Calling From Myanmar

When he got pulled into the scam, young Junyu was a college grad living in Shanghai. At 22, he still lived with his parents and spent most of his time in his bedroom covered with pop star posters, the windowsill lined with collectible toy figurines.

Junyu’s mom walked in. “You need to find a job,” she said, for what felt like the hundredth time.

He had modeled for a few e-commerce shoots, but he hadn’t landed a spot for months. The Chinese economy was cratering, everyone said.

“I’m a model,” Junyu groaned. “I need to focus on auditions. Remember Li Yifeng? He didn’t get a break until My Hero.”

“Who’s Li Yifeng?” his mom asked.

He would have slammed the door, but that’s not done in Chinese culture. He stared silently at his phone, scrolling, until she went away.

Later that day, a call came from a talent scout. “I have a client, Modern Production, hiring for a three-week shoot in Thailand. It’s a Chinese TV drama. They need someone your age.”

“But, I haven’t acted much. Mostly advertising shoots."

“The client says they’ve seen your portfolio and you’re perfect for the role. Strong jawline, deep-set eyes. Terrific for the love interest’s best friend.”

“How’s the pay?”

“Negotiable on-site, depending on screen time.” The agent continued, “I have a feeling you’ll be awesome. Best of all, it’s all expenses paid. Confirm now, and I’ll send you an airplane ticket.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, his mom called him, “Pancake! Come out for dinner!”

Would he be his childhood nickname ‘Pancake’ forever, Junyu wondered.

“A job, in Thailand?! I’m proud of you,” she said over their dish of stewed pork feet—the collagen was good for his skin.

Junyu opened the agent’s number on WeChat and sent a text: “Okay, I’ll do it.”

A notification appeared—a QR code for flight TG665, Thai Air, departing the next day.

The following morning, Junyu refused to let his mom accompany him to the airport. Doting as always, she pleaded with him to stay safe and eat well. She wrapped a silver pendant around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. “This will keep you safe.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“A lucky brooch. Your great-grandfather wore it during the war, when the Japanese occupied Shanghai. Lucky to survive. He knew how to stay useful to the occupiers, he said.”

The flight to Bangkok was uneventful, and when he stepped out into the arrivals hall, he spotted a man holding a “Modern Productions” sign. Junyu felt thrilled to have someone waiting for him, and to be greeted like a celebrity.

The man spoke little but led him to a minivan. They drove for hours. Junyu tried to ask where they were going, but the driver remained silent.

As the landscape grew rural, military checkpoints began to appear.

“They need to see your passport,” the driver said. Junyu handed it over, and the driver showed it to nervous looking Thai soldiers. Their minivan was waved through, and the driver stashed Junyu’s passport in the glove compartment.

“Can I have my passport back?”

The driver didn’t answer.

An hour later, after several more checkpoints, they arrived at a compound that looked like a junkyard. Chickens scattered as the van pulled up. A heavyset man named Mr. Wong came out and greeted him.

"Our new arrival!" he said, “You’ll start out working in our marketing center."

“Marketing? I thought this was an acting gig.”

“We need to raise money for the production first. Plans change.”

Junyu heard the minivan driving away behind him. His stomach dropped.

“Tan will explain how things work here,” Wong said, pointing at another man approaching.

He was an older, small man, this Tan. “Just keep your head down,” he said. “And things will be fine.” He looked at him with genuine concern, kindness in his eyes. As he escorted Junyu into a nearby building, Junyu saw dozens of young Chinese workers sitting at desks, typing furiously or speaking into headsets.

“Where am I? I’m going to call a taxi.”

“You’re in Myanmar," Tan said. "You can’t call a taxi.”

“Myanmar?” Junyu looked down at his phone. No signal.

“What’s your name?” Tan asked.

“I’m Junyu.”

“Junyu? You shouldn’t use your real name here. Got anything else?”

Junyu thought for a moment. “Pancake.”

“Okay, Pancake. Let’s get started.”

Tan handed him a script and explained how to use the computer and telephone. He slid Junyu into a chair. “Your job is to convince people to invest in our TV production. If you don’t meet quota, there will be consequences. Now get calling,” Tan said, patted him on the shoulder, and then walked away.

Junyu sat and stared at the computer in front of him. They must have had him confused with someone else. He didn’t want to be here, but his passport had been confiscated, and the building appeared to be miles from anything else. So he sat there for hours not doing anything. This would work itself out soon.

No one made conversation with him or told him what to do, but he saw their doubtful glances. A young guy at a nearby computer looked at him and rolled his eyes. “Man up, dude.” A woman grumbled as she walked past. “Are you some kind of rich kid?”

They were visibly unhappy with his arrival. When the clock neared 9 p.m., Wong, the bear-like man who had greeted him earlier, stepped to the front of the room.

“No dinner tonight. Because our new member didn’t meet quota, and you shitheads didn’t help him!” Wong pounded a heavy hand on the front table. Everyone looked rattled. Wong’s face was red, and he appeared drunk. Grumbling, they shuffled into the dormitory. Junyu followed them and, after being shown a dirty looking bed, fell into a restless sleep.

He was woken at 7 a.m. by Tan. “Pancake, wake up. Today, you have to pretend, just go through the motions.”

With everyone having spent the night hungry, Junyu entered the calling room to find the others glaring with open hostility. Out of options, why not? He picked up the headset and began calling. He was met with a stream of disconnects and people shouting variations of “not interested” and “fuck off.”

He dialed again.

“I’m calling from Modern Productions. We’re taking a survey about your recent television viewing.”

Silence lingered on the other side of the line.

“Have you watched The Bewitched?” he asked enthusiastically, naming a popular Chinese TV drama.

A woman’s voice replied hesitantly. “Yes.”

“We are the show’s casting agent. Did you like Angela Liu’s performance?”

“Sure.”

“From 1 to 10, how would you rank it? This is useful feedback for our production studio.”

“I’d say a 9.”

Junyu stuck to the script. “Thanks so much for your help! We’d like to sign you up as one of our professional reviewers. I just need a few personal details.”

The woman gave him her name and home address.

“To send you royalty payments, we’ll need a credit card number.”

There was a pause. “Okay,” she said and read out a number.

“Thank you so much. We’ll be in touch again soon.”

He hung up and felt sick to his stomach.

He went through the script with three other people that day. At 9 p.m., Wong stood in front of the room. “Everyone, you can eat roast duck tonight. Our new member, Pancake, has started producing!”

There was an audible murmur of relief.

Junyu spent the next three months in limbo, moving only between the calling room and the dormitory.

He discovered that the people he got contact info were passed up to the next level. Others slowly gained their trust. And over months moved them “higher up in the program,” to the point they were convinced they were partners funding a TV series. They were told they’d be listed as assistant producers in the credits. Wong and Tan even filmed a few scenes in the courtyard with a cheap camera. Word got out that it had been Wong’s childhood dream to be a film director, before he was addicted to meth and joined a triad gang.

Junyu began to find it entertaining to watch new “hires” be psychologically broken, cry themselves to sleep. Relieved it wasn’t him. In fact, he despised them until they proved themselves on the phones.

Months after he arrived, Wong roared the name of one of his coworkers. “Chan! Where are you?” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Wong spotted him, grabbed Chan by the collar, and dragged him to the front of the room. Wong’s bulk was apparent next to paper-thin Chan. Wong held out a piece of paper. “What the fuck is this? Did you give this note to the delivery guy?”

Chan stared at the ground, not denying it.

Wong’s fist landed heavily on Chan’s face, knocking him to the ground. A phone clattered off a desk onto the floor. Wong stared at Chan, curled up on the ground, and kicked him hard in the ribs.

Junyu sat close to Chan. They were almost friends. Junyu wanted to say something in his defense, but his tongue wouldn’t move.

Wong noticed his gaze. “Pancake, why the fuck did you let him do that?” Wong approached, appearing determined to punch Junyu next. Instead, he noticed the silver chain around Junyu's neck and tore it off. “I’ll take this,” he said, grabbing the pendant Junyu’s mother had given him, and stalked off.

They knew Wong was drinking again. He was a violent drunk, and would be passed out in an hour. But outside, they knew he paid Myanmar soldiers to grab anyone who tried to escape.

Losing his memento from home affected him more than he imagined. He felt untethered. Was he lost? Had everyone back home forgotten about him?

Months went past. He saw his face pale from poor nutrition, his voice grow hoarse from hours of speaking into the headset. The others whispered stories of escape attempts, but no one knew if they succeeded or wound up dead.

One day, Wong stood up and made his usual 9 p.m. announcement.

“Attention, everyone. Our bosses have decided to promote Pancake back to our Shanghai studio.”

Junyu looked around. “Me?”

“This shows the importance of working to meet your targets everyone! Pack your bags, Pancake.”

Junyu felt dizzy. Was he free? Or were they going to kill him in the jungle? That didn't make sense. He had been a decent producer and hadn’t caused problems. “Totally fucking average,” in Wong’s words.

A driver arrived in a minivan similar to the one that had dropped him off. They retraced the journey, the dirt road gradually turned into paved ones, somehow they were still in possession of his passport, which they showed to the Thai soldiers at the checkpoints. When they were on a modern highway, Junyu saw an overhead sign: Bangkok, 280 km ahead. He knew he was free.

At the Bangkok airport, the driver handed back his passport and a printout for a plane ticket. When he landed in Shanghai later that day, penniless, he asked a counter attendant to use their phone—a skill at persuasion was the one thing he gained in Myanmar—and called his mom's number.

“Where are you, Pancake?”

“In Shanghai, at the airport.”

“We’re here too!” she said, breathing hard.

“Where?”

“In the airport.” Within five minutes, he saw his parents running through the crowd toward him.

“You’re back!” Tears streamed down his mother’s face.

Junyu found out that his parents paid Junyu’s “training debt”. The gang had called relentlessly with threats. When his mom described the caller’s accent, and idioms he used, Junyu realized it was one of his coworkers. His parents had sold their car, borrowed money, and scraped together $30,000. They wired the money and waited for weeks. Friends told them they were foolish—there was no guarantee their son would be returned.

Back in Shanghai, Junyu struggled to adjust to normal life. The trauma of his ordeal haunted him, and he found it hard to trust people. Hounded by guilt over how much his parents paid in ransom, he decided to work to pay them back. He took a job in customer service at a logistics company, handling complaints He said he had telemarketing experience. He was good at his new job, and soon got a promotion.

One evening, as he stood on the balcony of his parents’ apartment, watching the city lights flicker to life, Junyu felt a glimmer of hope. He had survived.