Special Report
Special Report - Frontiers of Faith
The journey reminded me of rides at the amusement park - but this was no fun. In places, the roads were washed out. We knew it was going to be that way having read the papers and listened to all the local talk. Some had told us there was a makeshift bridge now but it was nowhere to be seen. We had slipped and slithered our way for hours along bumpy tracks we probably should not have attempted and came all too close to the edge ourselves. By now the rains should have stopped but the unseasonal downpours just kept coming. At least they kept the dust at bay but the humidity was stifling as we weaved our way towards Burma’s border.
It reminded me of other backwater routes I had used in South America, snaking through stoney riverbeds just to make a few more miles. Now though, the road had completely disappeared, the bridge had collapsed in a tangle of debris and a huge mechanical beast was ploughing a new furrow right through the muddy mountainside. The car in front of us had already got stuck and was hauled out by the digger.
We headed cross-country to one of dozens of refugee camps on the Thai side of this porous frontier. This corner of southeast Asia is home to a mosaic of tribes. Some have experienced spiritual awakening. All are minority groups in neighbouring Burma and these two issues - being tribal and being Christian - have cost them dearly. Some camps host Shan Burmese, others overflow with Karenni, still more have thousands of Karen people desperately seeking shelter.
They come in their droves, fleeing for their lives, frightened of war. And hungry. The largest camp we visited was home to some 15,000 Karen. Others were much smaller and dotted across the lush hills that marked the weaving border between the two countries. The shacks, for in truth that’s all they were, were like derelict shelters, long leggy bamboo struts with a mass of teak leaves thrown across as a protective cover, an antidote to both sun and rain. Sanitation is poor, the people are unemployable, food is in short supply and there are real and present dangers at every turn.
Our first duty was sobering to say the least: a funeral. The stagnant swamp at camp’s edge was a happy home to mosquitos and malaria had broken out. We buried an eight year old girl the first day. Others were already sick. Everyone was distraught about the girl, the first to have died on them in this way.
We visited five of the many refugee camps in both Thailand and across in Burma, all hosting unbelievable stories from some of those struggling for being both tribal and Christian. Those working to make a difference do so out of deep convictions. One, whom we call James, now shuttles Burmese out along treacherous routes to these camps of safety. They dodge death each day. He was moved to serve having witnessed carnage firsthand in his own village where the so-called Burmese Buddhist Army had left its legacy. One woman had been gang-raped, hung upside down from a tree and her breasts cut off before she died with a sign over her saying 'This is what we do to Christians'.
In another camp we picked our way through a cleared path in the minefields. These are all fleeing refugees from Burma, never quite sure when they are going to have to up sticks and run again. The kids each sleep with a small bag of rice, just in case they have to run in the night. It wouldn't be the first time these camps have been mortared. Others have lost limbs, a cruel legacy of the grim and invisible killers hidden just below the surface. I don’t think I have ever cried so much in my life.
It remains only a respite, supposedly a temporary stop but most have been in camps for years. The steady stream of new refugees flows on but not everyone makes it even this far. We knew of another 200 families that had fled deep into the jungles only to have had all food supplies cut off. Hungry, desperate people, usually women and the most beautiful of children. The men have long gone, conscripted as unwilling porters by one or other of the cluster of ‘armies’ that abound here. Any who refuse are maimed, their hands cut off and then they are burned alive. Boys barely have it any easier. They are used as minesweepers.
There was no question that this was missions at the sharper end of the scale. God’s care for us is most often received through the care of others. We had hauled in everything from huge bags of rice to winter blankets, anything to alleviate suffering. We had also carried comfort and unfettered love for the Lord. We spoke and we listened. We read and we prayed, not least for the traumatised and those now gripped by the aggressively spreading malaria. And we worshipped with them, song after song, including “Because He lives, I can face tomorrow” sung in Karen with as much conviction as you will find anywhere on earth. Many are experiencing the reality of the Lord in exceptional ways, rising unprompted at four morning after morning to worship with boundless joy.
In truth, my own faith also took a beating on those slimy roads, a necessary jolt back into reality, ‘real’ reality, only to be hauled back out of the mud. At least that’s the way it felt. I was with people whose personal and private relationship with Jesus Christ was also a very public and transforming relationship with the world around them. Danger loomed large but fear was never a factor. This was God at work, God transforming a broken world through people. Kingdom work, on earth, here and now!