Recently, I traveled to Thailand and visited a refugee camp on the border between Thailand and Burma (Myanmar). The main event of the day was a visit to the opening ceremony of an English instruction program. See blog part one and pictures for more.

As part of our visit to Umphium, we experienced the opening ceremony of the English Immersion Program (EIP) for the 2007-08 school year.

The quiet, excited dignity of the class of 2008 presented a striking contrast to the aloof boredom of my own college graduating class. They truly cared about their education. Culled from hundreds, the EIP students were the best of the best English speakers or writers from the camp, representing various ethnic subgroups.

The EIP is an advanced English instruction program consisting of small classes of about 20 students who have prior knowledge of English. They are trained to be a corps of translators, spokespeople, teachers, and interpreters to help tell the world about the plight of the Karen people. They’ve realized that the world is moved by gears lubricated with English, and the refugees cannot afford to be left out.

It was palpable in the room that they all knew how insignificant-yet-significant this frozen, formal moment was as they gathered together. The air was solemn, maybe even grave, with an undercurrent of sad excitement and a dirt-speckled practicality; for right outside was a camp of of the uprooted, but yet they gathered to learn English on cool, streaked concrete.

During the ceremony, the students stood up one by one and made speeches; most were heartfelt and thankful. Some showed simple significance, like the young man who said that while the older generation leads now, the younger generation would lead in the future. He said this with absolute certainty, setting the stage with the strength of Shakespeare. Others were comfortably mundane, thanking the crowd, their various supporters, and sharing eager platitudes.

One student said that it was a wonderful thing, that all these ethnic and tribal groups had come together in this one room, and that this was the beginning of democracy, an effort to create and give birth to something that they could bring back to Burma, to Myanmar, to their real home.

To these solemn students, instructors, and learners of a displaced international reality, I wish nothing but the best; learn the stroke of a word, the hammer of a mighty phrase, so that your stories spread — and may they have the impact and reality of a mud-spattered leg and thousand-yard squint.