More than two decades ago, when she was still a teenager, Moe Ei and her mother left their native Dawei for the coastal town of Ranong in southern Thailand. Travelling aboard a fishing boat, they hid under a tarpaulin as they entered the country illegally. It was dark in the boat’s hold, but Moe Ei recalls that she was not afraid, because she knew she had her mother there beside her.
It was her mother’s decision to make the move. She wanted to escape the poverty of their hometown and seek better economic opportunities outside of Myanmar. Still dependent on her mother, Moe Ei had no choice but to join her.
They found work in Thailand’s Phang Nga Province, south of Ranong, and saved as much as they could. After a few years, they had enough to return to their home village with a sizable donation for their local monastery. It was the last thing that Moe Ei and her mother ever discussed.
“On the morning of December 26, at around 9am, she told me that we were going to go back home for a merit-making ceremony. It was just an ordinary, peaceful conversation between mother and daughter,” recalled Moe Ei, summoning a cherished memory from exactly 20 years ago.
Within hours, however, these plans were utterly demolished, along with the lives of thousands of other Myanmar migrants in southern Thailand, who were among the nearly 228,000 people who died that day in 14 countries around the Indian Ocean.
About an hour before Moe Ei’s last conversation with her mother, a massive, 9.3 magnitude earthquake struck off the west coast of northern Sumatra in Indonesia, setting off shock waves that reached as far away as the east coast of Africa. Phang Nga Province, less than 500km northeast of the epicentre of the earthquake, was among the areas worst hit by the deadly tsunami.
At the time, Moe Ei had no idea of the full scale of the disaster. All she knew was that she could not find her mother anywhere. She searched for four days, looking among the countless bodies that had washed ashore or been retrieved, all the while hoping that, by some miracle, her mother had been spared.
“When we were searching for my mother, we found many bodies in terrible condition. We checked each one. We searched for about four days, looking here and there. They told me my mother was on the island, but they were just lying to me,” Moe Ei said tearfully.
Finally, Moe Ei had to accept that the sea had taken her mother forever. She was one of hundreds who died in Namkhem, a fishing village in Phang Nga that was home to many migrants from Dawei.
Moe Ei survived the tsunami, but can still vividly remember its awesome destructive force. The waves that swept in from the sea were as high as palm trees, she said, destroying everything in sight within minutes.
“The wall of water came in slowly at first, then receded. When it came back again, it was huge. It swept away people, boats, houses, everything,” she said.
She also recalled the chaotic reaction of those caught in this deluge: “It was like being at the foot of an erupting volcano—people were directionless. No one could help anyone else; everyone just had to run for their own survival.”
Those who could fled to higher ground, some in Thai military vehicles sent to evacuate the village. But many didn’t make it, and even those who did lost almost everything, including loved ones.
The situation was similar elsewhere. According to Htoo Chit, executive director of the Foundation for Education and Development, hundreds of Myanmar migrant workers also died in Khao Lak, another village about 30 minutes’ drive from Namkhem.
While the exact number of Myanmar nationals killed by the tsunami in southern Thailand has never been determined, it is believed to have been in the thousands. Htoo Chit, who assisted with the rescue effort, recalled that local migrant communities held at least 37 memorial services, each for between 10 and 50 victims, giving some sense of how profoundly they were impacted.
One reason that so little is known for sure about the Myanmar victims is that, unlike the governments of other affected countries, the regime then in power in Myanmar did nothing to assist its own citizens. While the Thai government was able to coordinate its efforts to identify tourists and other foreign victims with their respective governments, Myanmar’s junta played no part in this process, according to Htoo Chit.
“Our team’s communications officer called the Myanmar embassy. We told them there were many Myanmar migrant workers here, and we asked them what help they could provide. Their response was clear—they said there were no Myanmar migrant workers here,” he said.
This meant that funeral arrangements for deceased Myanmar migrant workers had to be handled by surviving family members, the Thai government, and non-governmental organisations, he added.
For Phoe Zaw, a fisherman from Myanmar who survived the tsunami, one of his strongest memories of that time was seeing Thailand’s then prime minister, Thaksin Shinawatra, personally overseeing aid distribution. Many foreign embassy officials also came to the aid of their citizens, he recalled.
“We saw Thai Prime Minister Thaksin himself come to speak with Thai people, giving them money and treats, laughing together—we saw it with our own eyes,” he said.
This raised expectations among Myanmar nationals that their own self-appointed government would do the same: “Everyone hoped for this, even if they didn’t say it out loud. It was in everyone’s mind,” said Phoe Zaw.
But these hopes were never fulfilled, he added, noting that this neglect has continued to this day.
When a new cemetery was opened for victims of the tsunami, diplomats from various countries attended the opening ceremony. However, no Myanmar military junta officials or embassy staff showed up, said Phoe Zaw.
“There were flags for every country that had citizens who died. But under our country’s flag, none of our authorities were present. We had to bring flower wreaths and express condolences for our fellow citizens by ourselves,” he said.
In Namkhem, memorial services are held every year on December 26 at a small village monastery constructed in honour of those who died in the tsunami. The monastery was built entirely with donations from residents of the village.
For Moe Ei, who was unable to return to her home village in Dawei to make merit with her mother, these services allow her to fulfil her mother’s aspiration.
“We make merit donations, including for those without surviving relatives. We say, ‘May they be able to partake of this merit.’ We do this every year,” she said, vowing to continue this practice for the benefit of all affected by the tsunami, both living and dead.
