Nights Near the Tracks

My encounters in Thailand have been vast thus far. Our second homestay was insightful yet simple. I lived in a slum community. The community formed many years ago when railroad workers would settle near the tracks. This was in fact was encouraged by their bosses. A few generations later and there are thousands of people that have built their homes and live next to the tracks. Now the government wants to build a high speed railway next to the tracks, and those who are settled there now will have to move. The problem is, none of the slum communities actually have property rights. Communities are working hard for leases to the land, in order to have compensation for when they move, while other communities are not compromising. Emotions run deep on this matter. I stayed with a grandmother (Yii) and two sisters who were sixteen and eight years old.  We slept in a room together at night under mosquito nets. We practiced Thai and English together and listened to the rain on the makshift tin roof. The father and mother were around, but they slept in another home. I am still unsure as to why this is.

Here is an entry I wrote for our program newsletter that helps describe my experience. The first line is referring to the train (SRT) which ultimately will be the ones to kick them off the land.

“The owner of the land is coming, so we have to be quite and listen.”

When this train flies by, it clicks out a symphony. If the world pauses, I
haven’t seen it yet.

Let us absorb its resilience. This so called slum- to me you’re rich. I
don’t mean rich in the sense of money. Not rich in the sense of occupation,
or even lifestyle. What I mean is: The smell. Fried fish, fueled by coal.
Trash which pours out, pondered over. Thick steam- sweat sticks. Smoke.
Dirt. Right over the rubbed and gratified street, the knees it has skinned.

What I mean is: The color. How when the sun shows down, lights are switched
on. They illuminate onto green tin roofs. Blue colored tiles are plastered
to tables and the yellow plastic shoes blur by on pink bikes.What I mean is
the chocolate skin, the disciplined eyes, the white smiles.

I can hear the rooster - it does crack with the sun. The cat at night, she
cackles like a human, I swear to you. Children laugh. I wonder when they
hear the future. Plus, I wonder if I’ve heard mine. Matter cannot be
destroyed, only displaced.

What I mean are: The dump trucks that bruise morning, ants roaming. The
families that spin under sheets. I hear the train; wheels against rusted
metal. They know when it comes and they omit the tracks like rain. Now no
one’s waiting to be quite. And so far, they haven’t stopped to listen- their
complacency is misunderstood, and as the hymn sums, it’s easy to see why
they call it home.