Split My Chest and Take My Heart

"You'll only understand when you become parents." I don't know if you've ever heard adults say this, but I have heard it many times. Even from my teachers.

The teachers would use this phrase when scolding the entire student body because they couldn't definitively identify who was responsible for pasting propaganda posters in the school toilets to incite high school students to join the '88 Uprising. As you know, a high school is full of eyes, so the school entrance, the notice board, and the snack stalls were not viable spots. The staircase landings were a possibility, but the teachers went up and down them more often than the students. In the end, with the culprit remaining unknown, it was decided that the inside surface of a toilet stall door was the best and most effective place to post the provocative flyers.

Even though this one issue was solved, another problem remained: the bag checks at the school entrance every morning. I don't know about other schools, but ours was co-ed. When they checked the girls, it was a cursory inspection, and if there were a lot of students, the girls weren't even checked at all. However, the "involved-in-everything" and "star-of-every-show" types were searched thoroughly, to the point of having to shake out our longyis. It was a good thing they didn't check us like they do at the toll gates. So, the situation presented a clear solution. The troublemakers, being used to jumping through hoops, were easily identified in these situations. Previously, whenever we wanted to bring a "Yadana Win Htein" magazine to school, we had to rely on the girls. They were trustworthy. In those days, it was fashionable to write in "auto-books," which were just school notebooks. We would hide the flyers between the pages, seal them in a paper bag, and tell them, "This is my girlfriend's diary. If my friends see it, you know what will happen." That way, even if they were checked, they wouldn't flinch. And so, the "free advertising spaces" on the inside of the school toilet doors became a place for spreading socialist revolutionary propaganda, with something new and fresh every day.

The teachers could never catch us red-handed. When they questioned us on suspicion, we wouldn't confess. So, they would lecture us at length about how grave our actions were, and that’s when they’d say it: "On the day you become parents, you will understand why we worry and just how much we have to worry." I still remember the name of the teacher who said this: Daw Kyu Kyu. To show you how mischievous we were, as she was leaving the classroom, I asked, "Teacher, you're not married, are you?"

She replied, "Go on, what are you trying to say?"

"Well, you said we'll only understand when we become parents, so I was just wondering how you would know."

"Oh yeah? Come here, I'll pinch your belly and explain it to you!" she retorted.

Over time, I had completely forgotten about this playful exchange.

Now that I am 53 years old, I find myself worrying about my teenage son in Yangon. Every time people tell me, "Your son is just like you," I start to wonder if I should go and live near my teenager if it's too difficult to bring him here. When I think about it, I can no longer sleep, tossing and turning in bed. I get up, go out for a cigarette, walk around, and wonder, "What should I do?" With no answer in sight, I blame the entire world. It is in those moments that I hear Teacher Daw Kyu Kyu's voice: "Son, do you understand now? What it means to 'only understand when you become a parent'."

Respectfully,

Agga