Postcards from the Edge

Stories from the Myanmar Cyclone disaster

The following is a related by Erica Tubbs, Deputy Country Representative in Myanmar.

June 21, 2008
Slowly, as we bumped along the potholed road into Delta in our rented pick-up the trees became more and more tortured against the thick grey clouds draped across the sky.  It started to rain and we stopped to cover with a tarp the medications and water chlorination solution we were hauling for our medical teams . We discovered that the tarp didn't have tie-down holes so we needed to make them ourselves.  Two women appeared out of a patched together grass mat and bamboo structure along the road with a large knife.  Eyeing both my Myanmar clothing and fair hair with interest they helped us punch holes in the tarp and laughed as we used the driver's cigarette lighter to burn the rope where we needed to cut it.  They asked us where we were going and nodded when we said Bogale.  They pointed to their house and said they had just finished rebuilding it yesterday. We could see the spot beside it that represented the house they had just replaced.  There was nothing there.  Without asking us for anything, they accepted back their knife and wished us a safe journey.
 
That was the first example of a pattern that was to repeat over and over on this trip, exactly one month after the cyclone.  Through fields of muddy grass laced with river tributaries people sat huddled together in very small houses, but houses they were.  Grass mats, bamboo poles, a tarpaulin if one was available.  Discordant pieces of iron sheeting picked up from where they blew from someone's home- it was impossible to tell what materials came from where.  Each house was a carefully balanced display of human tenacity, perseverance and a strangely artistic creativity.  Rain beat down on our window as faces looked out from their makeshift shelters to see the assistance that was passing them by- earmarked for somewhere and someone else. As we came closer and closer to Bogale town my emotions hung in the balance between despair and admiration.
 
One of our doctors traveling with me had been here the week after the storm hit as part of our first medical response.  He had witnessed the complete destruction, the vacant eyes and dead bodies and was constantly pointing out all the signs of progress he saw along the road.  Then he fell silent for a while.  He sighed audibly and said "It makes me really angry to know that all these people suffered for such a long time, but it makes me really proud to see how much they have done on their own."
 
There is no way to Mawlaminegyun by road. In this landscape of water the bridges that served as a way of transporting people and supplies were still in ruin.  Sitting atop our old wooden microfinance boat we putted our way up river to reach the township where very few organizations are working.  Our medical assistant from Bogale, Daw Zar Zar, was accompanying me.  She is physically tiny in every way.  Small, delicate, whimsically beautiful but with a wide, sweet smile that flashes frequently.  Assisting our doctors she had been in over 300 villages along this route with an energy equal to the need she saw around her.  In the Myanmar way we sat holding hands as we talked with our doctor acting as translator and adding his own questions.
 
Village after village along the waterside had white flags flying in the breeze.  This is the signal so organizations distributing rice know that village had not received any.  When I commented on the closeness of all the houses, bunched up along the riverbank like an urban street in Yangon , Zar Zar said that those who stayed in the village are afraid.  Each time it rains and the winds begin they look upwards, searching for the red eye of the storm that marched its way across the sky, marking the path of destruction.  They have re-built close together to feel they are not alone in the night and the rain.  Lacking water sources, they dip into the river for drinking, cooking and cleaning needs.
 
As we talked a fishing boat sailed by, powered by a spindly but sinewy man rowing in an age-old rhythm.  Three naked little boys ran headlong off the edge of the river bank and canon balled into the water, slipping back in the river as they tried to pull themselves up the muddy bank.  A mother stood knee deep with her daughter in the milky brown current, gently ladling water over her back.  While unmentionable, unacceptable and unbelievable… the lack of aid that normally follows after a disaster of this magnitude has shone light on another truth- people will pick up and move on.  They will do it together.  They will continue to struggle and they will go forward because the only other alternative is back.
 
Still my emotions hang very much in the balance. As this disaster continues to unfold like some macabre and ill-planned stage drama that continues to surprise at every turn, there is the sub-text of an unsullied culture, of thriving resilience not seen in countries flooded with aid.  For those of us who work in development or disaster recovery we have seen communities, once proud and self-sufficient turned into "recipients" or "beneficiaries".  One could argue that life is precious no matter the final outcome, but as we made our way back down the river that day I felt the clouds gathering in the sky had a singular silver lining.