Bamboo People Read Online Free PDF Page B

Where has he been all night? Why didn’t he stay in the barracks with the others? And I don’t like the look of that bamboo stick he’s carrying—the end is sharpened like the tip of a spear.
    The soldiers prod us into a 3–3–4 formation, almost a square. It seems to me that I’m one of the older boys in this section. A couple of them can’t be more than twelve. We look different now that we’re in uniform, more like one unit, despite the variances in height and weight.
    After returning salutes from the sergeant and the other soldiers, the captain approaches us with a smile, swinging his stick with each step. He’s flanked quickly by six of the soldiers who captured us in the city.
    “You were hoping to serve your country, boys,” he tells us, his voice smooth and kind. “Well, you’ve been accepted. Each of you will receive monthly pay for your service, money that will either be sent back to your family in Yangon or given to you here.”
    My heart skips a beat. If only what he’s saying is true! If we do get monthly pay, I’ll be able to take care of Mother, just as Father asked.
    “I hope they pay us soon,” Tai mutters. “I’d like to take the money with me.”
    The captain turns to Tai. “You said something?” His voice is low and controlled, but a muscle in his cheek twitches.
    Tai lifts his chin. “I was wondering when we’d be paid, sir.”
    The captain’s mouth keeps smiling, but his eyes are steely. “That’s a reasonable question. You’ll be paid
after
one month of service. Your term of service is three years unless you’re wounded in battle.”
    Three years? How will I survive three years? I try to focus on the fact that we’re actually going to be paid. Mother will be able to give the landlord the rent we owe for the past few months and buy meat, fish, eggs, and milk. She’ll be able to send more for Father’s upkeep, too. And all I have to do is survive.
Stay alive. Keep out of trouble. One day at a time.
The words could become a chant, like the ones the Buddhist monks use to ward off evil.
Mind your own business. Keep out of trouble. Stay alive. One day at a time.
    The captain is pacing around our square of ten recruits. “Beloved sons of Burma,” he says. His voice is rich and deep, the timbre reminding me almost of Father’s. “Why does your country need you to fight on her behalf?”
    Good question,
I think, but I don’t let it show on my face.
    “You could be home, safe and sound, studying, working, teaching”—here he pauses and looks directly at me—“were it not for the tribal people. They want to break our country apart and divide it among themselves. Their whole mission is to destroy our peace. If we succeed in defeating these insurgents, we can return home to care for our mothers and sisters.” He flicks Tai a glance before continuing.
    “You may have heard that the rebels who call themselves the Kayah are among the most evil of our enemies.”
They call themselves the Karenni, actually. Father used to tell me about a good Karenni friend he had in school.
    I’ve been taught not to believe anything the government says about the tribal people. But the other new recruits didn’t have someone to tell them the truth. All they have is this captain’s version.
    He’s still talking and pacing, smiling, his voice calm and kind. “Many have turned away from the teachings of the Buddha to embrace Western religions, in the hope that they can gain weapons from America to attack us. They are ruthless killers, men and women alike, and they despise our Burmese language and our Buddhist religion.”
    He tells us about a pair of elderly women who were killed by rebel warriors. “They were minding their own business, like grandmothers do, sewing and chatting in the shade of a mango grove, when a pack of rebels stormed out of the jungle and …”
    Except for Tai and me, the other boys are nodding, listening, spellbound. I should stand and challenge his version of the