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, two, and pictures for more.

Teatime at Umphium is a delicious affair, beyond price. Sitting at a crude, well-constructed wooden table, escaping the rain and mud, Burmese tea, red tea with milk and sugar, slides down your throat slowly, with restrained glee, while you eye the glistening pile of chickpeas and flatbread.

You put the chickpeas on a torn-off piece of flatbread, top with a splash of soy sauce, and take a bite washed down with a cupful of clear green tea, in which heavy leaves float. There are still the doughnuts, long and rich looking, and after the Burmese tea, too much sugar—but delicious nonetheless.

The owner, proprietor, refugee, beams at us from her seat across the space. This tea moment, this timeless respite from the pouring rain, this human gathering at a table to eat and drink and make quiet conversation—is there anything more exalted? That this is found in the heart of an unnecessary and necessary refugee camp, with vitality and moist air, nobody and everybody passing by, is an incomparable wonder, a small testament to and proof of the simple things in life.

But maybe its my arrogance–as an foreigner or as a person who’s had a comparatively stable life–to extol the simple things in life while misery knocks at the door. Or maybe it is irony, for is not tea just tea; to delight in such a comparatively simple thing amidst ordinary horrors and extraordinary strength is perhaps naïve of me.

When mud is in every crevice of your life, when the unspeakable becomes spoken, and ordinary comforts are distant—is it even possible to reconcile the fact of the camp’s existence with my comfortable philosophical mutterings about life?

Afterward, we headed out of the camp, but not before visiting the high school, doing a spot of textile and bag shopping (I bought a blanket and a purse), and wandering the brown roads. On the way out, I have to admit I was glad to be able to leave.

I suspect they would happily exchange lives with me, and in fact there is a program to send Karen refugees to America; an informational billboard at the camp explains through pictures the various potentialities of an American life–the St. Louis Arch, apartments with stoves and refrigerators, and the Grand Canyon.

As my friend who works there said, “It’s good to to come and leave with many questions. Some things don’t have an answer.” And she is right. The reason I wrote about the refugee camp for you, for DeafDC, is to pass on those questions to you. These uncomfortable questions, these awkward no-answers.

For now you know there is a refugee camp in Thailand called Umphium Mai, that they learn English with earnest looks on their face, serve delicious tea, and cannot return to their home.

Further Reading

• Burma Save
• English Immersion Program
• A Livejournal Post
• National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma
• Burma Human Rights Yearbook (2006, very good)