A Sidewalk Death in Myanmar

Photo credit: Pixabay

I saw a lifeless body today.

On a downtown sidewalk in Yangon, at the entrance of a park.

I don’t know if the person was dead or unconscious or sleeping. I don’t know.

I just know it was lifeless.

I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who it was.

I do know: a human’s shell, lying on the street having his clothes torn off. Young.  Not yet sixteen. More years left to live than lived.

I do know: his was an expressionless face. No fight. No resistance. Even in these parts of the world, being forcefully disrobed in public is something you fight.  Right?

Around the boy. There was no panic.

A chaos of frustration of the work ahead to of a few people deal with this corpse. What do you do with a corpse on the street? This container. They worked methodically.

Had they done this so many times they understood the process?

His body lay fully stretched on a sidewalk. Hands held above his head by a man as a woman removed his pants without resignation. Another – not really paying attention to the work – was squatting eating a mandarin.

It was drudgery for them. Like dealing with laundry. Or taking the trash out. Or washing dishes.

Discarding the waste of one’s life. Cleaning house. Only this time – a person is taken out. Washing the death out of lives left over.

There were no tears. No small group around looking on. Whispering gossips to one another about what happened.

Would no one grieve this person? Who would pray for his soul? Where is the mother sobbing? Where is the panic?

There was no police. To me it was a crime scene. No victim and no criminal. If someone dies on a street corner. That it happens at night, in a bad part of town. The part of town where this kind of thing happens all the time. Due to violence. Drugs. Gangs. When we are safely tucked into our suburban homes. Protected.

I know that I looked back from my taxi. At first not believing the glimpse at the edge of sight.

I do not know if the driver noticed. Or even if he minded.  I hate to think of which one it was. So this question remains unanswered. And my conscience is grateful for this one piece of ignorance.

Where did the justice go? Maybe his death was justice? Is justice an idea used only in the nice places of this world. Where we still believe there is always a right, and always a wrong.

Why did I come to this place? And bear witness to such things? Why would I subject myself to such a jolt.

This isn’t the wanderlust tale of “travel makes you richer”.

I have been robbed of the very foundation of who I am. Disgustingly aware of my privilege. Of how sheltered, ignorant, naive. I am.

Growing tired of organized tours, hostels, guide-book experiences. Amusement for the westerners, nice stories and pictures to share. Seeing that travel, can also be vain. Locals lose their culture to please us to provide for their family. We travel to these places to be worshipped and berated for our money. I wanted to feel like travel had changed me. That it would make me more.

I suppose…I asked for this kind of experience. I never consciously wished for the suffering of others. Only for the humility to let these moments shape me.

If you travel long enough. Far enough. You gain an invitation in the darkness that lives under all the light and beauty of this world.

Once invited, you must learn how tell the fairy tales of navigating nightmares. Must talk only of adventures, parties, sunshine and drinks on the beach.  To maintain the romantic idea of your travel for those at home.

While knowing, the active robbery of your innocent ignorance is the true reason for your travels. Shaken. Seeking your weakest points and solidifying them. Hopefully getting closer to the truth.

To have the foundations shaken then stolen from under me. Jolted. To wake up from our comfortable lives. Of work. And recreational sports. And dinners at restaurants.

I wanted to see something more. To understand more. And, then it came to me that we are all doomed. It does not matter what we do. We will all die. The life will leave our body. The smile from our face.

If we’re lucky, there will be someone there to take care of our dead body.

Ripping off our clothes.

This article was also published on thequarterlifelessons.com

You may also like to read:

Why Aren’t We Talking About It?

Mental illness. I hate that I cringe at the sound of the word. We are more unified by this definition than we believe.