The very moment word spread that Myar Gyi had been taken in by the authorities, everyone was thrown into a state of shock. It was said that while he was out at night buying medicine for his feverish little son, he encountered a police vehicle and was apprehended. And the thought of how his four‐year‐old son—whom the pedicab drivers have come to call “Boon Gyi”—would manage to survive struck every mind immediately.

In this village, everyone knows Myar Gyi. He is the man always seen in shabby, tattered clothes and constantly inebriated. An orphan with no family, he is regarded as a total drifter. Sometimes he is found sleeping on a stone bench, other times napping out in the fields. When hunger strikes, he ambles over to the market and asks for work:   – If you ask him to carry something, he’ll carry it.   – If you ask him to deliver something, he’ll deliver it.   – If you ask him to serve, he’ll serve. He’s never been known to steal or be sneaky. And if he gets so drunk that he falls asleep sprawled out, not even offering a hundred thousand kyats will get him to budge.

Because a fellow like him couldn’t ever land a wife, everyone was amazed. Even before anyone had ever seen the woman he might take to be his partner, they all pitied him. Truly, it was a pitiful state. His wife, Aye Boun, ever since coming to be with him, hasn’t enjoyed the benefits of a proper “man’s share” in life. Instead, she has had to work hard—gathering and cultivating on her own—to “rear a man.” Every time it was time for a meal, she would have to hunt around the fields trying to find where on earth her husband was sleeping. When he claimed he couldn’t make it back home, she would lug the food all the way to the field and end up scolding him.

Poor Aye Boun—after enduring a complicated pregnancy and severe stomach pains—was eventually taken to the hospital by a group of pedicab drivers who pooled together and gave her a lift without expecting any money. Meanwhile, no one knew in which field or on which stone bench Myar Gyi was sleeping.

At the hospital, Aye Boun gave birth to their little son, but the baby died in a fire. No one could say for sure whether the grueling work she had endured during her difficult pregnancy had brought her suffering. When a still-drunk Myar Gyi finally arrived at the hospital, Aye Boun could barely manage one final, weak plea: “Please take care of your son, Myar Gyi.” That was the only thing in his life upon which he could truly rely.

Myar Gyi became agitated—and almost immediately, he sobered up. That tiny child with chubby cheeks whose eyes had not yet fully opened—little Nitaray—had truly transformed a man’s life.

From that moment on, Myar Gyi never touched alcohol again. Before dawn each day he would gently bring out the little child and call him. At the market he would take on any odd job available, doing everything he was asked of him, one task at a time. The pedicab drivers, too, took turns in looking after the child. In fact, one pedicab driver’s wife—even though she was already nursing her own baby—would sometimes help by feeding him. In time, the pedicab drivers collectively nicknamed his son “Boon Gyi.” It wasn’t because he was literally the child of Aye Boun and Myar Gyi; rather, they all assumed the role of guardian for little Boon, caring for him with heartfelt affection.

They pooled their money to buy baby formula, clothes, and other necessities.

And so it happened that, the very moment news broke that Myar Gyi had been apprehended, everyone was stricken with shock once again. When I arrived at Myar Gyi’s house, Ko Zaw Gyi—the pedicab driver—had already hoisted Boon up and was feeding him snacks. We all silently wondered how we were going to handle things next. Boon didn’t yet know that his father had been taken away.

From then on, Boon insisted he would wait for his father to return from work, and no one from that house dared make a call. The pedicab drivers took turns keeping him company at night, and even took turns delivering meals.
Still, the little boy kept asking about his father, and as time went on without proper meals or sleep, he began to fall ill. Even in his bed he suffered. Everyone tried various means to get through to Myar Gyi, but no one could reach him. The child, worried that things might never improve, grasped my hand and asked, “Will my father, U Kyaw, come back?” Poor Boon, who had neither been eating nor sleeping properly, eventually became so weak that he could no longer even walk; he ended up confined to his bed.

About three weeks later, we finally managed to get in touch with Myar Gyi. He had been detained in a severe military crackdown—he even killed a training instructor before fleeing. Now he was hiding at some undisclosed location. In the midst of his desperate attachment to his son, he had inadvertently escaped. (The details are now in the PDFs.) Although he longed more than anything to see his son, too many soldiers were after him, so he couldn’t return.

Eventually, everyone at the pedicab depot held a meeting. They unanimously agreed to send Boon to Myar Gyi. The only problem was the journey: there was no bus service to the area where Myar Gyi was located—a distance of roughly 1,000 miles. Even if a bus were to arrive, Boon, who was so feeble in his bed, wouldn’t be in any condition to ride.

When no one knew what to do, the village headmaster arrived and offered his own car for use. Apparently, U Zine’s pickup could be driven, so they called him, filled up the car with fuel, and set off with a group of elderly men, hoping that a reunion between Boon and his father would bring some solace. Once the car and driver were arranged, they went in search of money for fuel.

Ko Zaw Gyi’s wife contributed 55,000 kyats. I had been saving 5,000 a week to buy a phone, but if little Boon were to be reunited with his father, I’d be satisfied even if I never held that phone. So that money was diverted for fuel. The other pedicab drivers also chipped in with their individual contributions—all for fuel. I even dedicated 25,000 of the debt I owed to the liquor store toward the fuel expenses.

With utmost care, they gathered the frail little Boon—who was barely hanging on—and placed him in the car. As the vehicle set off, everyone bid him farewell. Ko Zaw Gyi’s wife even burst into tears, exclaiming, “Isn’t he the very child you nursed when he was born?”

Unfortunately, where Myar Gyi is located has no telephone lines or internet, so it isn’t easy to keep in touch. Three days later, the driver who had been sent returned. He recorded a video of the scene where Boon and his father, Myar Gyi, were arranged together. Though the video was taken on a grainy phone camera with poor lighting, it brought tears to the eyes of the pedicab drivers.

That very day, the triumphant drinking gang wasn’t at the liquor store—they were gathered by the edge of Aye Boun’s plot. In our poverty, we nurtured your son with love and care, just as Aye Boun did, and we proudly declared it.