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AFTERNOON
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Contributors We are grateful for these individuals who lent us their time and talents: James MacMillan Lucy Nordlinger Baw Reh Ian Seo Vengsang Thong Vijit Paw Htoh Keet Wah
Editors Miranda Newman Alex Sheriff
cover art: Sacrifice (2018) by Lucy Nordlinger
Lucy Nordlinger is an artist. She received her bachelor of arts in painting from Anderson University and her master of fine arts from Leroy E. Hoffberger School of Painting, Maryland Institute College of Art. She lives in Baltimore. lucynordlinger.com
Good Afternoon, Thee a r ne s tpr oj e c ty ou’ r er e a di ngi sas ha r e di de abe t we e n f r i e nds . Asmuc ha noppor t uni t yf ore x pr e s s i on, i t ’ sawa yt os t a y c onne c t e dde s pi t edi s t a nc e sa nddi f f e r e nc e s . Wea ppr e c i a t et ha t , i namome ntofpa us e , y ouc hos et of i l li twi t h t hi sz i newe ’ v ec a l l e dAFTERNOON, ac ol l e c t i onoft e x t sa nd i ma ge sma debyour s e l v e sa ndpe opl ewea dmi r e . Mi r a ndaNe wma na ndAl e xShe r i f f
t e xtbyMi r andaNe wman i l l us t r at i onbyLuc yNor dl i ng e r
Two orangutans sit on the cement floor of their habitat; just beyond the motionless tire swing. The concrete is flecked with twigs and crumpled leaves. Shit’s smeared on plaster walls designed to look like large grey stones. Their legs are wide open, shot out like darts. The Female orangutan breathes deeply, bends her wrinkled nose over her right knee, and wraps her hairy fingers around the sole of her foot. The Male orangutan watches her head lower and copies. “Focus on your breathing,” her knee muffles her voice. “In and out. Deep and slow.” The Female’s eyes are closed. The Male watches a tiny tumbleweed of dust and straw bounce by his leg, and forgets to breathe in his pose. “With your next exhale, walk your hands back to the centre,” she says. “And slowly roll up with your inhale, bringing your head up last.” The orangutans have matching plastic yellow tags pierced through their ears. Hers is tucked between reddish orange furs, while his shines like a speck of sunshine against his dark ear. When she unfolds, he follows a second later. “How’s your back feeling?” “A little better. The stretching helps the knots.” “Are they giving you any painkillers or physio for it?” “Are you kidding?” He says. “They can barely keep our meds straight.” “I know you’re frustrated, but be thankful you’re here.” she says. “I’ve stayed in a lot worse places.” “I shouldn’t be here,” he stands, grabs his big toe, and lifts it to a low flung tree branch. “I was minding my own business—getting ready to call it a night. It was one of those nights so dark it seemed like the hills were cradling me, folding me into the jungle, the mango trees, the plodding beetles. Then…” He trails off, sighs, and picks at a bug on his leg.
“I know,” she stays seated, brings her feet together, and lowers her head to them so her voice is once again muffled like the blurry faces banging on the glass where the floor comes to a rude stop. “You can’t fight it. The sooner you accept your surroundings, the easier it will be. Play by their rules. Eventually, you’ll get used to it.” “I don’t want to get used to it,” He drops his foot and swings to the next highest branch. “If I play by their rules, will they let me go home?” She keeps her head lowered as the branch moans under his weight. When she finally looks up, she’s smiling, but won’t meet his gaze. ll
Miranda Newman is a writer and co-editor of AFTERNOON. Her writing has appeared in the Montreal Gazette, The Literary Review of Canada, The Walrus, and more. She is based in Toronto, Canada. mirandanewman.com
A Letter From Camp: an introduction by James MacMillan For the past 18 months, I have been living and working in a refugee camp located on the Thai-Myanmar border. The camp, located on the Thai side of the border, is one of nine camps in the region that house displaced peoples who have fled decades of violence, ethnic discrimination, and political persecution in Myanmar (formerly known as Burma)*. The camp is isolated, located deep in the jungle, about a seven-hour drive through the mountains from the nearest city. The camp currently houses around 9000 refugees, a multi-ethnic and multi-religious group of people who represent many of the over 135 ethnicities that can be found in Myanmar. Almost all groups in the country, at one time or another, have found themselves the target of the country’s notoriously brutal military regime, and thus have fled Myanmar in various waves over the years. And although Aung San Suu Kyi, the daughter of the country’s independence leader and a human rights icon in her own right, and her party, the National League for Democracy, has taken a position of power alongside the military, it seems the violence is yet to abate. This is most apparent in the current crisis plaguing Rakhine State, which
has seen the military commit what the United Nations has called “ethnic cleansing” against a stateless Muslim minority group who call themselves the Rohingya. Though international news is now focused on Rakhine, a number of other conflicts continue in other ethnic minority regions in the country including Kachin, Shan, Karenni, and Karen States. Those who fight for freedom of speech and democratic reform also face oppression at the hands of the Myanmar government. The camp in which I work is primarily inhabited by the Karen ethnic group. This group has, through numerous armed groups, attempted to secure autonomy and self-determination for its people. This has resulted in a 60-year civil war with Myanmar’s military, known as the Tatmadaw. The refugee situation in this part of Thailand is protracted, meaning that it has continued for many years with no clear end in sight. Many of the camps have held displaced persons for over 20 years. Though civil war, characterized by extreme violence, systematic rape, and murder, is the main factor that led many people from Karen State (and other areas of Myanmar) to flee to Thailand, other factors now motivate new waves of people to relocate to the camps. The camps in Thailand have emerged to become a vital base from which the rural-poor of ethnic areas in Myanmar can access basic social services not available at home. People may come to the camp to seek medical treatment or other services provided by the various non-governmental organizations (NGOs) who have offices in camp including services geared toward: physical and mental disability, drug abuse, microbusiness, hospitality training, and vocational training. Most significantly, young people, whose families cannot afford the education in Myanmar, send their children to schools in camp. All of the camps have pre-school, primary education, and high school education provided by the Karen Refugee Committee Education Entity (KRCEE), which is offered for free to migrants. KRCEE also provides post-secondary education for
those looking to continue their studies. Though the education is not officially recognized in Myanmar or Thailand, people have found it valuable because of the skills they attain through the program. Myanmar has notoriously poor education with the vast majority of students unable to pass their final high school exams. Students are forced to memorize as opposed to learn, and are actively discouraged from asking questions, especially to those in positions of authority. Alternatively, the education in camp, though not perfect, has focused specifically on critical thinking and language skills. I am the social science teacher at one of the post-secondary schools run by the KRCEE. Our school is made up of 17 young adults, chosen from the numerous camps in Thailand or throughout Myanmar. Our student body is multi-ethnic and multi-religious representing Karen S’gaw, Karen Po, Burmese, Karenni, Shan, Naga, and Pa-O ethnic groups, and Christian, Buddhist, Animist, and Atheist religious beliefs. Students join the program for a two-year curriculum focusing on peace and conflict studies, education studies, development studies, and academic English. This is then followed by a one-year internship at an NGO. Outside of class, students conduct their own primary research, teach English at local schools, and run workshops on peace and conflict for children, youth, parents, and leaders both inside the camp and in rural Myanmar. The school’s goal is to prepare students with the critical thinking skills necessary for them to return to their communities as leaders and encourage peace and development through education and the acceptance of diversity and difference. I am proud of the school and what we offer. I believe it’s extremely valuable and fills a necessary gap in educational opportunities available along the border. I believe the power of critical thinking is necessary for Myanmar to end the decades of violent war and government corruption, and help the country transition to one
which is peaceful, accepting of diversity, and prepared to lift its citizens out of poverty. I am also extremely proud of the students I have had the privilege of working with over the past two years. Each of their histories’ contains numerous obstacles that they were able to overcome and become a source of hope for the camp, their communities, and their country. ll *Editors’ Note: Our contributors have used Burma and Myanmar interchangeably in AFTERNOON. Burma officially became The Union of Myanmar in 1989; however, we’ve relied on our contributors’ preference given their lived experience.
James MacMillan is a peace and development foundations instructor teaching at a university-level program on the Thai-Myanmar border. His previous publications include a research paper, Southern Partners? China and Ghana’s Northern Regions: African Perspectives. He received his masters degree from York University, and his undergraduate from Ryerson University.
“Mom, I am a bad guy. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I want to be a good son but I cannot be in this present. I understand I have to take family responsibilities but I couldn’t. So forgive me, please. I wish to be a good son in the next life.�
This is the last letter a mom received from her lovely son before he committed suicide last year. These kinds of letters have been appearing in a refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border, founded in 1997, due to the consequences of chronic interethnic conflict between Karen and Burmese. Around 10,000 refugees remain in the camp, but this has not stopped the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) from reducing the budget for refugee camps in this region. Budget reductions seriously affect the quality of social services in this camp,
preventing refugees from receiving effective health treatment for leukemia, effective support for leprous patients, and effective suicide prevention activities. The camp is facing a shortage of medical care and effective medicine. Paracetamol, also known as acetaminophen, has become a major treatment to cure almost every illness. On top of that, there are rare diseases in this camp. Some patients die from common diseases, and other patients continuously get worse from illnesses, that could be cured if they could access enough health care.
Eh Kaw Say, pictured above, has been suffering from leukemia since he was nine years old. He has to lie down on his bed every day. He is fed four meals per day by tube. When he sees his sisters playing, he cries. Sometimes he cries but his family doesn’t know why he is crying. His parents spend 7,000 baht for his food and medicine. They want to see him go to school and
play with his sisters. They are very sad for their son, especially when they see him crying. They believe that their son was over anaesthetized when the doctor checked his bone marrow. His father says, “There was a boy in Mae Sot who had the same disease as my son. Now he has been cured and becomes an adult but my son is still suffering.”
Due to the declining budget for social services, some chronic patients are ignored instead of being treated warmly—especially leprous patients. Ideally, leprous patients should get safe housing and be treated with drugs under the intensive care of physicians. If this kind of disease is not treated, it can transmit to other people. But in this refugee camp, one leprous grandma, Daw Yin Kyi, pictured above, does not get any care. She stays alone in her old tattered house. She cannot go anywhere. When she stands up she feels dizzy and sometimes falls down on the
ground. She cannot eat even a small plate of rice—three or four spoons per meal is enough for her. Every day, one little boy brings her rice because she has no fingers to handle the rice pot to cook her meals. She has no contact with her only son. She heard that her son sold her land without her permission. Even though she wants to go back to her brother in Myanmar, she worries that she will be a big burden for their family. “I want to die; I am really disappointed to be alive. I am waiting for God’s calling time,” she says.
Most people care about visible physical illnesses, but a different silent killer is threatening this refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border. A few weeks ago, Naw May Kher’s husband committed suicide in their house, hanging himself on the bamboo she is pointing at. She says, “My husband was an alcoholic and never helped me to earn money.” She feels like her husband was useless for her, and her situation is the same regardless of his fate. From 2017 to early 2018, 19 people in this refugee camp attempted suicide and seven succeeded. Most of them used rope, consumed poison, or used a weapon
to commit suicide. In 2017, the International Organization of Migration released a report showing that the suicide rate in another camp on the Thai-Myanmar border, Mae La camp, was more than three times the global suicide rate. The effect of an uncertain future, lack of freedom, and decreasing support from the international community is causing this crisis. Since the support was cut, psychosocial workers in this refugee camp have not been able to increase suicide prevention awareness effectively. In this refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border, the amount of suicide cases is increasing because of a lack of prevention activities; the leprous patients are housebound without hope of a cure; and leukemia patients are not getting effective treatment. These are the consequences of the UNHCR reducing its budget for social services. The refugees who deal with these diseases have been suffering and searching for the way out of their illness. However, some are still struggling and some made their own solutions, such as committing suicide. The UNHCR should give full financial support for social services. Camp residents can use the money for a hospital, medicine for patients, and to employ skillful doctors so all patients will get better treatment. Moreover, if the leprous patients
are in a safe house with caring social workers, they will not feel lonely. The social service workers could also carry out more activities for treating mental illness. Should these cases be addressed urgently or will the UNHCR just watch and record people getting stuck in these situations? ll
Vensang Thong is from Naga, which is located on the India-Burma border. He is interested in politics and is currently studying peace and conflict at a university-level program on the border of Thailand and Myanmar. He believes in peaceful coexistence among ethnic diversities and is really passionate about building a peaceful society through mutual respect based on human rights. He is enthusiastic to contribute his experience and knowledge to his society, learn new experiences from different cultures, and equip himself to catch up with the ever-changing world. Paw Htoh Keet Wah was born in a small village in Karen State, Burma. She came from a poor family and could not pay the school feel to study in Burma, so she came to the border of Thailand and Myanmar for her education in 2006. She graduated high school in 2012, continued to study, and taught two years of primary school in Karen State. Currently, she is attending a university-level program on Thai-Myanmar border.
no Electri ci ty And no gas: How W eUseTrees I n Our Dai l y Li ves t e xtandphot og r aphsby Baw Re handVi j i t
The Burmese people in frontier areas use wood culturally, for houses, and especially for cooking. This is about the life of refugees in a refugee camp between the Shan-Thailand borders, which is for people who fled from Burma. Most of the refugees on the Shan-Thailand border are descended from ancestors who used firewood for cooking. But, the situation in Thailand is not the same as their lifestyle in frontier areas in Burma. Because of the rule of law, the Thai government does not allow refugees to cut down trees. Even if a tree is dry or cannot grow up, a Thai government official needs to be informed before the tree can be cut down. The Thai government must consider the difficult life of refugees because if they suffer more, they will cut down more trees, and cutting them down will affect the environment. The situation in this Shan-Thailand refugee camp is difficult because the refugees rely on wood, and they need firewood for cooking. A family without
firewood cannot cook rice and curry for their daily meals because they do not have electricity as people in towns or cities do. So, just to be able to cook, refugees have to get firewood and struggle for their livelihood to get it. Sometimes they take dry wood, which they see in the forest. If it seems like they’re stealing wood, in some cases, Thai government officials can catch refugees, especially if a refugee is seen sawing wood because it is against the law. However, the refugee needs wood. We must think of them. According to the figures shown in the refugee ration book, one person gets only five kilograms of charcoal for a month. So, how many days can they use it for? Just for two weeks, then the charcoal is gone. How could they continue to make fires for cooking? That’s why they need wood.
“Are you Thai officials? Are you coming here to catch us? Me and my child are not guilty of anything,� said the woman in the photo above. When we arrived in the field to take photos of the woman and child, they were extremely scared of us because they thought that we were Thai officials. They worried that we were going to catch them. We tried to explain to them the goal of our assignment, why we wanted to take photos of them, and what we were going to do with the photos. Then, they allowed us to take photos of them. Even though they just carry these kinds of dried wood for repairing their houses and building fires, they are very scared of Thai officials. If their houses and firewood are gone, they have no chance without them. Consequently, refugees really need somebody to consider this kind of difficult situation for them. It would be very helpful for the relationship between refugees and the Thai government. If the Thai government allows refugees to take dried wood freely, the refugees must become parts of Thai society. They will contribute to Thai community, and the refugees will be more respectful of the law if the Thai government supports their struggle for wood.
No trees are growing in the area pictured on the next page. It is so dry and there are no animals, species, or water. One of the reasons why the weather has changed is because so many of the green trees, which protect the climate, are cut down year-after-year around this Shan-Thailand refugee camp. Moreover, the water from the river is drying because of deforestation. Deforestation must be stopped because trees protect the animals, species, and water. However, refugee life is really difficult without wood for cooking, which can lead to starvation. On the other hand, cutting wood affects the environment for as many reasons as we can imagine.
The life of the refugee is really dependent on the Thai government because they cannot do what they want like in the past, before they lost their houses, land, happiness, and everything they owned. When they arrive in a refugee camp, a refugee is forbidden to go out and work. They are still scared of the Thai government and scared that doing what they need to do to survive is against the law. The Thai government must handle and support refugees to solve this issue. If not, the issue creates worse circumstances for refugees, and it also hinders the environment. ll
Baw Reh was born in Mae Hong Son in 1997. He grew up in a refugee camp and has studied from refugee education for the whole of his life. He has seven people in his family. All of his siblings are boys and he is the oldest brother. After he finished community college, he began studying at a university-level program on the border of Thailand and Myanmar. Vijit was born in Shan State in 1988. He grew up in Thailand in a refugee camp, where he studied for many years. He has only a sister. His parents passed away when he was a child—his father was killed by Burmese soldiers. Now, he is studying at a university-level program on the border of Thailand and Myanmar.
Doi ng W hat We Normall y Do
t e xtandi l l us t r at i onbyAl e xShe r i f f
Three green and speckled frogs sat on a speckled log eating the most delicious bugs. One jumped into the pool where it was nice and cool. Spread in the form of a free-fall parachuter, it drifted into the still, sour-green soup and hovered there a moment. It was dead and in pieces after three bites from a species that has never been given a name (especially not a Latin one), or been in a book, or anyone’s thoughts. No other species lives as close to the centre of the planet. These happenings take place well below sea level. This particular individual has, just now, come closer to the surface that any of her kind in the history of the planet. She is a colour darker than black and what a ten-year-old human might call “holographic” but only because there is no word yet that is more accurate. She dived away into opaqueness as one tiny bit of frog flesh continued the frog’s journey, down, down to the bottom. It rested again briefly. Another thing without a name ate it but less violently, like a dopey, puffy vacuum just minding its business, doing what it normally does. Now there were two green speckled frogs. On that warm day, they sat there in the sun just doing what they would normally do. One drop of water from the dead frog’s splash rested on the back of the first green and speckled frog. Then it was part of the air. Once it was in a glacier. Once it touched a seal. Now it’s in a cloud to be rained on the tongue of a human and peed into the whole ocean. As he peed he took a watch off his wrist, yelled, “I own this fucking world!” and threw it in the water. And then shot into the water with his gun. And then in went the rest of the drink in his red plastic cup. The cup eventually became part of a floating plastic island utopia in the middle of the ocean. The bullets and watch made their way to the bottom, like the frog chunk had before. A little while ago, when humans hunted and gathered their food, no one had seen neon colours. A young girl sat restlessly picking at the dirt trying to imag-
ine a new colour that she hadn’t seen. Every fruit she halved brought hope. Every animal she stabbed did too, until she saw the same repeated red. At the very same time, in the deep ocean, there was a bioluminescent ctenophora, commonly known as a comb jelly. It displayed the rainbow neon of the karaoke signs and highlighter markers to come, just doing what it normally does. The girl thought the sunset through trees looked shockingly beautiful on the day she died as an old woman, but she never did see in a new colour, through her eyes or in her head. As she lay dead a mosquito watched the heat leave her. The watch and bullets passed by some glowing ctenophora and some would call that a beautiful moment. No one saw it. Other things you might call beautiful have happened right here. This one night, after millennia living under the water, something walked up on to the land. It evolved and evolved like its life depended on it. One can’t deny those fishy feet clumsily crawling up the beach back on that September night really changed the scenery. It was momentous by certain standards, but at the time I don’t think there was much excitement. Eventually a bunch of things could live out of the water and it wasn’t necessarily special. It’s old news now. I personally live outside of the water myself and most of the time I don’t think twice about it. Perhaps that’s ignorant. Perhaps it’s too important for anything that breathes air not to acknowledge this first act, symbolically. We could arrange a day, a holiday where all species wishing to acknowledge said holiday should do what they would normally do. The Earth rotates like it normally does. A meteor is moving like it normally does. On a different evening, one of the descendants of that first wet walker from the beach was a hunched over thing that looked like a human. He was in a cave, where he lived and was making marks on the wall or inventing painting. Earlier in his life his wolf companion had taught him about drawing.
The cave invented sculpture. A tiny particle was inventing itself. A piece of ground is displaced by a dung beetle’s ball of shit. The all-lizard dinosaurs we thought we knew begin to grow feathers. A deer sees a leopard for its first and last time. Somewhere else a plant is slowly eating a bug. It rains. There’s steam. In a billion years, a gas on Venus becomes bored. A human kills an ant and two humans. Twenty-seven years ago I was born. Twenty-eight years ago cells were splitting. A thing moves like it normally does. Something reacted slowly enough to die. Worms are changing the landscape. A planet sprouts cities. A young human asks about dead lions turning to grass and antelopes eating them. An antelope eats the grass. A thing moves like it normally does. There’s love. A meteor’s impact kills everything on Earth minus some conveniently designed bacteria that was doing what it normally does. Now there are no green speckled frogs. A thing moves like it normally does. It goes like it normally does, And keeps going like it normally does. ll
Alex Sheriff is an artist and co-editor of AFTERNOON. His work has been published by VICE Magazine, and Air Canada’s En Route, among others. He has exhibited work in Canada and the United States. He is based in Los Angeles. alexsheriff.com
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