Storyteller

by Zoe Daniel

  The plan, it turns out, is to drive the opposition leader right up to the front door. This is good for the sake of her security, but they’ve left it too late to move the media. It’s a standoff. I suggest to one of the NLD staff that it may be safer if they don’t drive the car into the crowd – I saw how that went at the campaign rally when David and I came close to getting squished. But the staff member dismisses my concerns. ‘Oh, we’ve dealt with this media situation many times, you know,’ she says airily. I struggle to think of when that could have been, with Aung San Suu Kyi under house arrest for most of recent history.

  We hold our positions and sweat. Eventually word passes like a bushfire that the Lady is on her way. Waiting reporters look at one another and grimace. A white 4WD appears and for a moment I think she’ll get out at the kerb, but I’m wrong. The big car mounts the gutter and accelerates through the centre of the crowd. The wall of ladders parts like a zip, camera operators falling outwards. It’s pandemonium. Those with cameras who can stay upright scramble to keep filming.

  When the car reaches us, we can’t move. David is behind me and there’s another cameraman behind him, and we’re pinned against a steel gate with spikes along the top. The car keeps coming and I feel it squeezing into my torso, forcing out my breath. ‘Stop,’ I call, but no one can be heard in this bedlam. ‘Stop!’

  The car is only a metre or two from the office gate and it comes to a halt. Aung San Suu Kyi steps out with a demure smile and strides unfazed through the chaos, adopting a coltish gait and fixed gaze like a model on a catwalk. Her security guards surround her, blindly pushing anyone who is in the way. When they’re all inside, the steel sliding door is shut with a clang and we’re left to recover. It’s by far the worst media scrum I’ve ever experienced.

  Now we have to wait again, this time for the opposition leader to address us. We form another line of ladders and by now rather bedraggled-looking reporters.

  In the past Aung San Suu Kyi frequently spoke from behind the front gate at her home. This time she chooses to do the same, from behind the safety of the NLD gate. She looks tiny and very thin when she peeps her head over the top, clutching a bunch of red roses and wearing pale lilac, with white flowers in her hair. ‘We hope that this will be the beginning of a new era where there will be more emphasis on the role of the people in the everyday politics of our country,’ she starts.

  ‘We also hope that we will be able to go further along the road towards national reconciliation. We would welcome all parties who would wish to join us in the process of bringing peace and prosperity to our country. As we said before our election, the three main issues in our election platform were rule of law, an end to all ethnic conflict and amendments to the constitution. We hope very much that everybody will join us, our efforts, to bring about the changes that will bring peace and prosperity to all our people.’

  And she’s gone. She disappears behind the gate to the cheers of well-wishers who have gathered. Some are tourists, lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, and partly amusing themselves by taking photos of the media chaos.

  The NLD’s election to parliament is a big moment but also a big test. The opposition will have to quickly transform itself from a single-issue pressure group into a political party capable of generating policy change. There’s no doubt the aim is to get Aung San Suu Kyi into the presidency at the next general election in 2015, but the NLD will first have to change the constitution. Under Burmese law, people with close foreign relatives cannot be president: Aung San Suu Kyi’s late husband was British and she has two sons. To change this law – indeed, to achieve any of its planned constitutional changes – the opposition will need 75 per cent of the parliamentary vote. With 25 per cent military members and the rest military aligned, this won’t be easy.

  Aung San Suu Kyi is also taking a big risk by engaging with her former tormentors. She’s going to sit with them in the parliament, become a politician and take part in a flawed process. She may be viewed as aligning herself, for the sake of politics, with a military that continues to perpetrate human rights abuses. She may lose her untouchable status as a democratic icon who has suffered, unflinching, for the sake of her people – and she has much to do.

  There are still hundreds of political prisoners in jail, if not more, despite some staged mass releases over the past year. We visit a number of their waiting family members, who get no information from the authorities. There’s no way of predicting when prisoners will be allowed out.

  Nay Chi hasn’t seen her brother since 2009. Heavily pregnant and sewing for a living in a tiny flat, she’s campaigning for his release. ‘He’s the eldest in the family and I feel so sad about what has happened to him. We have no one to rely on since this happened to us.’

  Nay Chi’s brother was arrested in the dead of night, accused of rigging an explosive device. There’s doubt over the legitimacy of his confession, which may have been extracted by force. He was tried in a closed court and jailed.

  ‘We do not know where he was taken,’ his sister says. ‘We do not hear any news from him and we do not know where to trace him.’

  Each time the government has released prisoners, she has waited for him to come home. She’s one of many.

  Elderly Thaung Sein tells me about his son, who was jailed in 1999 and given a sentence of fifty-nine years. ‘We want him to live together with us, as all parents wish, and I am suffering distress that I can’t describe.’

  Recent mass releases have been a horrible letdown. ‘We are happy to see people being released, but on January 13, my wife and I really suffered and collapsed because of this. But we are trying to be strong. And also my son said, “Dad, I would also like to be with you, but I believe what I did was right.”’

  I again challenge the presidential spokesman, Ko Ko Hlaing, in an interview, asking if the remaining political prisoners are being used as pawns in a diplomatic game. The Burmese government wants international sanctions lifted (and they eventually are). Keeping some prisoners may be to its advantage.

  ‘Are you holding them deliberately as a bargaining chip?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no, no.’ He’s vehement.

  ‘Are you keeping them in the prison on purpose?’

  ‘Actually I don’t think they are used as political bargaining chips. But actually it’s very difficult to verify who is the political prisoner, who is the terrorist or who has connections with the international terrorist organisations, so, it’s like that.’

  I grapple with finding a balance between the positive developments in Burma so far, and the massive issues that still need to be addressed. Poverty remains desperate. Horrific conflict continues in parts of the country where the Burmese Army fights with ethnic groups despite being directly ordered not to do so by the president. Corruption and nepotism are rife. From what I’ve seen, I doubt that anyone is yet better off than they were before. It will take time.

  Yet there is what feels like an irrepressible sense of rising optimism. The Burmese people, in the cities particularly, are excited.

  We visit the rap artist Naw Daw at his flat and music studio. ‘Though it’s said that we have democracy, people don’t feel that they have it yet,’ he tells me. ‘I mean, nobody believes they have democracy now. People dare not speak out about what they really believe. That’s why I have to encourage the people to wake up.’

  His track has gone viral, an anthem for the times. ‘We put it on Facebook, sent it through Gmail and GTalk, and people liked the song and they clicked “like, like, like” and they shared, shared and shared and the song spread to the whole of Burma and worldwide.’ He smiles.

  The place has phenomenal potential. Walking around Yangon, it’s easy to see the remnants of the wealthiest city in Southeast Asia. Grand government offices have become squats; majestic buildings in the style of old Glasgow are boarded up but ready to be revived. We walk through turreted, century-old homes with trees growing through their floors and snaking out their windows, but even
amid the dilapidation, it’s clear what Yangon could be with some spit and polish.

  We’re on our way to the airport when we stop to do one last story. Jum and David are exhausted and look at me with hangdog disbelief when I tell them that I want to squeeze in a final set of interviews.

  We arrive at a white colonial-style house that stands out sharply against the bright green of its big tropical garden. A young, fit-looking blonde woman meets us at the front door as we pull up. She’s tanned and dressed in denim shorts and a white t-shirt, jingling with pieces of ethnic jewellery. This is Nikki May, manager of the Me N Ma Girls. An Anglo– Australian singer and dancer from Melbourne, she has drawn together a group of young Burmese women into a girl band.

  The house is a stunning old mansion, with paned windows, ceiling fans and French doors. The floors are timber and the big rooms are airy even in the Yangon heat. The living room opens onto a paved terrace and pool. On the couch sit five young Burmese women, lounging casually, one strumming a guitar. They’re all smiles.

  Burma is a highly diverse country and the Me N Ma Girls represent a range of ethnicities and classes. ‘They’re from a really broad spectrum,’ says Nikki May. ‘You’ve got three different religions, three different – well, four different ethnic groups, five different socio-economic backgrounds.’

  The girls have never been political. Harsh censorship laws have restricted expression: song lyrics have been vetted and even the girls’ costumes have been subject to official approval, with skirt length strictly regulated. Rising political freedom, though, is opening up a new world for artists and musicians.

  The group perform an upbeat song and dance number for our cameras. ‘I’m a girl from the land of Myanmar/I try to sing loud so my voice will reach far/Myanmar Girls like any other girls in the world.’

  Band member Ah Moon reflects on how it’s been up until now. Having never really questioned the rules, she’s realised she can. ‘I don’t like that the country is closed and not open-minded and has been under someone’s rules. I want to be an artist, so I want to do it freely.’

  ‘All the things about freedom … it’s really the first time for us, all the things,’ singer Htike Htike says, laughing. ‘That’s why we feel really surprised at that, you know.’ She can barely believe it.

  The girls have spent a lifetime under a repressive regime. Some weren’t even born when Aung San Suu Kyi was first placed under house arrest. They’re thrilled to be witnessing change, and they’re beginning to participate in it through music.

  About five and a half million Burmese people have fled the country over the years of brutality and fear. Many have left as refugees and are living in other countries, including Australia. ‘Please come back to our country,’ says Htike Htike, ‘because this is the changing time and just support our country to build itself up.’

  ‘Come back home, come back home,’ the five of them sing to us, accompanied by a single guitar. They’re sitting on Nikki’s outdoor terrace, framed by frangipanis in the soft afternoon light. ‘Everyone’s watching us, they don’t know what we’ve got, don’t be silent any more / We have power, we have strength, we can build the golden land / What we need is freedom, all we need is freedom.’

  FOURTEEN

  Trips to Burma become routine and weeks later David and I are fighting our way through Yangon traffic to the airport after another busy shoot when I get an email asking if I can go to India for Foreign Correspondent. We’ve passed into a patch of mobile reception and my emails tumble into my inbox. ‘Possible story’ catches my attention straightaway, but my heart sinks a little. I’ve barely been home in Bangkok this year; the opening up of Burma has been a full-time job, and family time has been very sparse. I need to see Rowan and the kids, so my first instinct is to say ‘no way’ before even reading it.

  I take a look at the details, though, and know I’ll find this a hard one to refuse.

  Eleven-month-old conjoined twin girls, Stuti and Aradhana, were born to a poor farming family in the tiny village of Padhar. Too much for their parents to cope with, they’ve been ‘adopted’ by the staff at the local hospital, who have hatched a plan to separate them. It’s highly ambitious.

  I stare out the window into the rain. Looks like we’ll be landing and leaving again in a flurry. The surgery is scheduled for 21 June – in a week’s time.

  Anyone who’s worked in India will have tales to tell about the red tape and bureaucracy that accompany travel. For media, it’s compounded. Every element of our plan and kit is scrutinised, but by some miracle the visas are issued at the last possible moment, five o’clock on a Friday afternoon.

  David and I meet producer Trevor Bormann in New Delhi before we head off together to Padhar, which is basically a hospital and a few roadside stalls smack bang in the centre of India. Trevor and I are old friends. We last worked together on a shoot that he co-ordinated from South Africa while I snuck around Zimbabwe trying not to get arrested.

  On the packed plane we meet three of the key characters in our story. Liver transplant specialists Dr Gordon Thomas and Dr Albert Shun and anaesthetist Professor David Baines have travelled from The Children’s Hospital at Westmead in Sydney to help with the surgery. We shake hands across rows in the aircraft. We’ll be spending a lot of time together over the next couple of weeks.

  We land in the provincial town of Nagpur and drive to Padhar through the usual chaos that is Indian traffic, a dodgem track of colourful trucks and potholes.

  Padhar Hospital is a Lutheran facility, a family-run place headed up by plastic surgeon Dr Rajiv Choudhrie with support from his wife, radiologist Deepa, and various other extended family members, all part of a long line of medicos. They’ve taken the twins into their professional and personal care.

  ‘Well, they are absolutely adorable,’ Deepa says. ‘If you see Stuti, she is shy, she will smile but she is shy. Aradhana will see you from a distance and her face will light up.’ She’s smitten with the babies and so are the rest of the hospital staff. It’s easy to see why.

  We meet Stuti and Aradhana among a gaggle of helpers in their room. The girls are wriggling little worms like most almost-one year olds. They stand on my lap, stretching their legs as they try to toddle, and arching their backs to stare into the camera lens, grabbing for it. The twins are attached from the chest to the lower abdomen but they’re surprisingly agile, twisting and rolling each other to see what they want to see and reach what they want to reach.

  But they share a liver and their two tiny hearts beat in the same sac. The surgeons are here to separate these organs.

  Padhar Hospital is a simple place. It’s as clean as it can be in this environment, but the facilities are obviously limited and in high demand. Each morning people gather in the airy outdoor corridors, awaiting treatment. Women in brightly coloured saris hold small children who stare at us with wide, kohl-ringed eyes; leathery men with walking sticks watch us curiously while we move around carrying our camera, tripod and microphone.

  As the surgery nears, Indian TV crews arrive. They set up a satellite dish in the hospital driveway, broadcasting live into India’s plethora of cable TV stations. The twins have become a national curiosity. Media coverage has debated the family’s decision to leave them at the hospital, judged by some as abandonment.

  We meet the girls’ mother, Maya, who defends her actions. ‘I was very sad and when I used to think of them, I would get fever. I missed them a lot. But I couldn’t do anything, they could not stay with me, so I had to leave them here.’ She seems quite vulnerable, just a young girl herself, in the glare of the media spotlight.

  In part that spotlight has been switched on by the hospital, which made a video about the twins to attract funding. Viewers have donated money to pay for their separation.

  As well as debate about the family’s treatment of the twins, the campaign has sparked discussion of the way India treats baby girls. About twelve million Indian girls have gone missing in the last three decades because they’ve
been either aborted or killed after birth.

  Deepa explains what’s behind this terrible statistic. ‘In some parts of India, including this part, families find girls to be a burden because they have to put a lot into their education and into their growth and everything and finally all that happens is that you have to give the girl away in marriage and for that also you have to give what’s called dowry. So they’re not really looked upon as something that they want.’

  Ultrasound to discover gender is banned in India, and stories are rife about female babies being abandoned, murdered with poisoned milk or disappearing. In Hindi, their mother tells me she didn’t leave them because they were female. ‘No, we do not differentiate between girls and boys. They are the same. In fact girls are preferred because in their heart they have that motherhood feeling and boys don’t. Children are children – we do not differentiate.’

  Trevor, David and I are staying in a small cottage on the hospital grounds, part of a training facility that puts up medical students from around India and the world who come to do placements at Padhar. A lone cow sleeps outside the front door among a fleet of vintage 4WDs and puddles left by overnight rain. Our rooms are very simple, with cement floors, ceiling fans, and single beds covered with chenille spreads that remind me of my nan’s orange one when I was a little girl. Compared to the forties-plus heat in New Delhi, Padhar is pleasantly cool; no air-con is required here.

  We eat in the main house with the doctors, who increase in number as specialists arrive from all over India to help with the surgery. Elderly Indian women in saris serve up chapattis, naan and curries while the doctors discuss strategy.