phonetic memories

ibrahim gambari, the united nations under secretary-general for political affairs, visited myanmar recently and was lauded for the fact that he was the first un envoy in 2 years able to gain access to such a secretive political clubhouse of paranoia and repression. myanmar, or burma as some still call it, is the bungalow 8 of mysterious pariah states.

i am currently reading Finding George Orwell in Burma and am having a difficult time discerning fact from fiction. if there are no absolute truths, just versions of it, then how can one validate one's existence? i read accounts of daily human rights violations and corruption taking place and then i return to a memory of drivers, cooks, househelp and a mali. what is the burma i should know and believe?

i know the burma that was my grandfather, the encyclopedia entry asserting my memory of him. he was the handsome proud premier in black and white photos dressed in silk pasoes, tiepoun ingees, and gaungbauns, posing with the rockefellers, haile salassie, and the hollywood starlets of the 1950s. he was the man that made it a game to hide his dentures for me. i know a burma of daily power cuts, monsoon-worn homes and thanakah beauties. i know of a burma of smiling reclining buddhas and currency exchange rates that fluctuate during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. i know of the great privileges i had and the sheltered ignorance i inhaled, but i also know of the girls that flock to paddy's bar and pioneer nightclub, hoping that they will earn some dollars from the white foreigners. i know of the failed economy and political unrest, of the great sadness and loss of hope for stolen dreams of a democracy. but maybe it is the fact that i do not want to know, but i want to believe in the tourist postcards from the edges of a childhood memory.