rohingya people of Myanmar?'
She emptied the second little bottle of vodka into her glass. There was no lime left to mix with her drink, this time; the vodka was neat. 'You have?' Another quick smile flashed across her lips. 'I'm glad to hear that.' She leaned her head back against the headrest and cradled the glass in one hand against her chest. Several rows to the front, the beautiful air hostess offered passengers drinks with the same smile, in the same tone of voice, row after row, mechanically.
'It's a terrible business.' She sighed raggedly into the air, speaking to no one in particular. 'No one really knows how bad things are for them. I'm hoping for Aung San to be released soon. She'll help. I know she will...
'He,' here she indicated with her eyes at the teenager slouched in his seat, eyes glued to the little screen, 'is watching fake horror. Horror for entertainment. He won't be able to sleep for years were he ever to witness the real thing...' Again, she drained her glass, quickly and with ease.
Just then, the enormous bulk of the aeroplane shuddered through a pocket of turbulence and on the plastic tray before them, Aung San Suu Kyi seemed to nod her head.
She removed a flattering photograph of Aung San Suu Kyi of Myanmar from the centre of the book. The delicate, attractive face was arresting and magnetic, the eyes alert and intelligent. Caroll turned the photograph over and showed the other woman what she wanted her to see, text printed on the back.
For a moment, the two women studied the words in silence. One of them tried to imagine what Aung San Suu Kyi sounded like in real life. Was her voice high and hysterical, rasping and breathless or deep and smoky like a blues singer's? Was her public speaking tone scolding, accusatory, demanding, or warm and inviting, or cold, domineering...commanding?
'I know exactly what she means,' said Caroll. 'I've sacrificed almost everything for her cause, too. Everything but my life...' The other woman looked at her enquiringly. 'Oh, yes, there are many who have sacrificed their dreams, families and career opportunities for Aung San's cause. I'm not alone.'
A reflective pause followed. 'Have you heard of John Yettaw?' Caroll suddenly asked. 'No?' She cleared her throat, swallowed the phlegm. 'Earlier this year, while Aung San was still under house-arrest, he swam across a lake to her house to warn her that her life was in danger. He was arrested swimming back across the lake, three days later. Aung San was sent to prison for allowing Yettaw into her house for two days. Where are you from again? Nim-what did you say?' She nodded knowingly. 'Oh, Namibia, yes. Yes, the name sounds familiar.'
After a short silence, she continued. 'I know Yettaw...a friend of a friend of a friend kind of thing. The volunteer community in Myanmar supports the international call for Aung San's release and believes the way she has been treated in her own country is a gross violation of her human rights. She's been under house-arrest for almost fifteen years, can you believe that? She hasn't seen her children in years and her husband passed away without seeing her.'
Caroll inserted the photograph back into the book but didn't close it. From the open book, Aung San Suu Kyi stared up at them, her expression indecipherable; the perfect listener, a silent participant in their conversation. 'Of course, I agree with you, Yettaw is insane. He's in prison, now. It's not a healthy environment - Myanmar - for an unhealthy mind. Too much intrigue, insecurity, secrecy and the like. You feel as though you're being watched or that someone's listening in on conversations. Maybe I'm just paranoid but the military government has spies everywhere even, in the volunteer and charity agencies. It must have affected his mind.'
An impossibly beautiful air hostess beamed a perfect smile down at the three people seated in the row. Her striking physical appearance and polished attentiveness instantly transformed them into beaming, over-friendly passengers. She offered them drinks from a trolley. The unobjectionable beverages such as coffee, tea, decaffinated varieties included, hot water, sugar and milk crowded the upper tray while little labelled bottles of alcohol tinkled merrily on the lower tray, happily in cahoots with bottles of innocent water and a variety of juices.
They opened their fold-out trays. Caroll, seated in the middle, acted the official spokesperson for their row after she asked the others what they wanted to drink. Her heavy American accent softened. Yes, they'll have drinks, thank you. Yes, alcohol is fine, thank you. A double vodka and lime for her, a single whiskey and dry lemon for the other woman, and a Coca Cola for the heavy-set teenager in the aisle seat. The air hostess dispensed the drinks from the trolley with fluid efficiency and advanced to the next row where she beamed the same smile and asked the same question.
Caroll sipped her vodka. 'I've been volunteering in Myanmar for many years. This is my sixth trip back.' She said. 'After all these years the place is still a mess. Some countries just can't be fixed, you know? That's what I think. Those poor people are in need of just about everything and more. But, I love what I do - won't do anything else. The hours are long, the facilities poor, supplies are always short and most of the time, my feet are killing me. We pay taxes in Wisconsin for public services such as schools, hospitals, power and private companies provide the rest. Myanmar is totally disorganised. Is it like that where you're from? Nim-bibia, you said? Ah, yes, Namibia.' She tapped the side of her head lightly and smiled. 'Just knocking it in so I won't forget the name again.'
The teenager paused the movie he'd been watching, removed the earphones, rose slowly out of his seat, shuffled slack-shouldered and loose-limbed in the direction of the toilets at the back of the aeroplane. The two women noticed he was watching a film, a horror, in which an innocent-looking girl wasn't as harmless as she appeared to be.
'I was born into a Mormon family and converted to Buddhism many years ago, way before it became fashionable. Now, everyone claims to be Buddhist and temples everywhere you look. Don't even talk about yoga... I'm happy volunteering in a Buddhist country; it sits right with me. Aung San is a devout Buddhist. My family wants nothing to do with me, of course. The Bible-belt!' And, she laughed, softly. 'I believe everyone should worship the gods they like, the way I could choose, and not be made to suffer for their preferences. It doesn't work that way in real life...' her voice trailed off.
'Aung San is a fierce advocate for democracy, do you know that? When she's released, and wins the election, everything will improve for everyone.' She looked faintly surprised. 'How do I know? I just do. She's a saint. Her compassion for others is inspiring. She suffered and sacrificed so much for freedom...for justice. She's the change, the new horizon Myanmar desperately needs. I can go on and on forever about her, sorry. It gets tiring, I've been told. Is your country...is your country democratic? Oh, it is? That's great. Good for you guys.'
The teenager shuffled back to his seat, plonked down, plugged his ears and pressed play. His eyes flickered self-consciously in the direction of the two women. Inaudibly, the suspense and horror unfolded in the film as the innocent-looking girl physically metamorphosed into a terrifying monster - an incredibly disfigured creature after the style of Hollywood's simplistic depictions of evil. In reality, of course, evil looked innocuous, brushed teeth, went to the toilet, ate breakfast and, sometimes, played the piano, quite well.
In unison, the women looked down at Aung San Suu Kyi's picture in the little book resting on Caroll's plastic fold-out tray. Her tan-toned face stared back up at them, the expressive dark eyes glinted with strength and determination. Viewed from a certain angle, her expression could appear quite cold despite the blood-red warmth of her dress...a deep red that seeped upwards into her lips, warmed her cheeks and stained pink the gladiolus choked by a knot in her dark hair.
'Ah, yes, always that question, what do I do? I'm a trained nurse and volunteer at a clinic in the capital, Yangon. My job is to save lives...' She nodded. 'On my off days, I teach little ones art with material donated by organisations back home. I volunteered for many years in Rakhine State where most of the Rohingya live...', with a swiftness that surprised the other woman, Caroll drained her glass in one gulp. 'So glad I had the foresight to ask for a refill,' she said with a self-deprecating smile at the unopened little bottle of vodka standing on her tray.
The change in Caroll's mood was imperceptible but couldn't be missed; something troublesome lay a sentence away. The vertical lines running down to her lips sharpened as her mouth contracted and a distant look veiled her eyes - all was not well. Momentarily, the other woman realised that Caroll's friendly banter underscored by flashes of disarming smiles was a mask; one that could be slipped on and off with ease, relative to the audience and time of day. It appeared to be quite a thin one, too. Doctors, nurses, customer service personnel, receptionists, air hostesses had the same breezy, broad-spectrum friendliness.
She sniffed and, again, from out of one of many pockets on her pants a folded white tissue appeared. She wiped her nose with a quick sideways motion, a little embarrassed. The other woman couldn't be sure but she thought that Caroll's eyes looked watery. 'Alcohol and altitude,' Caroll smiled at her again, 'don't mix.' Without looking directly at the woman in the window seat, she asked, 'Have you heard of the Rohingya people of Myanmar?'
She emptied the second little bottle of vodka into her glass. There was no lime left to mix with her drink, this time; the vodka was neat. 'You have?' Another quick smile flashed across her lips. 'I'm glad to hear that.' She leaned her head back against the headrest and cradled the glass in one hand against her chest. Several rows to the front, the beautiful air hostess offered passengers drinks with the same smile, in the same tone of voice, row after row, mechanically.
'It's a terrible business.' She sighed raggedly into the air, speaking to no one in particular. 'No one really knows how bad things are for them. I'm hoping for Aung San to be released soon. She'll help. I know she will...
'He,' here she indicated with her eyes at the teenager slouched in his seat, eyes glued to the little screen, 'is watching fake horror. Horror for entertainment. He won't be able to sleep for years were he ever to witness the real thing...' Again, she drained her glass, quickly and with ease.
Just then, the enormous bulk of the aeroplane shuddered through a pocket of turbulence and on the plastic tray before them, Aung San Suu Kyi seemed to nod her head.
This
short story is published on Book Buddy's blog with the permission and approval
of the author, Anya Links, resident of Windhoek, Khomas Region,
central Namibia, the owner of all rights to this work. This short story may
not be reproduced nor printed, in full or in part, without the written
permission of the author, and without acknowledgement. For particulars,
please mail bookbuddynamibia@gmail.com.
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