7 April 2019
[Above photo: From the bed of the giant reclining Buddha outside Moulmein, the Devil and his pet, Spot, just doing their jobs.]
Last week I mentioned meeting a Burmese man at the International School Yangon Gala. He and I were the only ones dressed in formal Burmese garb. We had dim sum yesterday at a lovely restaurant, Signature, overlooking Kandawgyi Lake. He told me had married a Korean woman he met in the US, divorcing her after 23 years. Her adoptive father built a sailboat, sailing through the Great Lakes, out the St. Lawrence Seaway, and down the coast, berthing her in Bar Harbor, Maine. He used to sail with him in Penobscot Bay. He now has a Burmese partner who works as a preschool teacher with my friend, Ruth. It is a tiny world filled with coincidences and the same miseries and joys felt by most.
When I walk to the bus each morning, I pass the Baptist Church and School at the end of my street. At 8:45AM I am treated to a children’s chorus, their voices raised in unison (almost). I’d recommend it as a way to start the day. Also, on that corner there is usually a man selling strings of jasmine flowers which people use in their cars as air fresheners. The scent is so much nicer than that from the green chemical mix with a picture of a balsam fir on the label which some people have on their dash.
Preparing for Maui, I imagined I needed another pair of shorts. After working for several hours on my class presentations yesterday, I dropped by Sein Gay Har 3 blocks away to see what I might find. It is a narrow, 4 level store with a tiny escalator going up and stairs to descend. I found two sections with shorts in the Menswear Department and tried on 4 pairs. Could I fit a 30 waist? Nope. Here’s a 32 but when I try it on it clearly is mislabeled and should be a 28, as I cannot button them. Then a 31 that kind of fits but there is no buttonhole for the main button. Finally a pair that looks ample enough but hasn’t a fly, even though it has a flap suggesting there is one. None of them were really my style, as well. I decided the Fashion Gods did not want me to buy shorts; beside which, I already have two pair. Whyever did I think I needed another? I likely wanted a reason to walk around a little. So I bought 5 mangosteens at an inflated price (27cents apiece) and a red bean smoothie with black tapioca pearls from Bubble Tea and returned to work out “Talking With Teens Who Are Dying” for Monday.
I’m in the middle of a 10 day 100-102 degree peak temperature spell. April is indeed the cruelest month, here at least. As I left class Thursday, two of my female students approached me. “We are worried about you, Professor. It is too hot for you.” I assured them I was indestructible. “Yes, you are incredible.” No, not incredible, indestructible, a very different word. Yet hearing their concern both warms me (not necessary in this heat) and revives my own life-long concerns about dying, having identified all too well with my father who died at 55yo of an m.i. when I was 9yo. And his father who died of one in his 40’s. I seem to be from a different gene pool, plugging along at 78. I’m doing pretty much what I want to do so if it all ends now that won’t be a regret. Still, I have most of my marbles and am productive and have big (unrealistic, no doubt) plans for Child and Adolescent Mental Health in Myanmar, so I’d rather not go soon. Not to mention all of my relationships.
I’m going to try to learn a bit of Myanmar script, so I can read signs. My progress is flagging with spoken Myanmar and perhaps this will help to stimulate me a bit. The script is fascinating, seemingly arbitrary, and totally incomprehensible to me now. Not even recognizable little pictures, like with Chinese characters. As Pwint Phue Wei, my language teacher, was describing how the characters are combined to make sounds and words, I asked, “Do people ever go crazy trying to learn this?”. Seriously, truly the Mysterious East.
I went to the swearing-in ceremony for the 4th group of Peace Corps volunteers in Myanmar on Friday, 37 young fresh faces preparing to teach in the secondary schools in Mon State and in Maguay and Bago regions. It was so sweet. One from Berkeley, two from LA, and a bunch from Ohio. They were all dressed in traditional Myanmar clothing. The girls did a traditional Myanmar dance number. A boy and girl alternated giving The Speech, interpreting for each other. And several ministers and governors were there. And the US Ambassador. The Peace Corps Country Director gave a good send-off talk. And dozens of their Myanmar counterparts, dressed in the traditional white tops and dark green longyi of teachers, sat in the front rows and clapped with enthusiasm.
I met a fellow who has been doing NGO work for 30 years, until recently with Save The Children. He’s former Peace Corps. He has recently been a part of a group trying to address sexually abused children in private schools. We hit it off and it turns out he spent 5 years living in Malawi, working with an NGO at a refugee (from the Mozambique civil war) camp in Liwonde. The latter is now one of two premier game parks in Malawi. And the Peace Corps Country Director was Country Director in Malawi in the 90’s. I think we’ll have a PC reunion sometime soon. It is a large family. I feel a bit of an imposter since I wasn’t in a village in my 20’s but I’d guess I worked as hard, learned as much, and was exposed to as much grit working in psychiatry in Blantyre as they did in the boonies. I wish I’d done it at an early age, though. So life-changing.
Back to child abuse, there is no national policy or reporting, investigating, treating, or prosecuting system here, despite that Myanmar was an early signatory of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. This week we saw a girl we suspected of being sexually abused in her pre-school. The school has been put on notice, the perpetrator doesn’t seem to be a member of the faculty or staff, and our patient will change schools. But since it is “suspected” only, I don’t want to tell the police who aren’t trained to investigate it properly and may simply close the school, ruining some lives in the process. So I’ll supervise one of my students seeing the little girl in therapy and we’ll all learn from her. Perhaps we can convene a working group to develop a plan for a Child Protection System for the country, or at least the region. It is so easy to see a glaring need, think of a comprehensive fix, and then get stalled trying to educate and convince the powers that be to develop it.
Joe Biden is too old to be president. If he runs, he’ll get whacked, hard and repeatedly, about Iraq, Glass-Stegal, and Anita Hill, as well as the nuzzling. Time to be a sage and a counsellor, an ambassador, something where his good heart, wisdom, and experience can make a difference. I just cannot bear it if the Dems chew each other up before the primary and, exhausted and bloody, are fresh meat for The Donald. Coincidentally, he who voted for Iraq, cheats on his wife, grabs women’s genitals without permission, and has been playing fast and loose with financial laws for years will try to savage Joe where he can. Remind me, O Reader, if my ambition o’erleaps my potential.
A Psychiatrist in Myanmar 