Growing up, I listened to stories from my mother about her love for Burma, the country in which she was born. It sounded magical, and I wanted to experience it for myself, to connect with my roots. My Mom’s childhood was tragically disrupted when she was 7, with the onset of WW2 in South East Asia. The family had to flee with only photo albums and the clothes on their backs… and she has never gone back.
The military junta was still in power in 2005 and all the official news was scary. I had discovered over years of traveling, that talking to people “on the ground” was much more realistic. All travellers that we met said that Burma was the most amazing country with beautiful people, and as a tourist, not only should I not worry about going myself, I should definitely take my daughter.
We launched from Bangkok. The night before we left, we went for dinner at an Indian restaurant. There, our waiter gave us the incredible gift of his story. He noticed the travel book on our table and asked if we were going to Myanmar. We were going “off the beaten tourist path” and following my family routes and when we told him our destinations, he became really excited. He said he was from a village very close to one of the places we planned on going. He had walked away from his home for 4 days to reach Thailand, to come out from under the oppressive military government control. That was 4 years ago and as he was illegally in Thailand he had been unable connect or contact his family since he’d left.
He asked if we would be willing to deliver a letter to his family on his behalf. He was working late but asked if we would come back in the morning to pick it up. We agreed and met him again. That evening, we took photos of him, the restaurant he worked in, his coworkers and had them developed the next morning.
When we arrived at the town “close” to his village we learned it was an 8 hour train ride over a bridge known as the “Death Bridge”. Appropriately named, as this bridge had not been repaired since being built by the British in the 1940‘s. Without hesitation we booked our train tickets, however, as the train slowed to a crawl to “safely” cross the bridge, I second guessed my decision. “What had I gotten us into?!” (I have since returned, and there were some rudimentary repairs to the bridge… possibly even more now with the new government.)
We arrived with no address, and only a family name. The “village” was actually a large town and we were unsure how to track down his family. It turned out that the only place that had room for us to stay was a guest house owned by the town’s doctor. This was serendipitous as he knew everyone in town. He recognized the family name and sent a messenger to let them know that we had a letter from the son.
My plan had been just to deliver the letter, I didn’t think anything of it. I was simply a courier. The doctor however understood the significance of the moment more than I did. He understood that the fact that I had seen, interacted and spent time recently with the son would mean something to his family, even though we didn’t speak the same language.
We waited in the doctors waiting room for about 30 minutes, not really knowing what was happening. The door opened and in came this little old man and woman who had scooted over. We gave them the letter and photos and tears just started to run down their faces. (I now realize that they didn’t even know if their son was alive or not.) The doctor spoke a little English and was able to translate. We were able to answer some questions about their son and they invited us for breakfast the next day. They sent scooters over to get us to take them into their home.
We pulled up outside the family home, in what looked like an alley to me. The extended family all lived in the surrounding family and we were surrounded by what felt like around 50 people – family and friends. We were treated as honored guests and they served us the most elaborate meal they could have possibly put together. We took photos of all of them, and we were given letters to take back to the waiter.
My initial request to Tk for her perspective was what triggered this whole memory for me… this is how she remembered it:
“Another interaction that has stayed with me is one with a very kind family and a good deed. Before going to Myanmar that year we were in Bangkok, eating out at a restaurant when we told our waiter we were flying to Myanmar soon. He asked us where we were going, and that was the beginning of the most amazing little adventure. He had walked out of Myanmar 3 years previous and had had no contact with and had not seen his family since. We agreed to take a letter and photos of him to his family who were just “a short train ride away” from another town we were visiting. It was to say not a short train ride, 8 hours to be exact, to the most delightful town. We stayed with the doctor and we were able to see the family and give them photos and then take some back to the young man we had met. It has always stuck with me because of how grateful these people were, for a simple photo and a letter. Such a small gesture that meant so much.”
by Tk
An action that to me had seemed simple, was an amazing gift to him and his family. The gift of his sharing his story and asking for help, gave us one of the most heart-warming and memorable experiences of the trip.
Love is about giving and receiving… and not just on birthdays!
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