Our village, Yan Kana, is located deep in the Thailand rainforest. As with many of our country’s villages, it had been a small community which earned most of its livelihood from fishing and hunting. Some of the products would be sold to larger towns and cities, but most of the food the men caught would be used to feed the people of the village. The women would prepare the meat and collect materials which they would use to make clothes for their families. We had none of the resources or the knowledge with which we could educate the children; none of the generations before us had been able to read or write; but in an isolated place such as Yan Kana, it mattered little. Parents would entertain the little ones by telling them of the myths and folklore that their parents had told them. There would often be gatherings in the centre of the village where everyone would eat and socialise with one another. The villagers were like one big family; we supported one another during difficult times and shared our joy during times of happiness. We lived simple lives, but we made the most of each moment and cherished every new day, for we knew how suddenly death can come to anyone.

My name is Myun Sah, and I am 76 years old. I am the oldest woman in the village; sadly, a great number of women in Yan Kana do not live through childbirth, but I have brought three children into the world, all of whom have had children of their own. This, along with the wisdom I have to share which is the natural result of so many years on the earth, has led to me being highly respected among the villagers. I have often been described as the village grandmother; indeed, I view the people of Yan Kana with a strong feeling of protectiveness and fondness usually reserved for one’s younger relatives. Unfortunately, there are times when no amount of dedication and love can protect our cherished ones from harm, and our feelings of pride are stolen from us and replaced by ones of helplessness and desperation. One year ago, I was to experience these feelings to an extent which was unparalleled by anything I had known before.

I still remember clearly the day when everything changed. It was a particularly hot morning, the sun’s rays beat down mercilessly upon Yan Kana’s thatch-roofed huts. Normally hard-working men and women were reduced to sloths; the children played by the river, resting now and then in the water in the hope of some relief from the intense heat. I was lounging by my hut, dreading beginning the morning’s tasks, when my attention was drawn to a young boy’s cries. He came running as fast as his short legs could carry him towards where I lay resting.