FREEING THE SHRIMP SLAVES
I planned to escape Burma for the last time. The civil war racked my home with death and poverty longer than any other civil war in the world. I knew it would break mom's heart to have me leave, especially since dad and my two brothers had already died. But mom couldn't support me, and if I stayed, I only brought a burden to her.
I met Asnee in Bago.
"I can get you better life," he had promised.
At fourteen, I naively believed him. Asnee’s baby face seemed warm and honest. I had no reason not to trust him, as I followed Asnee through Yangon, Dawei, and into Thailand.
"We will sneak through Huay Nam Khao," he had instructed.
"You'll have so much Baht; you send home to your mom."
Warmness filled my bosom as I imagined making mom's life better.
I should have panicked when Asnee shoved me into the truck, cramming me in with other Burmese so tightly I could hardly breathe. Anyone who tried to move got pelted with a stick.
"It's okay," I assured myself. "It will be worth all the Baht I can send mom."
I passed through several Thai boss hands until I ended up at Gig Peeling Factory. "You are number 47." I didn't know that number replaced Dedan, my name. The Thai boss dragged me into a dingy shed, already occupied by 100 people.
The smell of rotting fish and human feces hit so strongly that my body rebelled, and I puked on the cement floor. The Thai boss yelled at me and shoved my head into the puke. My nose slammed against the cement, and bright lights flashed. Stinging acid pushed into my eyes, nose, and mouth as he continued to swirl my face in the puke. He kicked me in the side and yanked me up. I wished Asnee was still with me. He had treated me kindly.
As the Thai boss dragged me through the shed, I noticed young children plunging their hands in ice-cold vats of water. The pregnant women worked as hard as the men. All the workers had large black bags under their eyes. The gauntness in their face looked worse than the people in my village.
"What have I gotten myself into?"
The Thai bosses immediately put me to work, forcing me to emerge my hands into the frozen water and sort shrimp. My fingers burned from the cold, and they beat me when I tried to warm my hands.
I was now a slave.
Every morning, they woke us at 2 am. We worked for 18 hours a day. Large, weeping rashes developed up and down my arms. Soon infection developed on my rashes, and no one gave me medical.
For several years, I slaved away at the Gig Peeling Factory. A few people had tried to run away, but they all were dragged back in by their hair. Their bodies had massive bruises from the punishment of escaping. I fantasized about running away, but since no one ever succeeded, it didn't seem worth the penalty if they caught me, which they inevitably would.
One day as I sorted the shrimp, a shiny object caught my attention. I fished out an emerald stone. I quickly shoved the rock under my tongue, having nowhere else to hide it. That night, as everyone slept, I rolled the emerald between my fingers.
What would I do with such an exquisite treasure? Keeping it put me in danger of a severe beating. Maybe if I escaped, it could purchase my passage to a safer country, perhaps even America.
The following day as I readied for work, I noticed my hands. They had returned to a soft tan. All my callouses and cuts had healed.
I worked the day sorting shrimp as the sharp emerald irritated my tongue. I wanted a better hiding place for the stone, but I couldn't risk losing it. It represented the only thing I owned. As the perturbance in my mouth cut into me, I had a thought.
"Had rolling the stone in my fingers healed them?"
I decided to experiment. As I lay to bed that night, I rubbed the emerald along my arms. In the morning, my rashes had healed.
"This stone is magical."
I would die protecting my stone.
As I worked next to number 72, I had an idea. The older man often hunched over from pain. We never spoke to each other, but I felt like he was my friend. As I worked, any time I noticed a Thai boss distracted, I rubbed the emerald up and down on number 72's body. His quizzical expression made me nervous but talking was prohibited. He kept working, trying to ignore me, but I could see the curiosity on his face. For two days, I rubbed my emerald on 72 when I could, and I rubbed it on me at night.
72's skin healed, and he stood straighter. He even looked younger. Each day, I would work next to someone new and rubbed the emerald on them when I could. They all had the initial reaction as 72, but no one dared to respond verbally. After I had healed 14 people, I decided to help number 12. My heart hurt the most for her.
Number 12 had been huge with child when one day she lay on the cement screaming. Blood came out of her, but those bastard Thai bosses still forced her to work. She could hardly function as the pain racked her body, yet she still had to. This went on for three days when she eventually gave birth to a dead baby. Number 12 welled in grief, yet they didn't allow her time to mourn. They kicked the dead baby out the door and forced number 12 to keep working. No one ever cleaned up the bloody mess. If anyone there needed healing, it was number 12.
I stood next to her, and when the Thai boss seemed occupied, I rubbed the emerald along number 12's arm.
"ช่วยฉันด้วย," she screamed. "ช่วยฉันด้วย".
I didn't know what she was saying.
"Shh, please, I am only trying to help you."
"ช่วยฉันด้วย," she screamed louder.
The Thai bosses ran to her side. She pointed to me and shrilled some narrative to them.
The main Thai boss shoved me to the filthy cement floor. They took turns kicking me in the head and side. I covered both hands over my face when something miraculous happened.
A sphere of green light enclosed my body. The emerald had created a force field around me. As much as those slave drivers tried to hurt me, they couldn't touch me.
I couldn't stay in my ball forever. I stood, and the force field disappeared. As one Thai boss rushed at me, I swung at him with the emerald in my fist.
Zillup. A strange boom exploded as my knuckles met his face. A shower of green light burst from my hand. The Thai boss flew across the shed. Other bosses came at me, and I met them with the same surging power. When all the bosses squirmed on the floor in pure agony, I yelled, "Run!"
The slaves stared at me. They no longer knew how to think for themselves.
"Escape," I yelled again.
Number 72 and 58 busted the door open, and the slaves pushed their way out. I stayed behind to make sure everyone safely escaped. The Thai bosses still withered on the ground, their bodies jerking around as if having a seizure. When all the slaves had gotten free, I ran as well.
I ran and ran until thick mangroves protected me.
I stayed hidden for a week as I contemplated my future. I could try to reach mom or find a refugee camp. But then I knew what I must do.
How could I return to freedom when there were millions of Asians enslaved in the shrimping empire? No one was rescuing them. No one cared. I could not live in freedom while they beat and killed my brethren daily.
I went to the street and found a broker who promised me the world. All I had to do was trust him.
And so, I allowed this thief to sell me to another shrimp farm. I would spend my life freeing slaves.
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