Dang was finally given a chance to be heard. The government had set up an organization to help the victims of the tsunami, and they invited Dang to Bangkok to tell her story to the parliament. It was a tremendous opportunity, but Dang was also very concerned. Those who controlled the Far East Company held high positions in the government, and it could easily be a ploy to lure her away from Laem Pom so they could finally finish her off. But things had gotten to the point where she no longer had a choice. Her community needed help. If the company planned to kill her, they would do it whether or not she went to Bangkok. She agreed to the meeting.
On February 14, a government van with tinted windows pulled up to the camp where Dang had been staying with her husband, Tueng, and son, Arthorn. When Dang slid open the back door, she saw ten men dressed in suits and ties huddled inside. Her heart beating wildly in her chest, she kissed her husband and son good-bye, a part of her assuming it would be for the last time, and then crawled inside.
The van took them to the airport so they could catch a flight to Bangkok. Dang had never been on an airplane, but she bit her lip and boarded with the others. In Bangkok, the ten men stayed in one hotel room, and Dang stayed in another by herself. Being alone in a hotel room in a strange city frightened her. She kept thinking of the first day the soldiers had come to her community, how they had tried to kill Baw. She kept her eyes locked on the door, expecting an assassin to barge in at any moment. She subdued her fear by focusing on the speech she would present to the members of parliament.
Her fear vanished completely as the sun came up. She grew excited at the thought of finally being able to tell her story to people who could make a difference. She showered, combed her hair, and then laid her clothes out on the bed to smooth out the wrinkles. At eight o’clock, she was escorted from her room to another van. An hour later, she stood in front of the parliament in a massive government building in downtown Bangkok. She had prepared an eloquent speech, but it went right out the window. She had planned to remain strong and maintain her composure, but the moment she opened her mouth, the tears began to flow. She told them everything, starting with the first day the soldiers had come and concluding with how the company had severed the young girl’s head with a backhoe in an attempt to hastily remove the trash that had been dumped onto their land. She told them about her daughter and her father. She told them how the Far East Company had used her community’s suffering to claim the land of Laem Pom, and how it had kept so many of them from finding their loved ones. She even showed them the two pictures of her daughter that she carried in her wallet.
Dang didn’t expect that the parliament would work a miracle and all her problems would go away. She had never trusted the government and still didn’t. They were always saying one thing and doing another. They always promised the world during election, and then those promises dissolved soon thereafter. More than anything, she had just wanted to tell her story. It felt wonderful to let it all out.
They told her that they would send a representative to Laem Pom to inspect the situation. Dang took it as an empty promise, but the whole process of going to Bangkok and sharing the problems of her community had given her strength. She went back to the van, back to the airport, and then back to the camp, where all her neighbors eagerly awaited her return and any good news her trip might have brought. Once everyone was gathered around, she told them word for word what had been said. Those who trusted the government were ecstatic. Those who didn’t waved their hands and began walking away. Dang called them back—she had more to say.
“Who will fight with me?” she asked. “I am going to return to Laem Pom in a few days, and I don’t care who will try to stop me. If you want to go with me, fight with me, then bring me your documents, your ID cards, and your house registers. Give everything to me, and sign your name on this list.”
“But a bodyguard still stands out there,” one man said. “He won’t let us past. All of us have already tried and been turned back.”
“He might be able to stop one of us,” Dang said, “or even a few of us, but he can’t stop all of us.”
After getting the names of those willing to charge headlong into battle, Dang organized a meeting at which she required each of the families to put 1,000 baht into a hat to start a community fund. From now on, they would all live together, sleep together, eat together, and work together to rebuild their homes and lives. Because the Far East Company was so strong, the only way they would survive was to stick together. At the same meeting, she also suggested that only one member from each family return with her to Laem Pom. The reason for this was twofold. First, Dang was quite certain that the leader would do everything in his power to stop donations from reaching Laem Pom. He would try to starve them off the land. The only way they could get by was for two or three people from every family to stay at the camps and collect as much food as possible and then take it to Laem Pom. The second reason was that if the Far East Company did resort to murder, having only one person per family in Laem Pom would ensure that entire families didn’t get slaughtered.
For the next week, Dang worked out all the logistics. She would need people to cook, people to build, and people to purchase supplies. She held meetings where she assigned the tasks to her neighbors. They had 40,000 baht, which wouldn’t carry them far, but Dang suspected it would be enough to feed them for a week and get the first poles in the ground. People were concerned about filling their bellies, but they were more concerned about how the company might retaliate. Dang gave them as much encouragement as she could offer. She wanted to tell them everything would be fine, but she didn’t want to lie. She hadn’t a clue how matters would play out.
Exactly two months after the tsunami, on February 26, Dang formed the twenty-seven families into a group and went over the plan one last time. Their only intention was to reach their land. If someone tried to stop them, they wouldn’t get physical. They weren’t even going to cuss. They would just keep marching straight onto their land. Hugs went around, and then they got on their way. They headed down the windy road leading to Nam Khem, across the village, and straight toward Laem Pom. The bodyguard the company had hired stood guard at the entrance, but he didn’t make an attempt to stop them either verbally or physically. There were just too many of them. After two months of jumping from camp to camp, two months of groveling for handouts like a beggar, Dang finally went home.
They set up camp in the spot where Aussie John’s home had once been built. He was now gone, but the foundation of his home still remained. They planted poles around the cement edges, tied strings between the poles, and then made shabby lean-tos out of plastic bags. Before they could finish constructing their sleeping area, police flooded into the area. As they went around to make arrests, Dang confronted the head officer.
“You say we can’t stay here, but the case is still in court,” Dang said. “If the court says we must go, I will leave without a fight. But right now you can’t arrest us. We are just trying to rebuild our homes on our land. We haven’t done anything illegal. If you arrest us, I will make sure the government hears about it. I will tell anyone who cares to listen what you have done.”
The head officer stopped his men. They remained in the area for the next two hours, but by nightfall the last of them had gone. Dang suspected that since the police officers hadn’t been able to get rid of them, the Far East Company would send someone else. It would be all too easy for a hit man to come to this secluded area under the cover of darkness and solve the company’s problems with a single bullet. Her neighbors probably weren’t in danger. Dang was now their leader, and if the company came to collect a head, it would be hers. But for the first time since the tsunami had come, she wasn’t afraid. She had come to the conclusion that she would gladly give her life. If she was killed, reporters would descend upon Laem Pom and tell their story to the world. She would gladly give her life if it meant that her people could finally get on with their lives. She didn’t expect to make it through the night.
Dang awoke at sunrise. They began the morning just like they would every morning to come—with a community meeting. Dang told everyone that they were now more of a family than they had ever been. If anyone had a problem, they could come to her day or night. Then everyone broke off to fulfill their appointed duties. A few women went about setting up a makeshift kitchen. A couple of men hopped into a truck and headed toward the lumberyard to purchase building supplies. Others walked around Laem Pom, mapping out the areas where they would build their new homes. Dang ran back and forth between everyone, delegating, solving problems, and making sure everything ran smoothly.
When an official-looking car headed down the dirt road leading to their camp on the afternoon of February 28, Dang was certain that the Far East Company had returned to take their land. To her surprise, the man who climbed out of the car was Mr. Chaowarit Yongjaiyuth, who worked for the prime minister. The two found a quiet place to talk, and Dang begged him for fairness and justice. She told her story just as she had to the parliament, and again tears ran down her face.
“Daughter, you can come and rebuild your homes,” Mr. Yongjaiyuth said, smiling at her. “You have lived here for thirty years—how could you not have a deed? I will ask Colonel Surin to come help you. He will contact the land office and inspect how the Far East Company got the deed for this land. If you need any help, just contact the soldiers in Nam Khem. They will help you.”
Dang thanked him a dozen times. She relayed the information to the rest of her new family, and they all celebrated that night. Now that she had permission to stay in Laem Pom, she felt nothing could stop them. When Petklieng paid her a visit a few days later, she kept her chin high. He told her that she was in line to receive one of the hundreds of homes soldiers had built in Nam Khem over the past months, as were all the other families that lived in Laem Pom. Dang had never applied for one of the houses the soldiers were building, and neither had any of the other residents. They didn’t want to live in the village— they wanted to live on their land. She told this to Petklieng.
“Why do you make it so difficult?” he asked. “Dang, your family had five houses in Laem Pom, and that means that you will get five homes in the village. Each of the houses is worth 100,000 baht. You will get five houses, so that is 500,000 baht. That is a lot of money, Dang. And you will get one scooter and a telephone. All the furnishings inside will be paid for. If you accept this offer, you will be a very wealthy woman.”
Dang resisted the urge to laugh. She had been granted permission to move back onto her land, and now the leader and his employer had gotten desperate. Dozens of families had moved into the homes the soldiers had built, and she had not heard of a single one having received a scooter, a telephone, and furnishings. What kind of woman did Petklieng think she was? Did he really think that she would abandon her people for five houses?
“Take my name off the list,” Dang said proudly. “If I lose in court, I will move from this village without taking anything with me. I don’t want the homes the soldiers have built.”
As Petklieng turned and walked away, Dang felt victorious. But she didn’t have much time to celebrate; there were more problems to solve. Before the tsunami, they’d had a well from which all the families drew their water, but now it produced nothing but salt water. Mr. Yongjaiyuth had told her to approach the soldiers in Nam Khem if she needed anything, and now she most certainly did. The soldiers had a massive water truck that they used to fill up the barrels at the camps. She asked them if they could bring some of that water to Laem Pom, enough to survive for a week or so. A couple of the soldiers came to Laem Pom to have a look at the well, but they never came back.
It was a hard blow, but in Dang’s heart of hearts she had been expecting it. Powerful men ran the Far East Company, and powerful men always had tricks up their sleeves. She and her neighbors needed to find a way to get water and food. The family members at the camps brought a portion of the donations they had collected, but it wasn’t enough. As she tried to find a way to keep it all together, she received a call from a female reporter in Bangkok who wanted to come to Laem Pom to learn their story. Dang, uncertain whether this was a ploy of the Far East Company or a real interview, didn’t know if she should agree. Dang told the reporter that she would get back to her and then asked her husband for advice.
Tueng closed his eyes for a moment. “I think you should meet with the reporter,” he said. “If you don’t allow her to come here, how will we know if she is on our side? You need to meet her. You will know the moment you talk with her if she is our friend or enemy.”
Dang agreed to do the interview. The reporter came the following day, and Dang told her the entire story, from start to end. The reporter was speechless. Dang could tell that she had come to do a quick story on the victims of the tsunami, but instead she had been handed something very different.
“You might not want to write about this story,” Dang told her. “The owner of the Far East Company is a politician and a very powerful man. He could make problems for you.”
The reporter asked to see a picture of Dang’s daughter, and Dang showed her both of them. After that, the reporter agreed to be a channel through which Dang could get her story out. For the next two mornings, Dang sent one of her community members up to purchase the Bangkok Post, the most widely read newspaper in the country. On March 2, the article appeared. It was titled “This Land Is Our Land.”
Dang couldn’t read the article, because it was in English, but she hung it up on the side of a shed they had built to store food. She continued with her business, not thinking much more about it, but then, two days after the article came out, she received a 30,000-baht donation from someone who had read the article. A day after that, a construction company donated 10,000 bricks that the families could use to build their homes. Then another company donated 5,000 tiles, and another brought piles of wood. Soon she had sand and nails and hammers. They now how everything they needed to build their homes. Those who had been assigned to construction duty got to work.
Dang had envisioned building everyone a home in a matter of a month, but she now realized that this would be impossible. They just didn’t have enough workers. At the rate they were going, it would take more than a year to build each of the twenty-seven families a home. Then, in the middle of March, after Dang’s husband and son returned to Laem Pom to help with construction, twenty engineering students from the University of Ubon Ratchathani came marching onto their land to help them build. Apparently, their teacher had read the Bangkok Post interview and wanted to help. He had paid for all his students’ bus tickets down to Nam Khem. When they had to go back to school a few weeks later, another group of students, from Narathiwat Province, replaced them. And when that group went away, a third team came, from Khon Kaen University. A handful of foreigners also found their way out to Laem Pom to help with construction. The frames of homes began to spring from the ground.
The volunteer workers brought more than just their knowledge of how to build a home—they brought laughter as well. For brief moments in time, when Dang found herself lost in conversation, it almost seemed as though the tsunami had never happened. It reminded her that there were still good people in this world—people whose hearts were large enough to care about the people of Laem Pom.
By the beginning of April, they had laid the foundations for more than ten homes and even erected several roofs. Dang became a hero to the people. She hadn’t had a rock-solid plan—she had done everything by instinct, and, in retrospect, she realized everything could have gone terribly wrong. But they had survived, and now everyone in the community came to her with problems, and it was her responsibility to solve them. When they ran out of wood, Dang had to order more. When they ran out of money, Dang had to go out and find more. She kept a smile on her face at the meetings they held every morning, and she treated every volunteer who arrived as if they were her son or daughter. But in the evening when she crawled into her tent, the list of things she had to do faded from her mind and the pain returned. Not a single night passed without her thinking about what had been taken from her.
One night a storm passed over Laem Pom, and Dang’s thoughts turned to Kwan. Her daughter had always been frightened of thunder, and Dang would have to hold her in her arms and whisper that everything would be all right. Dang crawled out of the tent in which her family slept and searched the surrounding darkness for her daughter’s spirit. When she saw nothing and came back in, her son sat in one corner of the tent, giggling about something or other. Dang asked him how he could laugh while she still felt so sad. He told her that he didn’t want to suffer anymore with all the things that had happened to them. Laughing helped him forget. Dang felt anger in her stomach when she lay down next to her husband, but she knew that her son was right. She needed to let go, but she just couldn’t do it.
“I just miss her so much,” she told Tueng.
Since she had found her daughter’s body, she hadn’t dreamt of her once. She figured that tonight Kwan would be frightened by the thunder and come to her, but when Dang woke in the morning, she still hadn’t seen her daughter’s face. The next day, she rushed through the morning meeting and then headed to Nam Khem Temple. She brought food for the monks to eat, food that would reach her daughter. With tears flowing from her eyes, she begged a monk to tell her why she couldn’t dream of her little girl.
“It is a good thing,” the monk said. “If you dream of the dead, it means that they are not in a good place. They are suffering. They are stuck or still need something and are calling out to you. You do not dream of your child because she is at peace.”
For the first time in an eternity, Dang smiled.