by Pah Na
‘Well damn. I am putting myself in a lot of risk.
All my hopes and dreams could be gone quick.
But this is the case for these soldiers everyday.
Not just the soldiers,
Even the families who chose to go home last night to worship today.
Last night after I went to sleep, a bomb was dropped nearby.
Was I lucky or unlucky to not hear it?
Would I be here today if I heard how loud it was?
Am I being dumb? Dramatic right now?
I think I’m seeking truth, perspective.
I wouldn’t forget this experience.
It would drive me.
And I think that that is worth enough the risk.’
Journal entry, July 9th, 2025, Thailand.
#
I fidget with my passport as we approach a military checkpoint. They didn’t stop us. As we weave through the barricade, I make eye contact with a guard as he turns his head to follow the truck. Does he know where we’re going? I think I’m suspicious, but I just feel out of place.
From my passenger window I spot huge drones fertilizing adolescent stalks of corn, methodically planted to maximize crop yield. The natural drought and flood resistance in this region is being degraded slowly by the prevalence of this monocropping. The mountains in the distance are shrouded by rain clouds. It’s the rainy season. Light showers intermittently come down, patter patter, and then stop.
I was talking with Wah when all of a sudden he speeds up and jerks the truck to the right, rotating forward in his seat to look over the hood of the car. “A motherfucking snake.” I see it, a black snake, slither back into the grass. Shiver. “Don’t ever let a snake cross the path in front of you. It’s a bad omen.” I have never heard of this one before but that sounds right. Thank goodness. I’m feeling nervous enough about entering a warzone, I can’t have that transpiring right now.
One quick stop before we cross the border. A small little shop in the borderside village. Three thousand baht is what I’m looking to spend. About one hundred dollars for as many cigarettes and Burmese style cigars as I can get. I’m resupplying the frontlines.
#
There is a different truck waiting for us on the other side. In the bed of the truck, I keep my knees bent so my head stays level as the suspension fights against the terrain. I feel like a gyroscopic chicken. This chicken was once again out of place.
While jostling through mud and broken trails, a soldier tells me, “times are better now than they were before, worse for the junta. They are taking their turn.” Based on what I have been hearing, this is true. The revolutionary forces have been taking out outpost after outpost in the areas bordering Thailand. I was coming because they might soon be advancing on another outpost. To be frank, I don’t know what this entails. I’m taking each second as it comes.
I look around, avoiding tree branches. I see Knyaw flags. A comforting sight, unlike the Myanmar flag which pierces with its striking colors. People look at us as we drive by but they don’t wave, they don’t smile. Some of them nodded, a silent acknowledgement, but it was like they saw right through us. My heart feels like it’s in my stomach.
#
Embedded between two teak tree groves and farmland is a raised farmhome. The ground level is concrete with 3 foot walls. Inside, several camo hammocks are hung across support beams. The upstairs is made of dark burgundy wood with a light grey roof. Almost as if to deter unwanted visitors the entry/exit loop is entirely made of thick mud, as well as the area surrounding the basement.
At the base of the stairway up into the elevated back porch-like area is a small concrete platform with a bench, next to that on the grass is a big blue barrel collecting rainwater. With a wooden platform made of an old pallet next to it I assumed that it would be my shower for the next couple days. I grab my bags plus the cigarettes and cigars and follow Wah up into the house. My introduction is short. “I’m just showing him around.” I get very little in the way of welcomes, but it makes sense. A couple people come over to check out the cigarettes and I get some light-hearted snickers as well as some thumbs up, as if to signal “you know what’s up.” I made sure to get a good mix of options.
Immediately, there’s nothing for me to do. When you’re not actually in combat, the life of a soldier is slow. Take a nap, work on the drone, do your laundry, cook some food, smoke a little here and there. There’s a lot of time to think.
I’m here on a fellowship to do field research for my capstone paper, but now that I’m here, it’s feeling way more real than just words on a page. I must admit, I’m a little timid about asking questions. These are soldiers, and this is serious business. What will my measly research project accomplish?
I blend into my environment and rest against a wall. Just a couple other soldiers in the back area of the house with me and Wah, who is already in a hammock near the kitchen and smoking a cigar. As I look around, I realize they must all have great stories and reasons for being here. The faces become friendly and warm, beacons of safety.
Not all of them are from insurgent areas, they fled from the big cities after the coup or defected from the Tatmadaw, the Myanmar Military. The first revolutionary I meet is a 35 year old physics teacher at a private high school in Mandalay. He misses his wife and 8 year old who fled with him but are now safe in Mae Sot, Thailand. I then talk with a car mechanic from Insein. He tells me he worried about some of his friends who were arrested; they were break dancers protesting through their art. Life in big cities became suffocating as the civil disobedience movement in Myanmar post-coup grew. By refusing to work, professionals paralyzed sectors like education, healthcare, and banking. The people showed that they did not accept the new regime. In turn they were targeted and had to flee. Now, many of them are unlearning what they were taught about various ethnic armed groups as they joined the fight against the central government alongside them.
These beautiful souls have lost so much but have not given up the fight. When I ask why they joined, I’m told,
“I can fight, I can die. For the children, the future generation.”
“Justice.”
“To show we don’t accept this.”
Some of the revolutionaries I meet are even younger than me: these two girls from Hpa-An, the capital of Karen State. Cousins who decided together to join the revolution at 18, after participating in the civil disobedience movement themselves while in school. They’re 20 now. I think about my own girl cousins, the stark differences in their everyday worries as compared to these two.
#
I realize it might be hard to go to sleep tonight. At least I’m not sleeping on the floor. My hammock is set up near the kitchen shelves, Wah is in his hammock just to my left. In the back of my eyelids, I’m processing my day. I won’t forget the stories told to me today, I was surrounded by some of the bravest people in the world.
I’m nowhere close to drifting off when I hear a childlike voice say something in my left ear. I turn my head to Wah.
“Did you say something?”
“No.”
“I just heard something from over here.”
Wah is still looking at his phone, “it’s probably a ghost, lots of innocent people have died around here.”
I shrink in my hammock. “Yeah.”
Using both hands I bundle up in the hammock, covering my face. But I stop to think about it. What is a ghost?
To me, a ghost is a soul with unfinished business, someone who has a strong attachment to life and living, who does not want to go, or, heartbreakingly, did not know that it was the end.
Ghosts don’t have to be vengeful, or angry, they are determined souls looking for traces of their old lives. Vilified, and maybe misunderstood, I decide I’ll let ghosts take care of their business.
Besides, that omen did not come to pass.
I part the hammock once again and feel the cool air against my face. I can still feel the physical sensation of hearing the voice ringing through my ears as I close my eyes.
Tomorrow I’ll ask more questions.
