By KYAW THEIN KHA |
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| Burmese migrant laborers sort fish at a market in Phuket, an island in Thailand better known for its upscale resorts. (Photo: AFP) |
Thailand is one of the world’s major fish-exporting countries, but it is Burmese fishermen who keep the industry alive
Aung Than is no ordinary fisherman. At 33, he is already a veteran of the seas. His years of hard work and commitment to his job have earned him the position of “yay shuu,” or master, of the Thai-owned vessel on which he and his fellow Burmese crew members make their living in the Andaman Sea.
As the most experienced and highly qualified member of his ship’s crew, he earns 10,000 baht (US $310) a month—about three times the basic salary of a Burmese fisherman working in Thailand, and 10 times what he would make in his native Burma.
Thailand’s fishing industry is kept afloat by a massive influx of migrant labor from neighboring Burma. Both on the ships and in the fish-processing plants, Burmese make up the majority of workers, doing jobs shunned by Thais. Fishermen are in especially high demand, working long hours for low wages, often risking life and limb to keep consumers around the world supplied with seafood.
Not surprisingly, human trafficking is rife in this industry, and reports of horrific abuses are common. But not all Burmese who find themselves aboard a Thai fishing vessel consider themselves victims of exploitation.
Aung Than (not his real name) has worked as a fisherman in Thailand for 10 years. He says he sends money back to his mother and sister in Burma and hopes to save enough to buy his own boat so he can return home someday and work for himself.
He now lives in the village of Ngan Yong, in Phang Nga Province’s Khuraburi District. The village is home to an estimated 5,000 migrant workers from Burma—most of them members of the Mon and Dawei ethnic groups. Aung Than is originally from Tavoy, or Dawei, the capital of Burma’s Tenasserim Division.
According to Thailand’s National Statistics Organization, there are around 7,600 registered Burmese migrants working on the country’s 4,000 legally operating fishing vessels. But these figures do not take into account the large number of unlicensed fishing boats in Thai waters, or the thousands of Burmese migrants employed without proper documentation.
With so much competition, it’s not easy to become a master fisherman.
“You must work very hard and show total commitment,” said Aung Than. “If you make an impression on your boss and earn his trust, he will promote you to yay shuu.”
It took six years of “proving himself” as an ordinary crew member before Aung Than was finally deemed worthy of earning $10 a day. And now that he has reached the pinnacle of his profession, he is expected to earn every baht that he is paid—supervising his crew, making sure they’re mending their nets properly when they’re on shore and using them to maximum effect when they’re at sea.
A yay shuu must know the sea as well as the most seasoned sailor. He is completely responsible for the safety of his crew and—more importantly from his employer’s perspective—the condition of his ship, which he must be able to operate in all kinds of weather.
Aung Than recalled one night when high winds created huge waves that lashed his boat. Some of his crew could not swim and many feared for their lives.
“But my own greatest fear was that our boat would be capsized by a wave and sink to the bottom of the sea,” he said.
“It is very dangerous work,” he added. “Many fishermen have lost their lives trying to make a living this way.”
In addition to their basic salaries, many fisherman receive bonuses based on the value of their catch. These are usually paid out once a month or once every six months, depending on the size and type of boat.
“I get paid 3,000 baht a month, but in a good month, I can earn double that,” said Kyaw Linn, one of the regular crew members on Aung Than’s boat. He said he had no idea how his bonus was calculated and had no choice but to accept whatever amount his Thai employer said he was owed.
Kyaw Linn’s job is to go out in a small boat equipped with a bright light in search of fish for the main boat to catch. The fish are attracted to the light, and when enough of them start to appear, Kyaw Linn contacts the main boat. Aung Than then decides if it’s worthwhile putting down their nets.
“We don’t fish for a few nights before and after the full moon,” he said. “The fish don’t follow our boat because all they can see is the moonlight shining in the water.”
In some ways, these Burmese fisherman are like the fish they catch, always looking for a brighter future. Most say they want to return home someday, but they know that their prospects for earning a living there are bleak.
“I’ll go back to Burma when I can make the same amount of money there as I can earn in Thailand,” said Aung Than.
Masters of the Sea
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