Saving Fish From Drowning

  “Like Belinda, you took a substantial risk getting this footage, didn’t you?”

  He nodded modestly. “But not nearly as big of a risk as those eleven Americans may be facing. Wouldn’t want to be in their running shoes.”

  Chills ran down the spines of my friends.

  The anchor leaned forward. “Do you believe those Americans have joined the Karen tribe as underground rebels?”

  “No,” Heidi whispered. “We haven’t.”

  The man pressed his lips together, as if reluctant to answer. “To be honest, what I really think? Well, I really, really, really hope not.”

  My friends felt a vise pressing on their throats.

  The man continued, “The Karen tribe are known for having insurgents among them. It’s not the whole tribe, mind you, but they are a fairly large ethnic group. Many have passively resisted the junta, while others have engaged in guerrilla warfare. The junta doesn’t seem to see much difference between the two. A number of Karen are hiding up in the jungle, including, apparently, where the Missing Eleven were last heard from.”

  The anchor shook his head sadly and said: “And now we’ve just heard on the home video, which was made by the American woman Roxanne Scarangello, that they wanted to help the Karen tribe, not in a token way but, and I quote, in ‘a substantial way that can make a difference.’”

  Roxanne whispered, “A hundred dollars.”

  The anchor looked concerned. “That’s not going to sit well with the regime, is it?”

  The British man sighed heavily. “It was a brave thing to do, but also very foolish. Forgive me for saying this, but Americans tend to operate under their own rules in other people’s backyards. The truth is, in Burma, foreigners are treated under the same laws as the natives. The penalty for drugs is death. The penalty for insurrection is death. The penalty for engaging in warfare with insurrectionists is death.”

  The anchor sat up, clearly unhappy to end on that note. “Yes, well, we certainly hope it won’t lead to that. But now let’s switch gears. You’re a documentary filmmaker. You’ve done quite a bit of investigating on the regime’s treatment of dissidents, those who have spoken out against them in even the mildest of ways. And now you’ve put together a documentary on this very subject. . . .”

  “It’s a work in progress—”

  The anchor faced the camera: “Our viewers should know that this entire documentary will be aired on GNN later this week. But right now, we’re going to have a look at a portion of it, a GNN exclusive. It may be a bit rough in spots, but we know our viewers will overlook that so as to be informed on what is the very latest in our series Democracy Goes to the Jungle.

  The anchor turned back to the filmmaker. “So Garrett, tell us what we’re going to see.”

  “It’s called Oppressed and Suppressed....”

  An hour later, my friends sat on two logs facing each other. Roxanne felt especially bad. The documentary had shown gruesome details of what had happened to members of ethnic tribes, as well as Burmese journalists and students who had criticized the regime and were now wasting away in jail. Appearing at the bottom of the screen throughout the documentary were photos of missing Burmese. My friends felt sorry for their Karen friends here in the jungle, but they felt sorrier for themselves.

  “The soldiers can’t kill us. We don’t deserve this,” Bennie cried.

  “The Karens don’t deserve it, either,” Heidi said.

  “I know that,” Bennie replied fiercely, “but we aren’t here because we wanted to be rebels. We got stuck and we gave a hundred dollars each. We shouldn’t have to be tortured to death because a bridge fell down and we wanted to be generous.”

  Esmé said nothing. She was stroking Pup-pup. Marlena assumed she was too frightened to speak. But Esmé was blessed with a child’s point of view—that adults overreacted to everything, and while things were indeed scary, her main concern was making sure no one hurt her dog.

  My friends had exhausted themselves from a long day of bicycle riding, the trance ceremony, the elation of near salvation, and now a plunge into an abyss as deep as the one that prevented them from leaving No Name Place. Without anything more to say, they drifted off to their own bed mats to weep or pray or curse until oblivion mercifully could take over.

  The people of the Lord’s Army crouched in another area of the camp, smoking cheroots and drinking hot water. The latest TV program had shown their bravery in the face of death. This would only help to increase the popularity of their show. They were giving thanks now to Loot and Bootie, to the Nats, to the Lord of Land and Water, to the Great God, and yes, to the Younger White Brother, even if he did not recognize who he was. They had had doubts, but now those were banished. Whether he knew it, he was manifesting the miracles. He had made them visible around the world.

  The TV Nat was abandoned. The twins forgot to turn him off so he could sleep and be less mischievous. And thus he continued to cast light and shadows on the world before him. He was at his luminous best, calling out prophecies, changing fate, creating catastrophes, then retracting them in the next update.

  My friends awoke at dawn to a profusion of birdcalls. They had never heard the birds sing so insistently, so ominously. The Karen people had never listened to such beautiful morning songs. In spite of this avian chorus, the camp seemed unusually quiet. Moff walked over to the television set. It was stone-cold dead. Right away, Grease jumped on the bicycle generator and began to pedal. The other members of the tribe gathered fuel for the campfire and foraged for food. They were happy to carry out their routines, the daily habits of living.

  At noon, one of the batteries was considered sufficiently charged to turn the television on. Global News Network came back on the air. My friends were afraid to move closer to an object that had delivered such a painful shock the night before. They sat quietly on their two facing logs, listening to the birds, wondering what their shrill cries meant.

  HARRY HAD GONE through a similar roller coaster of emotion. He was sitting in an office in Rangoon, being interviewed by five men. Saskia and the dogs were also there, as were Wyatt’s mother, Dot Fletcher; her boyfriend, Gus Larsen; and Wendy’s mother, Mary Ellen Brookhyser Feingold Fong. Harry was sipping a cup of English Breakfast tea.

  Thank God, the consular officers had come that morning to take him and the others to the U.S. Embassy. It could have been the Myanmar military. And in fact, the SLORC soldiers had appeared at his hotel a half-hour after Harry had been whisked away.

  “Why didn’t you people show up ages ago, when my friends were first reported missing?” Harry griped.

  A consular officer named Ralph Anzenberger answered in a droll voice. “Well, you see, Mr. Bailley, we were sitting on our duffs, waiting for the Burmese government to give us permission to leave Rangoon and do a search. We were still waiting, actually, when you finally materialized in Rangoon to do another public relations show for the military regime.”

  Harry squawked. He was not doing any such thing! He had taken the only route he knew to keep attention focused on his friends.

  “It did that,” Anzenberger agreed, “but the junta has also benefited by turning your reality show into propaganda to boost tourism. And by the way, there were no witnesses who saw your friends in Pagan, Mandalay, and Rangoon. You knew that, didn’t you?”

  Harry’s face flushed at the obvious truth that had only recently dawned on him. “Of course,” he maintained. “What kind of fool do you take me for? I was playing along.” Saskia cocked an eye and gave him the same doubting look she used years before, when he denied flirting with others.

  Anzenberger looked at a file. “How did you know to give the tape to the GNN reporter, Belinda Merkin?”

  “Her? Ha. She’s not really a reporter.” Harry was glad he knew something Anzenberger didn’t. “She’s a kindergarten teacher I ran into at the hotel pool in Mandalay. I borrowed her camcorder, and we watched the tape together, that’s all. But I didn’t give it to her. It’s right here. See?
” And he pulled the tape out of his pocket.

  Anzenberger bunched his eyebrows and glanced at his colleagues. “Mr. Bailley,” he said. “Belinda Merkin is a reporter with Global News Network. She’s been there for a number of years. And she did give some interesting footage to her employer. It aired last night on the international broadcasts and caused quite a stir. Shall we watch?”

  Twenty minutes later, Harry sat in a stupor. Was he dreaming? Did he have malaria? None of this made sense. It was the same tape, all right. Had Roxanne given out several of them? And that vixen Belinda. Kindergarten teacher! Bet they had a laugh over that one! Anzenberger was speaking to him. He said they would now show him some other footage, the aftermath.

  “AND NOW from GNN headquarters in New York, the latest on the Missing Eleven and their new role as freedom fighters for democracy. . .” What followed were quick scenes from cities all across America, holding what looked to Harry to be parades. There were rallies and demonstrations, with marchers carrying placards and banners: “Free the American Eleven,” “Hurrah, Freedom Fighters,” “Go, Karens, Go,” and one that said “Nuke SLORC.” There were shots of vigils and fasts in Tokyo, Oslo, Madrid, and Rome, and in Germany, a silent march where candles illuminated poster-sized photos of the missing carried by demonstrators—and pictures not just of the American Eleven but of Burmese students, journalists, and supporters of the National League for Democracy as well. A thousand photos of the missing. A thousand of the dead. A sea of people.

  “As support for the American Eleven grows,” the anchor said, “so do denouncements of the Burmese military regime around the globe. People in many nations are calling upon their governments to do something. We’ll be talking soon to foreign policy experts on what this might mean in regard to U.S. relations with Burma—and yes, that is what people are going back to calling the country that was renamed Myanmar by the junta. Coming up next.” A logo sprang up on the screen: “Democracy Goes to the Jungle.” It was superimposed on an image of bare-chested natives leading an elephant, the same image that had appeared on the box of matches delivered to Harry’s hotel room and countless tour brochures.

  When the segment was over, Harry gave silent thanks. “They’ve always been good-hearted people,” he remarked to the Embassy staff, “quick to empathize with the disadvantaged. That’s why we came to Burma, you know, to see for ourselves what the conditions really are, and to determine if we might help in any small way—not through violence, of course, but in ways that rely on gentle persuasiveness, a kind presence. Actually, it is not unlike the techniques we use in shaping dog behavior. . . .”

  Harry remained in the room with the Embassy staff and watched GNN unfold the next batch of scoops. The updates continued hour after hour throughout the day. Policymakers in those countries that had not announced boycotts in previous years were now meeting in special sessions to discuss doing so. ASEAN was calling an emergency meeting to determine how to handle this situation that was so damaging to their joint reputation. This was a very delicate matter, for according to their rotation plan of shared leadership, Myanmar would take over as the chair of ASEAN in the not too distant future. Perhaps it was time to apply more forceful guidance on the country. Trade restraint, a delay in that pipeline construction, no more sales of arms, the withholding of development aid, even a suspension of membership in ASEAN. Yes, the other member countries would look into all these measures as friendly encouragement.

  THE DRUMS AND GOURDS were sounding in No Name Place. The flutes played like morning birds. The Karen people were performing a dance, enacting the arrival of the Younger White Brother and the overthrow of their enemies. Meanwhile, Heidi and Moff were improvising a jig, Wyatt and Wendy were doing a do-si-do, linking arms and skipping one way and then the other. They had all watched TV coverage of the international rallies supporting them and honoring the Burmese dead. Black Spot said to Marlena, “Miss, I am sure telling you, everything now is good. It is a miracle.”

  On January 15th, after days of international rallies and denunciations of the military regime, plus some confidential arm-twisting from ASEAN members, the government of Myanmar issued a statement composed by its newly hired image-consulting agency based in Washington, D.C. It was broadcast on television around the world. “The State Peace and Development Council of Myanmar is concerned that other nations have been given incorrect information. We do not persecute any ethnic minorities. We welcome and treasure diversity of all people, including tourists. Even with tribes that have created unrest and unstable conditions, we have offered truces and signed peace agreements. We have several tribal leaders who can testify to this. . . .” TV screens showed a lineup of smiling ethnic-costumed actors behind the spokesman.

  “Lies! Lies!” Bootie shouted. “Bo-Cheesus will punish you and you and you.”

  “Unfortunately, some tribes in the hills have not heard of these truces. They live far away and have not come down in many years. Some of these people did step on land mines, it is true, not as part of any jobs forced on them, but because they trespassed into restricted areas with mines planted by other ethnic hill tribes years ago, maybe even their own. In the interests of safety to our people, we closed off those areas and marked them with big danger signs. Perhaps they could not read. Illiteracy is high among those who live in remote places, and we are working on educational development as well. So we give our heartfelt sympathy that they were wounded. And if these Karen people come to our new modern hospitals, they will receive free care, even though it was their fault for trespassing and injuring themselves.”

  “Lies! Lies!” Bootie shouted.

  “But most important of all, today, we are showing the Karen tribe in the jungle our true sincerity. Today, on this television broadcast throughout the world, we are signing an important agreement. It guarantees the safety and freedom of the Karen tribe and the Americans who are with them.

  “Of course, the Americans should not have gone into the jungle when there are so many other beautiful places to see that are safe and comfortable. In these places, bridges do not fall down. So when the Americans return safely, we sincerely offer them a special getaway package to Bagan to visit its two thousand two hundred monuments and experience the aching splendor Dr. Harry Bailley has made so famous. We think our American tourists will be pleased with the excellent roads, the world-class restaurants, the eight-star hotels with private bath. They can even take advantage of bonus bungee-jumping activities, provided by our friendly military air force.

  “For our Karen friends, we have agreed to give them their own land, the place where they are now, wherever they are, and the outlying areas of that, up to ten thousand acres. They can decide what they wish to do with it—they can clear the rainforest and plant crops, sell the teak wood, whatever they wish.

  “These are the things we promise—deluxe vacation getaways for our American friends, ten thousand acres for our Karen family of Myanmar. And now, with the entire world watching, we will sign this document, and to show our sincerity and honesty, we have a special person to bear witness, our good friend and TV star, Dr. Harry Bailley.”

  So that was the third miracle. The fourth happened only hours after that. After the dance and the pounding of drums, a similar spirit of ecstasy overcame my friends and the Karen people. They were feeling quite fond toward one another, when suddenly Salt ran through the camp, yelling, “Miracle! Miracle!” Black Spot translated what Salt said. “The bridge is resurrect, risen from dead!”

  Sixty-four people ran to the ravine and saw that it was true. Grease ran across the bridge and jumped on it to show that it was sturdy. My friends screamed in joy, and many cried. The Karen people shouted: “God is great! Praise be the Younger White Brother!” When they returned to camp, the Karen came up to Rupert, who had gone over to the TV with my other friends. They bowed deeply, telling him in the Karen language, “We thank you for coming. We thank you for bringing us the miracles, for bringing peace to our people, the end of our suffering.”

/>   “Why do they keep doing that?” Rupert complained.

  “What! You still not knowing who you are?” Black Spot said. And he bowed and said, “Our Younger White Brother, Lord of Nats.”

  Once again, Black Spot told Rupert about the man who had come more than a hundred years before. He told them about the Holy Signs. Loot held up Rupert’s playing cards. Bootie held up the black book of Important Writings. Truly, the Younger White Brother had made them strong. Surely, he now knew who he was.

  When Black Spot was finished, my friends looked at one another and spoke silently with their eyes. Should we tell them? What difference will it make if we do?

  But it was Rupert who decided. “I’m not anybody’s white brother. I’m an only child.” He turned over the pack of cards. “See this? Cathay Pacific. That’s how I got here. Not through reincarnation, through customs, like everybody else. And this book is a paperback I borrowed from a guy in my class. It’s called Misery, and it’s not a history of your tribe. It’s a made-up story by a guy named Stephen King. See? Here, take it, read it yourself.”

  Black Spot took the book. “We are treasuring it forever,” he said. “Thank you.” He had understood almost none of Rupert’s jabber of words except for “King.” But it was evident that the Younger White Brother was still confused. One day he would know who he was. He would remember that before he came, no one knew of the Lord’s Army and their suffering. No one cared. They used to hide, now everyone knew them. They had been given land. They had a TV show with number-one ratings. What other proof did they need to know the Younger White Brother was among them?

  My friends were at last able to leave No Name Place. But how would they walk down the mountain to the truck? “Not far,” Black Spot said. “Walking, it is taking only one hour most.”

  “I can try,” Bennie said. He was still quite weak from the malaria, as was Esmé. Obviously, neither of them would be able to walk even a hundred yards. Perhaps a few could go down and bring help? But the idea of being left behind frightened Esmé, who cried: “What if you can’t find your way back? What if the bridge falls down again?”