I watched as the teardrop fell from her eye, followed by another. Her face inches from mine as we both stood at the door, I was stunned for a moment. No one has ever cried so openly before me, most just hid their faces in their arms or wiped their tears away hastily. I must admit my hands shook a little as I reached out to wipe away the warm trickle on her face.
Just two weeks ago, we were strangers, meeting for the very first time. She introduced me to her people, known as the Karen, an ethnic group in Myanmar. I had agreed to teach English to a group of Karen youth in the jungle, but nothing had prepared me for the three hour humid and mosquitoe buzzing trek up the mountain. As my shoes sunk into a deep bed of mud for the third time in the hour, I cringed as the warm liquid bubbled in my socks. The students were jumping from one dry spot to another dextrously and were laughing in amusement; I decided to embrace my identity as a full on unadept city girl and laughed along with them at myself.
Who knew that time could pass so quickly. That before I knew it, I had spent days full of laughter, painted my face with tha na kah, learned Karen songs and celebrated "Sweet December" to mark the coming of the Christmas month. But most memorable of all were the lives that touched me; that despite the abuse and land grabs the government had imposed on them, they remained positive and full of smiles.
I remember every tearful goodbye we said, and the small pieces of paper they had hastily pressed on my hand before they ran off, unable to bear with the parting. I unrolled the crumpled papers in the car, filled with simple words of thanks "God bless you, teacher" and "Thank you teacher".
"Don't forget us please," The students had said, choking with tears, "Don't ever forget the Karen people."
Fingers still damp with tears, I cracked a joke and my friend immediately broke into laughter. As I looked at the warmth of her smile, I knew, I would never ever forget them.
