The Cursed Children of Myanmar

News dries up of two young girls sent to the city to find work. An investigator sets out to look for them. In a country consumed by Buddhist hatred, their disappearance becomes a matter of State.

The girls are bored and staring up at the sky. It’s summer and the monsoon has returned, bringing along its grey entourage, puddles everywhere the size of lakes. San Kay Khine, 12 years old, is sheltering in the family hut, along with the chickens frightened by the rain. Thazin, a neighbour of the same age, also lives in a shady square of bamboo. The two children are from Baw Lone Kwin, a village deep in the forest, sixty kilometres south of Yangon, in Myanmar. Water seeps through patched-up roofs, there is no electricity. The villagers rack up debts just to buy food.

In 2011, a woman comes to the village. She’s looking for some well-behaved children to send to the city to work as housekeepers. Yangon, the financial capital, is teeming with youngsters toiling away to help their families. Orphaned Thazin is quickly chosen by the recruiter. San Kay Khine’s parents are reluctant to send their daughter, who steps up to volunteer: “Mum, we’re not going to get by like this. I’ll go. I’ll be back when school starts.”

For 15,000 kyats (8 euros) per month, the two children do the cooking, the cleaning and the laundry at a tailor’s on 40th Street. Their first salaries are paid in advance, a windfall. But the young housekeepers stop sending news. Whenever their relatives call, the manager answers and tells them that the girls are out, that they’re away. That they go to the beach sometimes.

The girls miss the start of one school term, then two. Concern grows in the village. San Kay Khine’s mother can’t bear any more. She wants to see her child. In 2014, the mayor pays for some of the villagers to travel to Yangon. The city seems so far away, beyond the forests and the river. They would never normally set foot there. On 40th street, the volunteers find a closed shop. They show up at the police station. The welcome is frosty, there’s no interest in the case, but the police promise that the girls will come back soon.

That promise comes to nothing. The telephone in the shop goes unanswered now. Salaries are no longer paid. Meanwhile, hands need to be turned to the betel fields and rice paddies. Babies are born, from other bellies. Five years the girls have been gone now. In the end, heartbroken, their families have to accept the evidence: their little ones have disappeared.

 

A refugee in the human world

The man who holds the key to this story climbs a stone staircase, a battered suitcase over his shoulder. The luggage curves his thin body, crushes his neck and his boyish face. His hard eyes glimmer in the darkness, like two coal marbles. Night brings with it the desire for solitude.

His wish will soon be granted. This Saturday in August 2018, Swe Win, aged 40, will enter a famous meditation institute in Yangon. He will be locked away with French, Canadian, Burmese companions, some of them reformed drug addicts, without uttering a word. He does this retreat every year. “It helps me not to make mistakes, to stay in control. Sometimes I fly into a blind rage, and that’s no good for anyone.”

At reception, he signs a form and hands over his telephone and his money, like a prisoner. In a shabby dormitory, the guys watch him unpack his things.

“Ten days without speaking, can you do it?”

“I spent seven years in prison, mainly in isolation. So ten days without speaking is nothing”, he laughs.

When he was 20 years old, Swe Win handed out flyers in support of overturning the junta that was stifling Myanmar at the time. People were going hungry, troops were firing at crowds of civilians. One night he was arrested at his parents’ house and sentenced to 21 years in prison. “He was so puny, we thought prison would break him”, recalls one of his brothers, who is only a featherweight himself. 

Swe Win got out after seven years, thanks to a general amnesty. It must have driven him mad: “I knew that if I wanted to survive, I had to stop being attached to anything. In prison, I enjoyed playing chess, but I got hooked on it, so I smashed the board. I also lost the taste for reading. Desire disappeared; pain, too”.

Prison is a curse and a blessing. Kept in a hutch, subjected to beatings, he discovered meditation thanks to a documentary, Serve Your Sentence, Serve Your Body with Vipassana, aimed at prisoners. It was also behind bars that he honed his skills as a journalist, scratching the news onto packages that passed from cell to cell.

Today Swe Win is the editor in chief of Myanmar Now, one of the country’s rare investigative media outlets. Journalism was a passion for his father, a civil servant always hunched over the radio with his son on his knee. Swe Win is, he says, incapable of holding his tongue. “That’s how I was born. I can’t bear injustice”.

Many of his colleagues admire his rigor and his cutting questions, while others consider him “crazy”. The kid from Yangon is a loner, eager to cut ties rather than bind them. Not a sociable character, by his own admission: “I sometimes feel like a refugee in the human world”. His wife would like him to take his foot off the gas a little. “She says I’m digging my own grave.” The reporter has been collecting enemies for a long time. The case of the disappeared girls didn’t help matters.

 

Stop filming!

In June 2016, Swe Win was looking for a Muslim taxi driver amongst the taxis in Yangon. “Some Buddhists refuse to ride with them, so I do the opposite, I pick them out on purpose to support them.” Muslims, a minority in largely Buddhist Myanmar, are persecuted by part of the population, who consider them outsiders.

The city chokes under a din of metal and engines. Stuck in traffic, the driver makes conversation, small talk. When he learns that Swe Win is a journalist, his face tightens. "I know girls who work in a shop,” he hisses in a worried voice. “I can't do anything, but they need help. " The reporter listens without saying anything. He wants to call the police, but worries he will look like an idiot who got played by a taxi driver. He makes a different suggestion: "Give me the exact address.”

“Are you going to save them?”

“I don't know, I'll check it out.”

“Do you promise me?”

“I can't promise you anything! I'll take a look, that's all."

The following day, at around 4pm, Swe Win goes back to 40th Street, a long road, narrow like the neck of a bottle, where building facades crumble onto shop signs. The stores sit side by side with the heavens – two mosques, a church and a Buddhist temple. The taxi driver had given him the address of a reputable tailor.

Swe Win goes into the shop, a large room with a worn floor, lined with clothes in plastic bags. In the middle of brightly coloured dresses and tuxedos, the reporter walks forward with a knot in his stomach. “I felt bad as soon as I went in. I got the feeling I’d entered a very dark place.”

The owner welcomes him with a smile. Caught off guard, he improvises: “I’m going to Europe on a business trip. Can I see your most expensive suits?” The manager sets to work, but her customer’s attention is elsewhere. Someone is working in the back, in a kitchen area.

“Do you have catalogues?” Swe Win tries, to win himself some time.

“Of course. I’ll go and get them. Take a seat”.

“I’d prefer to sit on the floor, it that’s alright with you.”

The reporter refuses to move. As he films discreetly on his telephone, a girl appears on the screen. Strangely, she is wearing long sleeves, despite the heat. Her fine hands are covered in scars. Another child emerges with a scar on her face. “Stop filming!” the owner’s daughter calls out. Swe Win hurries away, mumbling an apology.

He quickly thinks this over, in a sweat. Who are these girls? And their injuries…? He files a report at the local police station, and calls back every day. “We’ll look into it”, is the response he hears like a broken record. He sends a letter to the National Human Rights Commission, again to no avail. As a journalist, he wants to write an article, but the lack of evidence holds him back. “I wasn’t going to go back to the shop to ask for an interview! ‘Hello, are you torturing your housekeepers?’” Running out of ideas, he recalls the panicked face of the taxi driver, another helpless onlooker. He was right not to make any promises.

 

‘Lucky day’

One month later, Swe Win receives an unexpected letter. The National Human Rights Commission has finally replied. This Burmese institution was born out of a political earthquake in 2011, when, to everyone’s surprise, the military junta relinquished power after almost fifty years of rule. The new president, Thein Sein, a retired general, wanted to win over the international community and make people forget the dictatorship. After freeing Aung San Suu Kyi, a historical opposition figure and Nobel Peace Prize winner, he held elections, abolished censorship and founded a shiny new Human Rights Commission to investigate atrocities, abuses of power, discrimination... But it never touched the military.

The letter invites Swe Win to attend a meeting between the families of the girls seen in the shop and their employers. It is organised by four commissioners, relatives or former members of the junta. Swe Win hesitates at the prospect of such a spotlight, but his curiosity compels him to go and see.

That morning, the Burmese flag is flying over the Commission building. Swe Win spots two castaways with yellow faces. San Kay Khine’s mother and Thazin’s aunt are covered in thanaka, a traditional make-up made from ground bark. Swe Win introduces himself, but the women aren’t listening, they want to go home. Their plea has worked. The girls have been freed and sent back to the village following police intervention. They were not invited to the hearing. The dispute will be resolved by the grown-ups.

The participants sit upstairs, in a room with the curtains drawn. Boxes of tissues are placed on the

tables. The store manager is absent. She sent her son, a sturdy bespectacled type, proud of his years spent living in London, and her two daughters, Su Mon Lat, with her husband, and Thiri Lat, the dark-haired woman who had stopped Swe Win from filming. The family is imposing, a wall of ice. The journalist sits down near the intimidated villagers, who ask how anyone so cruel could be “so well dressed”.

A policeman stands up, two stars on each shoulder. He sums up the investigation: “We found that the girls had been treated like slaves. The employers took advantage of their ignorance and their young age. Wages were not paid regularly. They were also subjected to acts of torture.” A hushed silence descends, only to be blasted by the commissioner’s announcement: "It's your lucky day! You will all be able to save yourselves a lot of hassle by resolving this problem with financial negotiation."

Swe Win jumps in: “This is a criminal matter, it should be handled by the courts! No one can change that, not even Aung San Suu Kyi or the Chief of the Army. Please, respect the law!”

“Mr Swe Win, you’re here to listen. Let the parties discuss”, the commissioner says.

Furious, the reporter scribbles a note for San Kay Khine’s mother. She casts a sad glance at the message. “I can’t read”. The sturdy son is quick off the mark: “Madam, let’s put the past behind us. How much do you want?” The mother doesn’t know how to respond. “My daughter could use her hands before she worked for you… now her fingers are useless. You even broke her arm.” She thinks for a moment. She wants 5 million kyats (2,800 euros).

One of the commissioners intervenes. “I set my housekeeper right sometimes, what’s wrong with that?” after six hours of negotiations, an agreement is reached: 4 million for San Kay Khine’s mother because her daughter shows signs of the most injuries, and 1 million and some gold jewellery for Thazin’s aunt.

Their ‘lucky day’ is over. The women take away bundles of cash they can’t even count. Swe Win does the sums with them, even though the money reeks of defeat. He throws away the scrap of paper he wanted to pass to the mother. On it he had written “No compensation. I want to get justice.”

“They beat me whenever I did something wrong.”

A Toyota van makes its way down the bumpy road to Baw Lone Kwin. On board are Swe Win and a dozen journalists he contacted through Facebook. “Two girls have been kept as slaves in a shop in the middle of Yangon. I’m going to meet them tomorrow, in their village. Everyone welcome.”

The vehicle plunges into the forest, a jumble of bamboo, acacia and banana trees. Swe Win wonders if he made the right choice. From the start, one detail has held him back from going public with the case: the girls from Baw Lone Kwin are Buddhists; their torturers are Muslims. In another country that might be an insignificant detail, but in Burma, the information could be enough to start a riot. In 2012, after the news of the rape and murder of a Buddhist, interfaith clashes erupted in several cities, killing hundreds. Muslims were chased through the streets and stoned by their Buddhist neighbours, mosques were burned, particularly in the west of the country, home to the Rohingya, a Muslim minority persecuted for decades. Myanmar has never recovered from this violent conflict. Many Muslims are still living in refugee camps.

Islamophobic Buddhist monks continue to fan the flames, the best-known being Ashin Wirathu. His sermons keep the faithful in their place. According to him, an invasion of ‘kalars’ – a racist insult on a par with the N-word – is being readied. He claims that Buddhism will soon be crushed by Islam, far from the reality of a quiet religion practiced by 4% of the population. But the saffron robes have the ear of the authorities. The ‘Protection of Race and Religion’ bills passed in 2015 aimed at preventing interfaith marriages and conversions to Islam.

Swe Win is all too familiar with these bigshot nationalist monks. In a 2013 article, he denounced the growing influence of “corrupt” monks, who are “as brutal as military officers”, and he has never stopped investigating them. They have never forgiven the fact that the accusation came from a Burmese national, a Buddhist, a traitor who became an arch enemy.

In the back of the van heading for Baw Lone Kwin, a sparrow-like girl wonders what will await them in this hidden village. Khin Moe didn’t think twice before she left. She would follow Swe Win to the ends of the Earth, ever since her internship at Mynamar Now. In the Toyota, which he hired out of his own pocket, the mentor runs his colleagues through the case and hands out copies of the police report. He never mentions the religion of anyone involved. He doesn’t want that to become a talking point.

The gang arrive in blazing sun. The young housekeepers are hiding in a hut and refuse to come out. Khin Moe approaches with two other women. She’s slightly anxious, she’s only been a journalist for a few months. Her bare feet tread the woven bamboo. In the shadows, two shrunken figures await. The rookie reaches out to the trembling hands. For 20 minutes, their fingers entwined like roots, the women whisper. The girls are afraid they will be found by their torturers.

Thazin comes out with her head bowed, dazzled by the sunlight. She shows the journalists the scar at the top of her nose, the iron burn on her leg. San Kay Khine’s body is in tatters. Lighter flames, scissors, five years of hell on her skin. The journalists listen with gritted teeth. “They beat me whenever I did something wrong.” The girl stutters, Swe Win helps her to find the words. Her hands stay gently resting on her longyi. Her fingers look like claws. Not one of them hasn’t been broken.

 

Police in turmoil

The battered bodies make the front pages. Swe Win has pulled it off: no reporter has mentioned the religion of the girls or their torturers. The story scandalises the nation as people learn about the shameful Commission hearing. Forced to explain themselves, the commissioners invite select media outlets to their offices.

The press conference is a badly kept secret. Dozens of journalists surround the Commission, a square building decorated with shrubs and grasses. Swe Win sends a colleague. “Here, take a list of questions. Share it with the others.” They have to elbow their way into the packed room. The commissioners, four greying dignitaries, look tiny in their chairs. They have no remorse. “Both parties were satisfied with our negotiations. If people think that’s good or bad, it doesn’t matter, that’s nothing to do with us.”

One reporter croaks “I break your fingers and then I give you some money, is that how it works? We’ll call it quits?” Anger grows on the street. Activists shout and plaster accusatory posters on the front of the building opposite the Commission. But the bureaucrats are deaf to it, too confident of their kangaroo court. Five days later, their hearing is blown to smithereens. Parliament secures the resignation of the commissioners involved, approved by the head of State.

Win Mra, the president of the Commission, survived the fiasco. Under the military junta, this droopy cheeked official, who was once an Elvis impersonator, had been ambassador to Paris and New York before representing Myanmar at the United Nations General Assembly. For seven years, under pressure, he covered up the military’s abuses in front of the whole world. Today he professes his love for human rights. “I see no paradox”, he assures us. “An ambassador has to defend their government’s policies, and that’s not easy.”

He tenses up when we mention the case that brought down his commissioners. “Why do you want to talk about that? If you’re recording I’m not saying anything”. The fake King is well aware that unfair negotiation destroyed his Commission, whose credibility was already paper thin. He doesn’t want to acknowledge any wrongdoing. He even denounces a conspiracy, victimisation of his colleagues. Just as did on the floor of the UN, when he went all out to defend the dictatorship.

 

A show trial

Myanmar wants heads to roll. Delighted with the chance to clear its name, the police pounce on the shop’s manager, her son, two daughters and son-in-law. Even her ex-husband is questioned. Their names and faces are made public on Facebook. The dark skin, the father’s beard… now everyone can tell they’re Muslims. In just a few hours the shop’s Facebook page is flooded with insults and images of pigs’ heads.

The tailors’ trial is held in a heavy climate, with the country experiencing a bigger crisis. In October 2016, in the west, the Burmese army leads a bloody campaign of repression against Rohingya Muslims, with the support of a large part of the Buddhist population. This is the start of ethnic cleansing that will force hundreds of thousands of people to flee to Bangladesh. Other Muslims keep a low profile, fearing a spread of violence.

In Yangon, the accused arrive at Court in an armoured van. On trial for human trafficking, breaches of the Child Rights Law and the Criminal Code, they are being held in prison. A curious crowd awaits them, composed of relatives, photographers and young lawyers, there to experience the thrill of a big case. They watch the defendants enter like ragdolls surrounded by armed men. The mother, a diabetic with swollen feet, is carried along by her son. The cops joke, “It’s full of ‘kalars’, this place!” Only the court clerk can be heard as silence falls. Her typewriter, a relic, spits out what sounds like bursts of machine gun fire.

Nobody wants to defend them. Their lawyers, found at the last minute, plead into the wilderness. The judge sweeps away all their arguments. On the ropes, they show photographs of the shopkeepers posing with local stars. The idea is simple: the rich and famous must be respectable people. But the judge couldn’t care less about the shop’s reputation. The girls from Baw Lone Kwin give their testimony alone, in front of a camera, in a backroom. The sound is bad, but the responsibilities are clear. They state that the father and one of the sisters, Thiri Lat, never hit them. The injuries were caused only by the manager, her son Tin Min Lat, her daughter Su Mon Lat, and Su Mon Lat’s husband.

The neighbours radiate shame. They knew everything. “It was a domestic matter”, one of them shrugs. Over the fifteen months of the trial, the defendants age: skinny, jaundiced bodies, the mother slumped in a wheelchair. There’s no money. The lawyers quit when they stop getting paid. Just one black gown remains. Hnin Su Aung, a 29 year-old Muslim with dyed hair and gold earrings. She is defending Thiri Lat and her father for free. She says she’s doing it out of compassion. Her colleagues warned her: “Be careful, it’s a big risk. The authorities want to make an example of them”.

On 15 December 2017, the judge finally hands down a verdict. Thiri Lat and her father are released, a victory for the young lawyer. But the rest of the family are given heavy sentences, ranging from nine to sixteen years in prison with hard labour. Unheard of in this sort of case. By the time the document reached the prison, the son and son-in-law had acquired an additional three years’ detention. Nobody knows who changed the sentence.

Swe Win refused to give evidence in the trial. “I had to go back to my place, as a journalist. I’d already gone too far. And besides… I didn’t want to upset the accused. I felt bad, they got arrested because of me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m the reason for all their suffering.”

 

“I want to cry, but I can’t”

Insein Central Prison. The gold letters stretch out across the blood red stone. Built in 1887 by the British colonists, under the junta, this huge, red building has become a purgatory for the opposition. Swe Win has been inside those walls. There are currently 12,000 prisoners, three times too many, crowded into the old prison. Men haul their chains past the railings, bound in single file. The entrance is like a black hole, a dark mouth, as if the jail were about to let out a scream.

Hundreds of people, mainly women, are waiting to enter the visiting room. After dropping her kids off at school, Thiri Lat joins the throng of visitors. She smooths down her black her hair, and a wave of perfume floats by. She’s made an effort because she’s visiting her brother, sister and brother-in-law. Her mother died in prison, falling victim to her diabetes. For a few days before the end, lying almost perfectly still on her makeshift bed, she seemed to be preparing herself for the casket. Of her children, only the acquitted Thiri Lat could attend her funeral.

The young woman brings cluttered bags, curries, soaps, cakes, creams, anxiolytics. An old man helps her in exchange for a tip. She clutches her pass: number 204. “Everything I earn goes into prison. I slog my guts out to buy them food and medicine. I’m so exhausted I want to cry, but I can’t”. What’s in store for her today: queuing for hours to see her family through a wire fence.

She gets back to 40th Street much later. The shop now smells of flour and ketchup. Thiri Lat makes her living cooking pizzas. The visit has got her down: “my sister’s husband could barely speak, I think he’s gone crazy. My brother was crying. He said: “I’m going to end up like mum”. She spent fifteen months in prison with them, all the way through the trial. One day her mother slipped when she was taking her to the bathroom. Her big, flabby body fell on top of her. “It took me twenty minutes to get up. I called for help but no one came. I was so sad that day.” She holds up her wrist. Where the skin is fine, she sliced through her veins with a plastic glass.

She wanted a retrial. “We were the victims of injustice because we’re Muslims. The case was all over the news!” she shows me photos: “Look, the girls were well treated”. The snapshots show San Kay Khine at a restaurant and a supermarket. The child is swimming an adult’s shirt, like some sort of disguise. You can see a scar on her neck. Thiri Lat continues her speech: “The girls wanted to stay with us. They ate well, they had everything they wanted. They loved meeting the stars who came into the shop”. The long sleeves in forty degree heat? “They wore whatever they wanted”.

 

“The girls had never seen a doctor”

Her photos jar with other images, bendy squares in black and white, only intelligible to doctors. Myo Min Oo, a surgeon at the girls’ bedside, showed me the x-rays of these broken children. “They were afraid of the whole medical team. Thazin had serious psychological trauma. She couldn’t look me in the eye. We also saw that San Kay Khine’s fingers had been broken and left to set on their own, several times over. Despite their serious conditions, the girls had never seen a doctor.”

Thiri Lat pulls her daughter onto her lap. There is a gaping hole in her version of events: the injuries. She never mentions them, as if they never existed. I point out the scar in the photo.

“I didn’t see anything”, she assures me.

“But do you think it’s normal to hit, to torture, children?”

“I can’t answer that question… If I say no, it’s not good for my family. If I say yes it’s not good for me.”

The phone rings, a new pizza. During the trial, San Kay Khine said that Thiri Lat demanded massages. Once, disappointed by the maid, she called out to her sister, “This massage is crap! Give her what for.” The whole family lived like that, the violence had become routine. Neighbours said that the father had left the house with his plate under his arm. Punches flew, he hadn’t even finished eating. A bearded old man with a low voice, he ended up getting a divorce.

 

A climate of violence and hatred

Swe Win smiles, with a radiant look on his face that nobody recognises. He has just finished his ten days of meditation. “You know, I didn’t want it to end. I was in a jungle, a deep forest. I felt so good. Why should I have to face the outside world?”

His name appears in hundreds of articles about the case. The Burmese see his round face, his sloping shoulders and his bravery and call him a hero. If justice exists anywhere this country, it looks a bit like him. The President gives him an award, so do the police. During the ceremony, someone asks him to bow his head to an officer. His scathing response is pure Swe Win: “I am not a policeman. I bow to no one”. The village of Baw Lone Kwin does not know how to thank him. “We didn’t even take a photo with him”, the locals say with regret.

Nationalist monks lie in wait for him to put a foot wrong, but Swe Win is untouchable, he just rescued two young Buddhist girls. Everything changes when a Muslim lawyer is murdered at Yangon airport. The man is shot at point blank range while holding his grandson in his arms. On Facebook, the monk Wirathu delights in the killing, ordered by Buddhist nationalists. Swe Win replies “Wirathu is not fit to be a monk, and this is certainly not the first time he has broken the rules.” Libel charges are immediately filed by one of the monk’s followers.

Now, every fortnight, Swe Win has to report to a court in Mandalay, over six hundred kilometres from his home. “They’re doing everything they can to keep me down” says the journalist who has received death threats on social media. On his way home from a dinner with the American ambassador, some guys stop him in the street: “Are you Swe Win?” they ask and set about him. The reporter escapes with the help of a neighbour. The day after the attack, he reveals “I don’t feel safe anywhere”. The nationalist promised to drop the charges if Swe Win apologised, but it’s like drawing blood from a stone: “I don’t owe anything to people who support murderers”.

 

“I’m going to go back to prison”

You have to bow down to enter this dusty courthouse in the west of Mandalay. The opening in the railings is intentionally so small that it makes you dip your head, with the weight of Burmese justice on your shoulders. Swe Win is a regular on this threshold. This day in September 2018 marks the thirty-sixth hearing in his case. Eighteen months in a rotten atmosphere. He sits down in a dark room where civil servants are wading through mountains of files. Only he is visible, his arms folded across his white shirt, lost in thought.

His lawyer, Khin Maung Myint, ran a prison for years before making a career change, sickened by the prison system. As a client, Swe Win is a bit of a handful: “He doesn’t play games, he tells the truth.” Once the claimant arrived in court in a wheelchair, paralysed by back problems. “Swe Win wanted to help him up the court steps”, the lawyer recalls , “but I stopped him dead: ‘that’s our opponent, you can’t do that!”

The judge enters, Swe Win stands. “Next hearing on 28 September”. The journalist has just travelled across the country to hear that. He leaves quickly, without saying anything. Outside, monks are waiting for him, conspiring to give him the evil eye. The journalist is on their turf in the pious city of Mandalay.

Swe Win hops into the back of a pick-up. The road stretches out like a dirty ribbon, kilometres of sadness. The judge didn’t even look at him. “I’m going back to prison, that’s for sure”, the journalist sighs. Friends have offered to look after him overseas, but he has always refused. “My place is in Myanmar. What would I do in America or in Europe? I’d be no use. You have to serve society one way or another, otherwise you’re no better than a beggar”.

The pick-up stops at a red light. A funny looking motorcyclist in flip-flops with a helmet sliding over his eyes approaches. He shouts over the engines: “Hey, Swe Win! Where you going?”

“I was in Court, I’m going back!”

The reporter raises a thumb. “That’s one of the court workers, a nice guy. He knows the trial is a farce”. Earlier, inside the court, a stranger grabbed him by the arm: “We’re on your side, you’re gonna win this case!” Swe Win gave a gentle shake of his head. For a second, the human world could have stopped turning, he didn’t care.

 

Like a manga character

The girls from Baw Lone Kwin spent several months in Yangon General Hospital, on beds hidden behind a curtain, never far from the operating table. Then they took a dressmaking course organised by the Ministry of Social Affairs. The authorities keep a close eye on them, a diligence somewhere between parenthood and guilt. It’s hard to know where the girls live now. The family say they live in Yangon, but can’t give a precise address.

The signs point to a brand new shop. By the door, a young woman is crouched on the floor cutting out a black dress with scissors. The girls are back at a tailor’s. A woman with bony arms approaches.

“What do you want?”

“I want to see Thazin and San Kay Khine.”

“They’re not here”.

I go back with Swe Win, but the assistant insists. Laugher rings out from the back of the shop, taunting. The journalist is called Maung Maung Aye, a TV presenter who collected a large amount of money for the girls through a crowdfunding appeal on Facebook. The bald star panics into his telephone: “I’m the one who found them this job! I swear they’re being well treated.” Finally, the saleswoman steps aside, and returns with a gangly woman in a polo shirt, red lips, pink eyelids and blue nails. The scarred face disappears under the makeup. Swe Win barely recognises Thazin, now a 17 year-old who claps her hand over her mouth when she giggles, like a manga character.

He worries from the outset. “Sure we’re not bothering you? Have you finished your lunch?” The girl agrees and picks up a bag. She runs her fingers across its embroidery, flowers and mirrors like confetti. She smiles: “I made this bag myself”. We don’t see San Kay Khine, who has gone to the shops. The young tailors work in this boutique for 100,000 kyats (55 euros), ten times what they were making in 40th Street.

Thazin apologises for her failing memory. Her childhood is just a blank page, but she remembers the rest, the beatings, the knife that cut her nose, she puts things into perspective: “Some days they beat us, some days they didn’t. After all, that’s where I learned about sewing and how to run a business.” She dreams of owning her own one day.

Outside, the sky cracks, it’s time to go. As the door is closing, Swe Win slips her the message: “I’m glad to see you looking happy, and healthy.” It sounds like nothing, but with those few words he’s moved a mountain. He has a few strict words: “Most importantly, don’t exaggerate my role in this story. I’m a bit embarrassed, I didn’t really do anything.” Glued to the window, Thazin watches the former prisoner walk off into the crystal rain.