BOLDERBoomers

Myanmar -An Illusion of Separation   

An illusion of separation has been in my awareness since arriving in Myanmar, one of the most underdeveloped countries in Southeast Asia. Each day I grow more appreciative that while the circumstances of my life are very different from the day to day lives of most Burmese, at the core we are the same. Our differences are primarily cultural. While I have had the significant advantages of health, education, and relative wealth, more so than many here, these create a difference but need not create a distance.

When I come from a place that recognizes that we are all fundamentally the same, that we all experience the pleasure, pain, and suffering of the human condition, then I can appreciate we are all the same in our humanity. The separation we create in our consciousness is but an illusion.

 I am the grandmother sorting and selling chilis with my granddaughter by the side of the road.

 I am the infant sleeping in the marketplace amid my mother's array of vegetables for sale.

 I am the vendor squatting on a narrow wooden platform in the mud and slime of the meat market, selling hacked up pieces of raw chicken, frogs, and fish under the glaring hot sun.

 I am the young boy looking wide-eyed into the windows of cars hoping to sell my jasmine flower necklaces to the drivers to dangle from their car mirror or for an offering to the Buddha.

 I am the adolescent mother with a nursing babe at her breast seeking a handout, weaving my way between cars in the gridlocked intersection, hoping to curry the sympathy of those more fortunate.

 I am the barefoot ox cart driver bumping along the deeply rutted, red-earthen roads with a load of manure to be spread for fertilizer in the fields.

 I am the young woman, face delicately painted with yellow thanaka, jammed into a crowded bus, going off to work in the heat, with my tiffin pail prepared early in the morning.

 I am the rice farmer at the back of a wooden plow prodding the oxen to till the fields for another planting.

I am the old woman stooped over in the rice paddy sewing rice in the muddy water.

 I am the monk sitting before the Buddha sonorously chanting prayers at 5 am for peace and compassion.

 I am the novice monk clanging my cymbal, alerting almsgivers to fill my bowl as I pass by their homes and businesses.

 I am the temple tout peddling my wares to tourists, hoping their eyes glance upon something of interest so they will give me lucky money.

I am the young Muslim woman on the beach patiently trying to sell my sea pearl necklaces to the few tourists left in offseason.

I am a woman from the hill tribe wearing my tribal brass rings around my neck that illustrate my womanhood but also allow me to pose for tourists lucky money when I go into town.

 I am the work-worn woman hoeing the potato fields, supported in my sweat-filled labor by the songs of my neighbors who toil with me.

 I am the steely-nerved bus driver entrusted with my passengers on dirt roads rutted, rocky and treacherous, in a vehicle with threadbare tires, that lurches and groans between gears, delivering travelers with their baggage, goats, and chickens to their destination.

 I am the smiling taxi driver lost in finding the destination that these foreigners wish to go to, but anxious to please.

 I am the six-fingered waiter serving noodle soup to foreigners in the guest house, knowing they all will ask the same questions.

 I am the old woman resting on a wooden platform, bones aching, eyesight blurred, watching the daily cycle of life unfold in her family's multi-generational bamboo hut.

 I am the dancer dressed in my finest costume for the parade, moving my hands in choreographed ritual expression, along with hundreds of other young women, honoring our country, our people and  tradition in this age-old ceremonial dance.  

 I am the young girl at the temple seeking a small kyat offering for a plastic bag the foreigner will use for the requisite removal of shoes before entering the temple.

I am the gleeful boy, cheeks aglow with joy, blowing up a balloon the foreigner gave me.

 I am the fisherman rowing with my foot and leg wrapped around the wooden oar on my shallow teak boat hoping for a good catch in my nets today.

I am the young woman sweating with dozens of others in the 105-degree sauna-like heat of a dark room with plastic shielding out any moisture, pounding gold leaf to wafer thinness for temple offerings, hour upon hour, for a pittance each day.

I am the new father, grinning a betel-red, toothy smile, holding up my infant son to be admired.

I am the aged restaurant owner anxious but afraid to speak out against the government repression to these tourists who inquire, in case a spy is around that will turn me in.

 I am the tour guide with enough pidgin English to show the foreigners all the temples, Buddhas and attractions of my richly diverse country.

I am the tender of the huge yellow boa constrictor kept in the temple for show and offerings.

 I am the young artist carving a life-size stone Buddha in the dust and heat, my hammer and chisel delicately creating the peacefulness and serenity of his enlightened face.

I am the supplicant kneeling before the Buddha, making an offering while praying that I can feed my family.

 I am the Buddha standing serenely in the temple, accepting the obeisance of the faithful, serving as a conduit for their prayers.