| A Handful of Rice |
| Text and photos by Hsiao Yiu-hwa Translated by Wu Hsiao-ting |
As a photographer for Tzu Chi Monthly, I have visited Myanmar five times since the country was hit by Cyclone Nargis in 2008. I’m therefore familiar with the “rice bank” story—the story of how local people save up rice to donate to the needy. It wasn’t, however, until my fifth trip to this Southeast Asian country that I came to better realize the significance of this altruistic gesture of the local people.
A Joyful Gathering It was a May morning in 2018. The temperature was pushing 40 degrees Celsius (104°F) in Shwe Na Gwin, a small village over three hours from downtown Yangon. The dirt road that cuts through the village was bustling—a stark contrast to the usual quietness. People from nearby villages, on foot or riding on trucks, made their way to the village, some holding plastic containers full of rice. People who didn’t know better might wonder if a mini-carnival of sorts was taking place. But this was no carnival. The villagers were here for a Tzu Chi Buddha Day ceremony, and some were here to donate the rice they had saved as well. At the venue, these people poured their rice into larger bags that had been placed there for the occasion. After they had donated their rice, they respectfully participated in the Buddha Day ceremony. When they were done, they retrieved their empty containers and stood or squatted in the shade of nearby trees. They talked and laughed as they waited for the trucks that had brought them to take them back home again. The whole event was simple, no-fuss, and relaxing. The locals take their giving so naturally that it has become a part of their lives. There was nothing contrived or orchestrated about their donations that day. Everything was as unpretentious as it could be. The trucks they were waiting for arrived at the venue and lumbered to a stop. The villagers hopped on and the vehicles took off, trailing clouds of dust. The trucks gradually faded to pinpoints in the distance, until they were gone completely. When the dust had settled, the laughter people left behind still seemed to reverberate in the air. How about all that donated rice? Where would it go?
Unwilling to Say Goodbye On another sunny day, also in May, some local volunteers and I traveled more than three hours from downtown Yangon to a mountain village called A Hlaing Ni, in Bago Region. Our truck stopped at the end of a dirt road. We got off, and two strong, young volunteers each lifted a bag of rice from the truck bed and slung it on their shoulders. Then our group followed a footpath downhill to a house. The owner, U San Oo, was waiting at the door for us when we arrived. He warmly greeted us and ushered us into his home. U San Oo, 52, was dirt poor and had no regular work. He was also an alcoholic and in poor health. His drinking habit had driven away his wife, who had left with two of their children and remarried. Three of their children still lived with him. Besides his own kids, U San Oo also had to take care of four young ones left behind by his deceased sister and brother-in-law. He scraped together a living by hiring himself out to tend water buffalos. The job paid 3,000 kyat (US$2) a day. The local volunteers chatted with U San Oo for a while before saying goodbye to the family, leaving them with the two bags of donated rice. The children in the family seemed unwilling to say goodbye. They wrapped their arms around the volunteers and walked with them to the truck before reluctantly letting go and waving goodbye. Our truck retraced the bumpy road it had taken to U San Oo’s house. Having delivered those two bags of rice—weighing 90 kilograms—the truck seemed to travel much more easily. And yet, I think the lightness I felt was mostly within my own heart, a result of witnessing the power of selfless love making a difference in the lives of others.
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