"Too much exercise," said Capt Maung Kyit Aye, laughing quietly and nodding.
When I asked him why he was so much thinner than two years ago when we had first met, he said, “I'm getting old too."
Back then, he still had the occasional "luxury" of spending time with his family in Thailand. Now he spends most of his time on the Burmese side of the river in Karen State with his troops, fighting to hold back the increasing attacks by Burmese soldiers and the Democratic Karen Buddhist Army against KNLA Battalion 21 of Brigade 7.
“I don’t know exactly when,” he said. “But I will have to go back to the frontline soon.”
It was only a few days after we talked that the Burmese military opened a fierce offensive against the area controlled by Brigade 7. Battalion 21 headquarters was eventually lost, because it was defended only by a small number of KNLA soldiers and a few troops from the Arakan Liberation Army.
When I left Kyit Aye, he was studying a piece of paper filled with hundreds of radio frequencies which are alternated daily to avoid interception by the DKBA.
Strolling around the headquarters, I ran into an elderly Karen woman who had served as a midwife for a young Karen woman in child birth whom I had photographed two years ago.
The woman and her husband and their 2-year-old son were still alive, but I was told that if I visited them at their home, only a half hour boat ride from where we stood, I would need a heavy escort because the area was experiencing heavy mortar fire from enemy troops.
Asked about the deteriorating tactical situation, the Karen I spoke with answered proudly that the KNLA was still strong and capable of holding the Burmese in check.
“The Karen will never lose, because we will never give up the fight,” Kyit Aye said with a bright smile. “If not this generation, the next generation will continue the fight until we have our freedom.”
After enjoying a special supper of freshly killed chicken, I rested on a wood floor, trying to get some sleep. As I closed my eyes, I heard a sound of a guitar and someone singing a slow ballad. I got up and followed the sound of a soft, cracking voice.
The musician was a young soldier in his early 20s, playing a battered acoustic guitar, with an M-16 rifle leaning against a post behind him. He smiled as I complimented him on his singing and said, “Being a good soldier is better than being a good singer”.
Walking back to the shack in pitch-black darkness, I heard him quietly start the song again.
irrawaddy
No comments:
Post a Comment