Nang Ying, 30, has blurred memories of childhood -- some cheerful, some dark -- in the southern part of Burma's Shan state, where her parents toiled in rice fields.
Two older siblings helped with the farming so she could attend school, pedaling her small bicycle through seven miles of military checkpoints every week to an aunt's house, where she stayed during the school week. She never traveled alone. A 13-year-old classmate was raped by soldiers, so Ying rode among villagers going to market in the town where the school was located.
Some of her fondest recollections are of visiting the Buddhist temple for special celebrations with her grandparents, watching the dance festival celebrated by her Shan ethnic group and munching on pickled tea-leaf salad tossed with fried garlic, beans, sesame seeds, fresh chilies and lime. "That was nice, but more often I was just scared from the soldiers," she said.
Ying, who was in Washington this week to testify about the Burmese military's campaign of rape in Shan state, said fear still haunts her.
The anxiety caused by marauding soldiers, who came looking for her father and other men to carry supplies and materiel across the countryside for days on end without water or food, has stayed with her. Forced by soldiers to carry heavy loads of stones and bamboo to help build barracks, most of the men died of hunger and exhaustion.
"When they become too weak to be of service to the soldiers, they beat them senseless or shot them point-blank in the mouth," said Jeremy Woodrum, from the Washington office of the Free Burma Coalition.
When she was barely 10, Ying smuggled blankets and small meals to men who hid in the jungle to escape the soldiers. One night, 12 years ago, her father left to hide and never came back. Her sister-in-law found his body in a rice field the next day. Then there was the deaf-mute who saw others running and followed them -- and was shot and killed when he did not respond to soldiers' orders to stop.
Soon after that, Ying decided to leave Burma for neighboring Thailand, walking for three days with a group of five women and 23 men. "I was 18. I did not know where I was going or what I was going to do. I had stuffed rice in a cloth belt around my waist, and we slept in sheds along the fields at night out of fear our torches would lead the soldiers to us," Ying said in an interview Wednesday, one day after testifying on Capitol Hill on behalf of the Shan Women's Action Network, along with Ohmar Khin of the Women's League of Burma.
Ying and the others reached the Thai province of Mae Hong Son, where they worked in construction, digging up old roads and building new ones for a little more than a dollar a day. Finding shelter in unfinished buildings, the women were constantly harassed. Ying stayed for several months before moving with one of the women to Chiang Mai province, where they worked as seamstresses, putting in 13 hours a day.
Ying and the other woman made contact with other Shan refugees when she made a trip to a local temple for the water festival, a feast in which revelers throw water at one another. After that, at the New Year and whenever there was a full moon, they would go to the temple, where Shan elders encouraged them to organize and help other refugees with lessons of survival they themselves had acquired.
The idea of helping others was nothing new to Ying, who had learned at an early age that there could be a way to make things better. As a little girl, she helped nurses who came to the small clinic in her village, interpreting between Shan and Burmese. "They could not communicate. I was so proud to be with them. What they did filled me with hope," Ying said. "They were treating our patients. It was a great feeling to know you can make your people feel better. One nurse encouraged me to try to make a difference too, since I was one of the few ones to go to school."
It was not until she began work as an assistant interpreter to some of the Burmese migrants in Thailand that she came into contact with a group of four women who had joined together to raise funds to help other fugitives. They had no papers, no documents, no hope. The group swelled to 40 members, and they have been able to raise small sums from such nongovernmental organizations as the Open Society Institute and the Australia-based International Women Development Agency. "For us, if we have something to eat and a place to sleep, that is all we need," Ying said.
She works as an accountant and organizes seminars and workshops for battered women and rape victims. "I did not end up becoming a nurse, but I can network with other women and share my experience with them," she said. "When they learn how to be more independent and have more power, they can take better care of their children."
Khin's story was not quite the same as Ying's. "Our childhood was different; I grew up in Rangoon. Even the way we left [Burma] was different," said Khin, 34, who became a U.S. citizen after she was granted political asylum. "The difficulties she had to face -- and she eventually overcame -- are way beyond my imagination. She is more than brave," added Khin, who took part in a 1998 pro-democracy uprising that was suppressed forcefully by Burmese authorities.
"If we have one thing in common, it is that we just can't keep quiet about injustice. This is what gives us courage and helps us survive," she added.
Both women said they live in fear of being arrested once they return to Thailand. Ying's office there had to be shut down after death threats were received. "I will go back [to Burma] one day," said Ying. "We are working very hard to make things change, so we can empower our people to work for freedom and democracy."