Born

by Poe Kaw Moo

I am from Thatland. Was born in Thatland. But not Thai. If you start asking how to say a simple hello and hi in Thai, I can do that. That’s it. That’s all. Was born in Thatland, not the part of Thatland you assume—a dream vacation place? Meh. I was born poor. I am poor. Poor in the countryside, where the neighboring birds wouldn’t mind waking you up in the middle of the night, like 5 in the morning; by then, the eyes should still be shut here in the States. Things about countryside inhabitants: they get up early. Yeah, that’s all.

I recall one night being dark and nippy. Drops of water fell from above. I remember, with my hair soaked, peeking through the bamboo window separating me from a room full of relatives cheering on the newborn. Oh, wait, probably one of my brothers. Me? Oh, that’s how I was born, I think.

Even more good news: firstly, my family decided to name me after a holiday. None of the outside folk knew; even the very people that the holiday honored, and no one celebrates when the day comes. Secondly, I was born with a large, big, shady spot on my legs.

Some said, “A mark of power and a special mission.”

Others said, “I was born with the ability to walk fast.”

My mission in life is to preserve, remember, and share my special day—could be a dream. My mission was entirely based on these life facts: I was poor. A refugee. Born in Thatland. Not a Thai. Who the, in-see-yay am I? The mission. What mission? Do I need a mission in life? Do I need one? Does it define me? Do people need purpose? Does every human need one? Hell with the mission. Oh, please, I welcome you. In this honest writing, I’m working on it. Join me. Share your thoughts.

Days in my life were nothing short of going from school to the street to the jungle. One was school, which I often value, as long as my family can afford the school fees. Second, when there was no school, I would be out on the street, using my hands to do every phase of yoga-like to people. Difficult. Occasionally, only if the given individual pities us. What can I say? We were all in the same dump. A leisurely and good part of the business was finding bottles to recycle. Often, my stomach couldn’t stop singing. The music was calming, though not the kind my stomach made. I’m that way. Was embarrassing. What to say? Have you listened to my cultural music? When I got home from collecting bottles, I rushed to a bowl of rice, usually leftovers. My charcoal-like hands happily mixed the rice with fish paste, turned it into sauce, and added skinny-ass salted dry fish to the bowl—salty, spicy, crispy, and yum and yum. 

I used the hands I was born with in every way I could think of. The old lady next door, three houses away, advised me to clean my 11-year-old hands while I ate dinner. Why care about what people say? Maybe she was worried about something. Sickness. She supported my family in ways, especially on my mom’s side. I often stretched and massaged her body, using my youthful weight as much as she needed for the day, and in exchange, she usually gave me 10 baht. Good deal. At 92, she happily completed her life mission. I missed her, along with her old knowledge of my people, which I cherished and treasured; one day, I will, too, complete my own mission. With her good and bad memories, she will live on in me. To begin this writing, I wanted to return to where I came from, to the place I was born and to be remembered. I was the son of a refugee. Poor. Stateless. No place to call home. No country. Between two countries, country jungle, wild, one side hellish, the other heaven, or still hell; for all I know, now in a third world, for pleasure, satisfaction, and peace, the jungle could be my paradise again. I was named the son of the land. Mother told me to reclaim a nation called “Kawthoolei.” I am Knyaw. I speak S’gaw Karen, not Thai—complicated. English, I can. Yes, I was born in Thatland, and I can tell you more about that.

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Draft

The characters, thoughts, and events in this text are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, events, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2026 by Poe Kaw Moo. Presented to you by The Karen People Publication and made possible with limited contributions from Moo and Foundation, and the House of Moo and Family. No part of the text may be republished, scanned, uploaded, distributed, or in any form without permission from the author or a person authorized by the publisher. Please contact poekawmoo1@gmail.com or visit poekawmoo.com to request permission or for any inquiries about the story.