No Fun, and Not Much Future, at Border Camp

 BAN DON YANG REFUGEE CAMP

It takes more than an hour along a rough, muddy road to reach the Ban Don Yang refugee camp from Sangkhlaburi, in Thailand's Kanchanburi Province, during the rainy season, but only around 45 minutes the rest of the year.

It's impossible to get a ride to this camp, located less than a kilometer from the Burmese border, except on Mondays and Fridays, when the Thai authorities allow traders from Sangkhlaburi to bring vegetables and other foodstuffs to sell to its 4,000 or so inhabitants.

Around 90 percent of the people in the camp are ethnic Karen. Karen is the de facto official language at the camp, used for announcements and most other communication.

Ban Don Yang is considered to be within the territory of Karen National Liberation Army (KNLA) Brigade 6. In the camp, you can see KNLA soldiers, some in civilian dress, but others wearing camouflage combat pants.

When armed men attacked Three Pagodas Pass, about 15 km away, in June, the Thai camp authorities attempted to prevent members of the KNLA from leaving the camp, suspecting that they were involved in the attacks.

“Every day, they came to take photos of all the refugee families in the camp,” said Nai Klour Non, an ethnic Mon refugee. “I think they believed the KNLA was behind the attacks in Three Pagodas Pass.”

Despite the presence of soldiers and the proximity to the border, the camp's inhabitants consider it “safe”—for some, in fact, safer even than the Western countries to which many expect to be relocated.
“There are around 1,000 Karen refugees here who have not applied for resettlement in a third country. They don't want to go anywhere. They just want to stay here, where they feel more secure,” said Nai Klour Non.

It's not just fear of the unknown that has made many feel they are better off where they are. Six families that were resettled in the Czech Republic two months ago contacted relatives at the camp by phone and said that they had basically been abandoned since their arrival in the country, where their children were unable to attend school and there were concerns about safety. They asked their family members who were still in Thailand to pray for them.

“Some families are so worried about going to a third country that they hide in the jungle when they are informed of their departure date,” said Nai Lawi, another Mon refugee.

For those who stay, life is far from easy. Apart from the isolation, there is no electricity, as the camp is far off the grid and camp authorities restrict the use of generators.

On Saturday and Sunday, however, children get a reprieve from the tedium of camp life when a Mon Buddhist temple at the camp shows videos.

“I come every chance I get, because this is the only entertainment we have here,” said Mi Chit, a mother of two.

Because refugees are not allowed to leave the camp, even simple tasks must be performed by people from outside. Those who want to listen to music, for instance, must pay 30 baht (about US $1) to have their batteries recharged in Sangkhlaburi.

The enforced simplicity of life in the camp means that religious and cultural events assume a great importance in the lives of refugees. There are two Buddhist temples and one Christian church at the camp, and schools are closed on Sundays and all Buddhist holidays.

In the winter and summer, when the weather is dry, many refugees also spend time growing vegetables. During the rainy season, however, they have to get their vegetables from Sangkhlaburi because it's too muddy to grow anything in the camp.

Although most of the camp's inhabitants are Karen, there are also around a hundred Mon and ethnic Burman refugees who have lived there for the past five years, awaiting their opportunity to resettle in third countries.

They are former members of the New Mon State Party and the All Burma Students' Democratic Front. Relatively well-educated, they try to keep themselves occupied with any job they can find, even if the pay is negligible.

Those working as school teachers now receive just 200 baht ($6.70) a month, compared to the 800 baht ($27) they were paid by ZOA, a non-governmental organization that supports refugee education, last year.
Nai Lawi said that after the rainy season, he might open a shop at his house to support his family.

“We don't know how much longer we will have to stay here, so it might be better to start a business instead of always just thinking about going abroad,” he said.

He added that he would go mad if he had nothing to do except wait for the day when he could finally leave the camp—a sentiment shared by some other inhabitants.

“I'm sure I would go out of my mind if I didn't have this job,” said Ai Mon, who sews women shirts at the camp.