Book Review - Escape From Camp 14 by Blaine Harden:

ESCAPE FROM CAMP 14: One Man's Remarkable Odyssey from North Korea to Freedom in the West

By Blaine Harden

Published by Viking
 

Review by David Calleja

 

Escape From Camp 14 begins with a statement by the Korean Central News Agency (KCNA), the official mouthpiece of North Korea’s regime. It reads, ‘There is no “human rights issue” in this country, as everyone leads the most dignified and happy life’. By their reckoning, the astounding memoirs of survival in the country’s most notorious political prison, Shin Dong-hyuk, read as little more than a fairytale.

But according to Human Rights Watch, more than 200,000 civilians in North Korea are locked away in these death camps.

For decades, three leaders, North Korean officials have denied their existence, while continually rounding up civilians from all parts of society and locking them away for subjection to various forms of torture. But in 2007, Mr. Shin’s treacherous flight on foot through North Korea, China, South Korea and finally the United States of America, is the most truthful description of one man’s journey through hell on the path to a new life.

 

Camp 14 could easily be taken straight from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, where the “irredeemables” are born into slavery. These are grounds where food was scarce and pregnant women disappeared. Subsequently born and raised in Camp 14, Mr. Shin’s crime was to have been labelled a “bad seed”, a product of having previous family members categorised as enemies of the state. Under an archaic law created by the country’s Eternal President, Kim Il-sung, any traitor and their family members had three generations sent to a gulag to breed out the “tainted blood”.

Since Mr. Shin never knew what parental love meant, he viewed prison guards, as his parents, accepting their orders without question. The only chance to cleanse his tainted blood would be to denounce his family. When Mr. Shin learned that his biological mother and brother were stealing food and plotting to escape, he reported the details to a prison guard, but was accused of being party to the plan. After a horrific interrogation where he was hung upside down over a roasting fire with hooks inserted into his abdomen, Mr. Shin’s “reward” was a front row seat at the execution of his mother and brother.

 One quality about Mr. Shin is that his resolve never weakened. If anything, he felt indifferent to the suffering around him, a consequence of being indoctrinated to recite the camp’s 10 commandments or risk being “shot immediately”. At an inspection while in first grade, he watched a pistol-bearing guard order a 6 year-old girl to kneel before the class, who then beat the child to death with a pointer for hiding five corn kernels in her pockets. Mr. Shin had become desensitised to violence, a result of being treated more like an animal rather than a human, incapable of trusting anyone. This all changed, however, when a man named Park shared Mr. Shin’s cell.

 

A Pyongyang-born former public official educated in eastern Europe, Park opened up Mr. Shin’s world to new ideas. He learned of Pyongyang’s whereabouts and that the world was round. The two developed a brotherhood and iron-will to survive. Between Mr. Shin’s expertise of every inch within Camp 14 and Park’s knowledge of the outside world, an escape attempt seemed possible. But Park was killed within inches of freedom. Mr. Shin survived by using his companion’s corpse as protection while digging under the electric fence.

 

Having risked his life to get out of Camp 14 and then stealing food and clothing to trek across North Korea, Mr. Shin made it across to China without being detected. But his “poor North Korean defector” story did not attract much sympathy from ethnic Koreans and locals alike, a reaction borne from apathy and fear of reprisals from Chinese authorities, who were returning escapees to North Korea. With nearly all hope lost, he reluctantly trusted a South Korean journalist working in Shanghai to join him in a taxi and ride to the gates of the South Korean consulate, a move that led to the journalist being punished by local authorities after Mr. Shin recuperated in the consulate of the land he once believed was “the enemy”.

 

As Mr. Shin would soon discover, landing in the capitalist South Korea to start a new life did not automatically heal all scars. His nightmares from the past – executions of his family members, images of Park’s death, and thoughts of the torture his father underwent as payback for Mr. Shin’s escape, started to catch up with him. The paranoia which offered him protection behind barbed wire imprisoned him in a land where he was supposedly free. Mr. Shin had no social life and slumped into depression. And as a defector, he never felt welcome in South Korea, weighed down by a sense of inferiority compared to local compatriots. He later jumped at the chance to volunteer for a not-for-profit organisation in Los Angeles, to raise greater awareness about the plight of North Korean defectors, but for a time failed to find the spark in motivating target audiences to do more and inspire change. In one instance, a Korean-American teenager asked if he had fought for the North Korean Army. It is a shame that when North Korea is mentioned in western countries, the first images that come to mind are images of rocket launches, goose-stepping soldiers marching alongside military hardware, or even Team America: World Police’s lampooning the late Kim Jong-il.

 

Mr. Shin’s words about how he coped through the ordeal are sickening and blunt. The writing style adopted by the author, Blaine Harden, is straightforward and designed to shock. Mr. Harden, a veteran reporter for PBS Frontline, interviewed Mr. Shin for over two years, forcing him to recall excruciating details from a man reluctant to step into the spotlight. The language and imagery is so confronting, it may have been written in blood. Equally as disturbing are extracts from former officials who fled North Korea, confirming the endemic corruption which resulted in millions of dollars being siphoned into the pockets of Kim Jong-il. Mr. Harden also analyses the wider impact of relations between Seoul and Pyongyang. He dismisses former President Kim Dae-jung’s Sunshine Policy (also advocated by his successor Roh Moo-hyun), which advocated closer ties between North and South Korea, as ineffective because it failed to raise the issue of human rights for defectors. There is no praise for the alternative hardline approach adopted by conservative leader Lee Myung-bak either. Mr. Harden’s analysis is that South Korean civilians are interested in politicians exchanging rhetoric as part of a proxy war. They want peace and economic stability, But when it comes to reunification, “not immediately” is the summary. Mr. Shin’s assessment is that the rights of defectors run counter to the interests of South Korean people; it matters to “only .001 per cent of people”, he declares.

 

North Korean defectors do not have celebrity endorsements to raise greater awareness for their cause, so Mr. Harden’s words and Mr. Shin’s courage are powerful ammunition, representing yet another reason to despise the psychotic regime enslaving its own people. Escape From Camp 14 rates as one of the best books ever written on the indignity of life and death in North Korea’s vast labyrinth of political prisons.

 

 

This book review originally appeared on the Foreign Policy Journal website, www.foreignpolicyjournal.com, on 11 December 2012.

Book Review - Escape From Camp 14 by Blaine Harden:

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/09/17/a-visit-to-the-killing-fields-and-tuol-sleng-museum/

A Visit to The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng Museum

by David Calleja

September 17, 2012

The stifling humidity levels and dark clouds hovering menacingly in the sky threatened to deliver one of Phnom Penh’s famous rain deluges during the wet season. I picked the wrong day to hop in a tuk-tuk and venture outdoors, stuck in traffic for more than 20 minutes. An endless sea of trucks, tuk-tuks, and cars attempted to weave around each other while honking horns, with a solitary uniformed officer trying to maintain control of traffic and enforce road rules. But his whistling and animated hand gestures came to no avail, and he resembled a conductor struggling to keep in time with his orchestra. For a brief moment, I considered hopping out and going to the local market, but I had a date with Cambodia’s violent past and backing out was not an option.

My destination was The Killing Fields, a lasting legacy of the auto-genocide planned and executed by the Khmer Rouge and its psychotic leader Pol Pot. In four years, up to 1.7 million (some estimates put the death toll at 2.5 million) people were executed or starved to death between 1975 and 1979. Officially known as the Cheoung Uk Genocidal Centre, The Killing Fields is a shocking reminder of the Khmer Rouge’s rampage. Back then, the international community was locked out and unable to intervene until the Vietnamese Army invaded in 1979. Nowadays it is a must-see destination for international and domestic visitors, an essential component in understanding Cambodia and its people. It has also been referred to as genocide tourism, a dose of shock therapy and sympathy, without wearing physical scars.

Outside the front gates, the driver said to me “You have fun today.” I smiled and thanked him. He must have taken enough people here and be well drilled. I did not tell him that I had lived in the countryside for a few months. To him, I was another gawking tourist.

My stomach churned once I walked under the entrance gates, a sign of intimidation. A group of men in the distance spotted me, and one man instantly decided that I would be his prey. He had broad shoulders and moved like a predator. I froze, wondering if I had looked at him the wrong way. Was he a plainclothes police officer or a gangster, I asked myself? In Phnom Penh, anything is possible. Making a hasty exit was not an option; I thought I was going to crap my pants. Destiny had cast the dice; life would end the grounds of a mass slaughter. My uneasiness subsided only when the man faced me and shook my hand. There was no smile, however.

“Welcome to the Killing Fields. The Khmer Rouge killed my parents here. Today I will show you where.” With that sentence, Sroun gestured for me to step where he stood. I was unprepared for his next question, “Why did you come here today?”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. He did not wait for me to answer.

“If you feel any pity, then don’t. If you are not sure why you came here, then please leave because you won’t learn much. My English is not good like yours, but the books you have read about how many people die (sic) in Cambodia cannot tell you about life. That is what I offer you.” For somebody who claimed not to speak English well, he certainly used the power of direct language effectively, much better than me. Pointing into the distance, he said, “You see here, many people come because they watched movie ‘The Killing Fields’. It makes them cry.” He clenched his fist and beat it on his chest. “Not me,” he said. “Bad man not let me go. But maybe one day, I will get out.” The ‘bad man’, he said, was Pol Pot.

Sroun made his living as a guide, and also drove motorcycles at night to make ends meet. His family came from Phnom Penh, making them prime targets for the Khmer Rouge, but avoided giving away too much about his family. “Not in the mood today. Friendships take long time, take little steps first,” he explained. As for speaking about his own time growing up, he said that it had too many bad memories, adding only that the Khmer Rouge robbed him of his adolescence. It seems that too would have to wait. What I had come to learn about living in Cambodia is that there is plenty of time, and schedules are made to be broken. So I would have to be patient. “You don’t need my life story…yet.”

Everywhere we walked were open pits that looked like bomb craters. Prisoners from the nearby Tuol Sleng Prison would be chained together, lined up and beaten with clubs before being shoved and buried inside the graves. More than 120 graves exist across the Killing Fields. Recent rains had resulted in sparse patches of grass growing across the pits. Every time I passed a grave, it spooked me. Every crunching noise sounded like a bone; any dampness on the ground felt like puddles of blood, not rain. My eyes darted everywhere as I moved slowly. Sroun noticed my anxiety. “Are you scared?” he said with a sadistic grin. I nodded. There was no way I could pretend to show any macho tendencies. I focused on the butterflies patrolling the air as if they were on patrol. They too could sense I was out of place. What could I ask Sroun that he would be prepared to talk about? I turned to Sroun and asked him how he felt about being a guide here.

Sroun’s eyes bulged wildly. “Look at what Pol Pot gave us. Bad man (Pol Pot), he say Cambodia will be world’s strongest country thanks to revolution, but he make Cambodian kill Cambodian. Why? Cannot imagine.”

“Did you know of families that were killed?” I asked him.

“Yes. Here, everybody knows someone who lost family or knew somebody killed by the Khmer Rouge,” Sroun answered. He told me told me of one family who was exterminated. The parents, he said, were accused of stealing food and confessed in a self-criticism session, part of the daily brainwashing routine to love Angka. “Khmer Rouge say to us, ‘You don’t need parents, only Angka.’”

“What was your secret in surviving?” I quizzed.

“(To) shut up. Look when they say, speak when they say, breathe when they say,” Sroun said. Learning to be dumb takes more skill than being smart.

When we reached a spot not far from the watchtower which provided power to inflict electric shocks on inmates of Tuol Sleng Prison, Sroun paused for a moment, then squatted on his knees. “This is where I found my parents,” he said. “They were buried with many others.” He cannot recall the year they were killed because he was separated from them. “Too long ago. But in 1980, I volunteer to dig up bodies.”

I asked how they died. “Hit many times with big stick all over body and left to die,” he retorted. Sroun did not know he had dug up his parents’ bones until tests came back confirming the bones were the remains of his mother and father. They were more among more than 20,000 people to meet a similar fate.

I wanted to know what went through his mind at the mind and how he reacted.

“When the Khmer Rouge ran Cambodia, we were not allowed to cry. I never express my feelings, or I would be dead,” Sroun admitted to me. “So I said nothing. But many years later, Kofi Annan (former Secretary-General of the United Nations), asked me, ‘how can Cambodian kill Cambodian?’ That is when I learned how to cry.”

As he said these words, a sense of relief came over me. Maybe I had broken the ice with him, and we could converse. But as we headed to a building which housed the skulls of thousands of victims bludgeoned to death, Sroun’s eye bulged a second time; he had spotted somebody holding a skull with a large crack on top, posing with the peace symbol as his friends took photos. As the skull passed into the hands of a group member, who then planted a kiss on the skull’s cheek, Sroun he exploded in a rage of English and Khmer words. He had clearly been angered by what he saw. The offending group member caught kissing the skull bowed his head in shame and held out the skull for Sroun to collect and return to its rightful spot. His companions had already left and he ran off to join them.

Once Sroun had returned, he returned in a huff and spat on the ground. “Fuckers,” he said. “I hope they got their blood money’s worth.” For all I know, that skull could have belonged to his mother or father.

Now was probably not the right time to ask Sroun about his opinion of Pol Pot, but I took a chance.
“David, I am angry that he got away. I want him to tell me why he killed so many Cambodians. But he escaped. When Saddam Hussein died in Iraq, I cheered because the Iraqi people got to see justice. I looked at Saddam on television and saw the body of Pol Pot. And Saddam’s death made me smile because I imagine Pol Pot hanging. Everyone was hostage to that bad man.” It seemed fitting that the last words I heard from Sroun were part of his trademark phrase that described a leader who must count among the world’s most brutal dictators.

With a promise to share more about his life on a second visit, we shook hands again. I offered Sroun money for donating his time, but he refused to accept the cash, saying that if money could not bring his parents back, he did not want my money. And with that, he returned to his quarters. But my day was not complete. It was time to take the march and absorb the grotesque images spread across the vast lands of an abandoned high school turned into a death factory.

Known as S-21, the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum is a memorial for men, women and children held in inhumane conditions. Meticulous records of more than 16,000 prisoners are kept on premises, along with more than 10,000 identity photos. Classrooms became torture chambers, displaying leg shackles, water board apparatus, and diagrams and models of how confessions were extracted demonstrating how interrogations and tortures were carried out. Outside the building, a sign warning prisoners of the expected behavior is a cruel commemoration of the interrogator’s limitless powers to inflict pain for even the slightest indiscretion. Visitors are warned not to smile, speak loudly, laugh, take photographs or film footage did not stop visitors from following these rules. But anybody spending only a few hours breathing in the horrors of the decaying building would not be water-boarded, given electric shocks or strapped in shackles. The building’s perimeter is still surrounded by razor wire.

I joined the line, shuffling between rooms as the floor made a whooshing sound with each footstep. Any other noise would attract an unwanted gaze. Everybody was in a trance, carefully studying graphic images. I closed my eyes and felt the whips slicing the air hard enough, causing it to bleed. The thought of screams and cries of mercy from inmates freaked me out, as I am sure it did to others as well. Nobody dared try and hurry the line’s progression of the line. This is a building capable of spooking even the hardened individual. But as I neared the boards which showed the identification photos of each prisoner, it became too much for one elderly woman. She fell to her knees and began screaming hysterically, begging to get out. We all froze, ill-equipped to handle such an emergency. Two employees who arrived also watched the woman wail. They too stood motionless, unsure of what to do. Everybody felt sorry for the woman but did not intervene. It took several minutes before she was calm enough to be led away.

To me, it seemed like being a part of a funeral procession. I heard the sobbing of some people in line; they were clearly distressed, if not overwhelmed. I wondered if it was going to affect me too. Two images—a young woman holding a newborn baby, who looked much older than her age would have suggested, and an old man with his brains hanging out of his skull, finally eroded my courage. A sickening sensation came over me and then I collapsed. It took me a few minutes to come around and realize what had happened.

 

“Wake up! Are you alright?” is the first sentence I remember hearing upon regaining consciousness. With a head that felt like concrete and wobbly legs, I lacked the strength and balance to sit up properly, so I lay on my back and resigned to being the circus freak. Curious on-lookers huddled together, wondering what had just taken place. They were eagerly anticipating my first words. I managed to slur one sentence; “I was sick near The Killing Fields”, hardly a profound statement.

As I made my way back to base later that afternoon, I remember the driver trying to convince me to go shooting AK-47s at an undisclosed location for the cost of one dollar per bullet. But in my woozy state, I said that I had seen enough horrors for the day. Genocide tourism offered an escape clause allowing me to make a hasty exit if I could not handle traumatic visions from Cambodia’s darkest days.

Published on Foreign Policy Journal: http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/09/17/a-visit-to-the-killing-fields-and-tuol-sleng-museum/ 

A Visit to The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng Museum

Film Review: This Is Not A Film

http://arabiangazette.com/dvd-review-this-is-not-a-film/

DVD Review: This Is Not A Film (2011) – Iran, Farsi language, 75 min.
Review by David Calleja

What do you get when two directors get bored and cannot agree on what they want to do? They record each other filming and send a powerful message in the process. This, however, is no ordinary filming session.

You can physically imprison a person’s movements and thoughts, but the most innovative individuals will always find a unique way of expressing themselves.

In a career spanning more than 20 years, Iranian film director Jafar Panahi has delivered insightful movies such as Crimson Gold and Offside. But This Is Not A Film, a documentary chronicling a day in the life of Panahi while under house arrest following a raid on his apartment in 2010, may be his best remembered work. It may also be his last.

Allegedly downloaded onto a USB stick and smuggled out of Iran in a cake box bound for France, This Is Not A Film illustrates how devoted Panahi is to film making, in spite of the risks and battles he has encountered with authorities, the legal system, and his own emotions. It offers a simple view into his sheltered existence, hurriedly making phone calls to people wishing to visit him, checking out news updates on heavily censored websites, or feeding the family’s pet iguana, activities which occur while Panahi is waiting for his appeal against a prison sentence and lengthy ban on making films, writing screenplays, and giving interviews.

Having been refused permission for a film and subjected to a raid on his Tehran apartment by authorities, Panahi refuses to be silenced, explaining to his co-director Mojtaba Mirtahmasb that he will read and act out the screenplay in a space no larger than the rug in his living room.

As Panahi re-visits the forbidden film’s script which landed him in trouble, he connects with the plight of his character, a girl who plots to escape from her family home after being refused the chance to study liberal arts at a university in Tehran. He enters into immaculate detail about the character’s emotional distress and descent into madness, shortly before adding that reading a film out is just as effective as making one, and then walking away in frustration. We sense that the ideas flowing from this script would have been a grand finale.

In capturing Panahi’s emotions, Mirtahmasb does well in ensuring that Panahi discusses what is most important, as well as revealing secrets that have made Panahi a leading director. When Panahi is filmed taking images on his iPhone, and then explains the rationale, we learn about his techniques. “Shoot the screen,” Panahi says to Mirthamasb, pointing to his television during a scene of Crimson Gold, a young woman sprinting across the corridors of a building, columns resembling prison bars in the foreground.

“This actress didn’t need to make any certain face to show her anxiety. Those vertical lines in the location…supplement her mental state.” He turns back to his own dilemma of reading his screenplay within the limitations of a rug, posing dilemmas and challenging himself. The professor is at work, with his loyal assistant behind the camera dutifully observing the outcome. Panahi appears as a resolute man, but at the stake the bigger issue of freedom of expression, and he fears as much for the future of the film industry, more so than his own fate.

In his relentless pursuit to leave a footprint with this film, Panahi finds himself behind the camera after Mirtahmasb leaves for the day, striking a conversation with a young garbage collector inside an elevator. As the unassuming young man talks about his life ambitions, Panahi regains his customary seat in control. As the two men exit the elevator, Panahi asks his subject, “What are you going to do when you finish school?” “The first thing I will do is find a place with peace,” the young garbage collector answers back.

It is a wonderful sentiment which presents Panahi with one final chance to record a street scene during Persian New Year fireworks celebrations. That is, until the stark reality re-appears with Panahi being reminded of the possibility of being caught. This sudden ending, leaving viewers in limbo is an appropriate ending considering the sentence faced not just by Panahi and his colleagues, but by anybody who speaks out unfavourably. It reminds us that the phrase ‘And they all lived happily ever after’ is a fictional concept associated only with the magic generated by planet Hollywood.

Call it a film, documentary, effort, or diary captured on camera, the end result is that This Is Not A Film is a powerful snapshot, mirroring what society has become at a time when Iranian movies are gaining more praise worldwide. Sadly, directors risk paying a hefty price for exercising creative licence and daring to challenge the status quo. This is reflected during the closing credits, when nobody, apart from Panahi and Mirthamasb, is publicly named. Panahi is a distinguished film maker whose greater battle is one about human rights, as much as it is about events affecting his own life.

Film Review: This Is Not A Film

A Night at the Theatre With Vietnam’s Water Puppets

Weblink: http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/06/14/a-night-at-the-theatre-with-vietnams-water-puppets/

A Night at the Theatre With Vietnam’s Water Puppets

by David Calleja, Foreign Policy Journal     

June 14, 2012

On a warm evening in Hanoi’s Thanh Long Theatre, the best way to cool off and be entertained is watch a few wooden characters tell a story while floating in a shallow pool. In a few minutes time, a performance will breathe new life into legends and folklore dating back from the Lý Dynasty which ruled Vietnam between 1009 and 1225. The tales are about life in northern Vietnam’s rural landscape. For me, it will be a new method of learning history.

Originally, water puppet shows were strictly for hamlet dwellers, celebrating the arrival of spring or a major festival (Contreras, 1995, 25). These days, performances are for the benefit of visitors wishing to expand their cultural appetites, and I am waiting patiently for my serving.

The puppets will undoubtedly be the main attraction, but who is pulling the strings? The real geniuses are hiding their identities behind bamboo blinds disguised as backdrops of well-known landmarks such as the Truong Tien Bridge in the city of Hue. The men and women responsible for the puppets’ flawless movements of puppets will have their moment to bask in glory, but now it is time for the stars to take to the stage. Little is known about their techniques, but the mystique associated with the Vietnamese art of water puppetry only adds to the anticipation of a memorable night ahead.

As a non-Vietnamese language speaker and with nobody to translate for me, I rely on my observation of the puppets’ antics rather than the dialogue. The audience is introduced to Teu, a jolly-looking man in a red gown who will narrate the evening’s proceedings. This is a guided tour about peasant life in the rainy season near the Perfume River. Men toil the fields with their buffaloes and women plant rice. There is a high expectation of a good crop yield. Unfortunately, the peace is disrupted when a duck goes missing, causing uneasiness in the village. As villagers become more suspicious of each other, a struggle develops between landlords and farmers. It takes the arrival of the dragon, signaling the commencement of Tet, or Vietnamese New Year, to ward off evil spirits which nearly engulfed the village. The arrival of three other mythical creatures, the unicorn, phoenix and tortoise, represent qualities required for village dwellers to preserve prosperity and good health. The story is as informative as it is heartwarming.

It is hard for me to pick a favorite moment, but my thoughts turn to one scene which emphasize the true purpose of water puppetry; satire. It involves an intriguing battle between a farmer and a fish. The farmer stands in the river, basket poised, ready to land a lethal blow, but his foe averts the enemy on several occasions. So daring is the fish, he taunts the farmer by swimming around him and underneath the boat which the farmer used for transportation. With one last desperate lunge, the farmer slams the bamboo basket too close to the boat, mistiming his attack and hitting the head of his fellow fisherman who is sitting in the boat, earning the audience’s laughter. While the farmer is ashamed of his inability to hunt food, it is the background score that gives the scene a feel of slapstick comedy.

The use of Cheo, a style of folk music performed with a small orchestra, is crucial in providing dramatic effects to keep the audience’s attention. Comprising of woodwind and percussion instruments, the musicians rarely look at the audience, instead channeling all their energy in crafting each note in conjunction with the movements taking place on the water. Their contributions power the show through to the finale, one which pays homage to the reluctant heroes of the night – the puppeteers, who emerge from anonymity to reveal themselves to the public.

When the curtain is raised, the puppet masters smile nervously and bow to the spectators, who in turn reciprocate their appreciation by showering the puppeteers with applause. These silent stars have played an important part in reinvigorating history, a task that modern cinema or even a western-style theatrical adaptation may not have been capable of accomplishing. In the sink-or-swim environment of live entertainment, each of these humble individuals have passed the test of making a lasting impression on how to portray history and legend in a manner certain to leave a lasting impression in my mind.

My final act for the night is to spend a few minutes at Hoam Kiem Lake, reflecting on what I have taken away; the deft handwork of puppet operators, an introduction to traditional music, and a fresh approach to reinforcing how much farmers dedicate their lives to treating the earth and water like their own children. This is a gift passed down through the ages, one which feeds my desire for a more thorough investigation into a mysterious yet elaborate art.

Alas poor Teu, I knew him well, for he was a great host, even if he had a wooden exterior. But he certainly did not have a wooden heart when it came to sharing a passion for storytelling.

Bibliography

Bibliography

Contreras, G. (1995), “Teaching About Vietnamese Culture: Water Puppetry as the Soul of the Rice Fields”, The Social Studies, Volume 86, Number 1. Pg. 25.

A Night at the Theatre With Vietnam’s Water Puppets

Film Review: The Lady

Film Review: The Lady

by David Calleja

Foreign Policy Journal, April 28, 2012

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/04/28/film-review-the-lady/

For somebody so famous, it is amazing that it has taken until now for somebody to take on the monumental task of bringing Aung San Suu Kyi’s achievements to the big screen. Fortunately for French director Luc Besson, the timing is right to shed the light on Burma’s pro-democracy leader, or at least a portion of her impact.

This is the story outlining the sacrifices made by both Aung San Suu Kyi and her husband, Michael Aris, for not only each other, but for an ideal; democracy in Burma, a concept initially introduced by Aung San Suu Kyi’s father, General Aung San, before his assassination in 1947. Fast forward to 1988 in England, where Suu Kyi lives with her husband, academic Michael Aris, and their two children Alexander and Kim. A phone call from Burma informing Suu Kyi of her mother’s frail health results in her return to Rangoon, as the military are brutally suppressing a student uprising. When Suu Kyi sees first-hand how members of the Tatmadaw (Burmese Army) ruthlessly kill innocent civilians, she finds herself becoming the leader of the democratic movement, carrying on the ideals her father believed in. However, the more popular she becomes amongst the people of Burma, the more determined the military leaders become to rub her out, firstly through house arrest and by cutting off communication with the outside world.

Michelle Yeoh stars as Aung San Suu Kyi, and brings the grace and courage required to the role of Aung San Suu Kyi as an inspirational political figure. She is equally comfortable in conversing in Burmese as in English. David Thewlis is equally as convincing in his role as the supporting husband who works frantically behind the scenes to lobby diplomats for her release from house arrest, while also showing the frailties of raising two teenage boys.

While the story is largely based on the connections between Suu Kyi and Aris and the love that binds them, the underlying themes highlighting the inhumane treatment faced by pro-democracy supporters is enough to bring shame on the international community for standing back and watching the Burmese Army crush its own people. To see images of innocent people thrown into cages besides vicious dogs inside Rangoon’s notorious Insein Prison, as well as people dragged off the street for simply attending National League for Democracy rallies during election and become mine porters for the Burmese Army is gut-wrenching. These scenes are well-relayed by Besson, but he also manages to excel in the more delicate moments, namely Suu Kyi listening to a BBC radio broadcast of her son accepting the Nobel Peace Prize on her behalf. But the moment which Yeoh best demonstrates Suu Kyi’s courage is her refusal to be intimidated by the military, walking directly into the fire of several armed soldiers ready to fire. Yeoh’s interpretation of this crucial event displays the determination and grace that is a hallmark of Aung San Suu Kyi.

The Lady is a poignant account of two individuals who have given everything to a land where peace is long overdue. It also provides dignity to the people of Burma. Watch this film to be inspired by an outstanding woman whose life work has met and overcome extraordinary obstacles, but will only be complete when the long-held military myth of “might is right” is buried forever.

Film Review: The Lady

Muay Thai in Chiang Mai: bye-bye integrity
By David Calleja 27 April 2012 Weblink - Travelmag: http://travelmag.co.uk/?p=6978
What inspired me to check out a Muay Thai fight in Thailand for the first time? I read in The Green Book, the manifesto written by Colonel Muammar Gaddafi. The late Libyan leader states that boxing and wrestling is evidence of mankind’s inability to rid itself of savagery. But fighting forms are not about two people beating the living daylights out of each other. The Neanderthal behaviour is more likely to occur from spectators whose adrenalin surges while watching a fight. Contestants are required to undertake rituals, perfect techniques developed over hundreds of years, and ensure they are in peak shape. When Muay Thai combatants are in full flight, they are as graceful in applying their knowledge and training outside of the ring as they are brutal in administering punishment upon their opponent. But respecting tradition always comes first before any battle. Before the match’s commencement, fighters place their palms together in front of their face and perform a wai, bowing to all four corners of the ring. Traditional music plays throughout the fight, driving the fighters to engage in a battle of wits, athleticism, and physical and mental strength to determine who will be victorious. I wanted to take in the authentic atmosphere of seeing Muay Thai live – the sights, the sounds, and if necessary, the smells. This is why I handed over 400 Baht (USD $10) at Chiang Mai’s Tapae Gate Stadium. At least that is what I thought my ticket would entitle me to – the local experience. I arrived half an hour early, giving me the chance to look around and soak in the atmosphere of visitors mixing with locals. When I saw that the only available seats were next to fat, dribbling men slapping the bottom of anybody looking like a female, or guys in their late teens and 20s engaging in a race for who could drink the most alcohol in the quickest time, I cursed myself for not attending something less intense, like a Thai cookery class. The venue resembled a seedy strip club, minus the exotic dancers. At 8.30pm, a voice announced over a crackly amplifier that the opening contest for the event was ready to begin. I reached into my pocket and unfolded the pamphlet. The first bout was in the 45kg group. My first assumption was that two teenage boys would be competing against each other, but I was shocked when two small boys were led to the ring by their trainers. The children did not look more than 12 years old, and that was being optimistic. Both fighters kept their eyes fixed to the floor; they must have felt uncomfortable to have been part of a circus act, watched over by drunken spectators. A male dressed in a pink-floral shirt wandered up to me, pointed to his trousers and asked “Who you like, pink or yellow?”, referring to the fighters’ trunk colours. Gambling has never interested me, so I had no problem in turning the other way. But I must have been in the minority, as plenty of men were ready to bet on the outcome of the fight. In placing all my attention on what was happening outside of the ring, I forgot that the formalities had taken place and the fight was now underway. Neither boy initially committed to draw themselves into apposition to be struck or kicked, doing their best not to fight. This agitated a small section of the crowd, who made their displeasure known by booing. They paid 400 Baht and expected to view a battle of two individuals with killer instincts, not two brave kids willing to risk injury and show off their skills. Eventually the verbal abuse started. “I WANT TO SEE BLOOD!”, yelled out one pot-bellied foreigner, impatient at not having seen one knockdown in the first 60 seconds. Another shouted out, “SOMEONE MUST DIE IN THAT RING TONIGHT!”. It would not be long before crowd members started fighting with each other to determine who shout out the worst line. Where was the beautiful art that I had paid to see? It had degenerating into an exhibition of savagery, just like Colonel Gaddafi had warned. So this is all I would take away; the musings of a madman. And a handful of foreigners were to blame. I needed something else to take my attention away, anything would do. So I signalled to a kratoi (ladyboy) who was heading towards the bar. “Excuse me,” I said, “how old are the boys in the boxing ring?” “They are eight or nine years old,” she responded. I gasped in disgust. To her this sounded like a routine question that every ‘concerned’ foreigner would come up with, so she answered in the best way possible; matter-of-factly. All she wanted to know was my drink order. That would have got a reaction, possibly a smile. But I continued to ask questions. “Where do the children come from to fight here?”, I asked, as the crowd cheered when the referee stopped the fight at the end of the round. “Most come from the countryside to earn money,” she said. “The prize is $USD30, but none of it goes to the winner.” “Why is that?” I asked. “The trainer gets some. So does the stadium owner. The boy’s parents get the rest,” she said. “Now do you want a beer?” I politely said no, and that was enough as far as the kratoi was concerned. She smiled as if to say ‘Thanks for wasting my time’, before walking off to find a customer more willing to accommodate her needs. Bars are no place for discussing morals with staff because changing the world is not on the drinks menu. The referee declared the winner, the boys were quickly whisked away from the arena, their feats and existence soon to be forgotten by the crowd, and gamblers who bet on the right colour shorts won enough money to continue getting plastered, all in time for the next match-up. The cycle of moronic behavior would corrupt the beautiful art once more. I wondered if anybody agreed with me, and amazingly, I found an ally at the bar. Since I did not catch his name the first time we introduced ourselves, the name ‘Dean’ stuck in my mind, even though it could have been Edgar or something completely different. “Awful, isn’t it, mate?” Dean slurred in his Cockney accent, taking a swig of beer and then letting out an enormous belch. “The service or the surroundings?” I asked, not sure what he was referring to. “Both. Did you see that last fight?”, he continued. “Watching two kids in a place like this. F—-ng awful. Were the grown men too gutless to show up?” I nodded in agreement. We began talking about what led us here. It turned out that he, like me, had made feeble attempts to learn Muay Thai as part of being indoctrinated into the “Thai experience”. Neither of us, however, stuck with the grueling regime of dietary and training requirements. “I won’t give up my booze and ciggies because some tough looking guy yells in my face about unhealthy my habits are for the sake of doing sit-ups and practising hits and kicks. I went through all that with my Dad when I was younger.” Dean’s father was in the military and considered fitness and discipline two essential ingredients in a healthy diet. “When he sprung me drinking and smoking in my teenage years, he dragged me off to a boxing gym to teach me a lesson about taking care of myself,” Dean said. “I followed it for a while, not to make him happy, but so I could be the toughest in my year level. If someone I didn’t like the look of brushed against me, I threatened to belt him. I was addicted to fighting and got into a lot of trouble from the teachers and principal. Every time my Mum picked me up from school after being kicked out, I would get in trouble from Dad. He would blast me for not showing discipline and respect. Yet he was the one who initially lectured me about the importance of defending myself. I couldn’t win.” Shrugging his shoulders, Dean added, “I dropped out of school and started hanging out with the wrong crowd, looking for fights. Being in a street gang, I nearly got my head kicked in, so I left. When I look at people fighting on the streets here to impress, I say bollocks to that. We should not be teaching kids that fighting is the best way to solve problems in life,” Dean said. He paused, downed the contents of his bottled beer, and then continued. “I have a ten year-old nephew with autism who lives in a rough neighbourhood in London. You know, a council housing estate with lots of crime and violence,” he said. “All he knows is how to love everybody around him. What matters to him is giving hugs and saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. The kid is oblivious to hatred. When he gets into high school, he will be easy pickings for bullies. I learned the hard way to stick up for myself and managed. But who is going to protect him? Whatever hell he endures now will impact him for the rest if his life.” An awkward silence fell over us. I felt obliged to say something, but I could not think of anything in-depth. “I hope he manages to get through,” was I all could utter. It sounded insincere and unintelligent, as if I wanted to abort the conversation. But that is not what I meant to convey. Not that it mattered, as Dean kept talking. “It’s worst for these kids who fight just to keep their families out of poverty. They deserve much more in life, but one day they will make great fighters. That is, if they get there.” He pointed to an area close to the ring where the most raucous section of the crowd was seated. “It is so easy to look and sound tough from the outside. But put that lot inside the ropes and they will be begging for mercy.” Dean finished his beer, slammed down the bottle and then ordered another. He was one beer away from going up to a stranger and challenging them to a fight, but maybe he was happy somebody would listen to him talk about a sensitive matter. I sensed he wanted to air more grievances, but I did not dare ask. My encounter with Dean made me glad about turning up. Having withstood the lunatic asylum masquerading as a boxing arena, I felt as if I had extracted aurum de stercore, or gold from dung. Originally published in Primo Levi’s book The Periodic Table, Levi used the phrase when recalling how he sifted through chicken excrement to find a valuable metal while working in a mine in northern Italy during the Second World War. Although I was not quite on my hands and knees, unearthing Dean’s sensitive story was equally as precious. His words were what I remember the most. There were another five fights for the night, including a tag team event where four participants were blindfolded before taking part in a Muay Thai fight. Towards the night’s end, I had overcome my disappointment of not seeing an authentic Thai boxing bout, for the night was about entertaining spectators and catering to their needs. I had seen traces of courage, but not the spirit of the beautifully crafted warrior movements I had been craving for. Thankfully, nobody outside of the ring developed an insatiable taste for uncontrollable violence, or integrity would have been dealt a knockout blow, and a dictator’s prophecies may have been proven right. Copyright © 2012 David Calleja

To Dream the Impossible Dream… A Future with Prospects

Burma: To Dream the Impossible Dream… A Future with Prospects
by David Calleja

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/02/24/burma-to-dream-the-impossible-dream-a-future-with-prospects/

February 24, 2012

 

Sixteen year old Naw S has lived in the Nupo Refugee Camp, along the Thai-Burma border, with her family for the past six years. They fled their native home in Karen State, Burma, following the region’s conflict between the Burmese Army and Karen forces, a war lasting more than six decades. Their dream was to find peace and stability. As part of this transition, Naw S attended primary school in a small town near Chiang Mai. But settling into her new environment alienated Naw S from other students because she had to carry her birth certificate at all times. Convinced that the only opportunity to fit in with a community and receive more support would be through residing in a temporary refugee camp, Naw S’s parents made the long trek to Nupo. It has since become a permanent home.

The Thai Burma Border Consortium (TBBC) estimates that Nupo is home to more than 16,000 people, of which nearly 9,000 individuals are documented as refugees with the UNHCR.[1] Thanks to such assistance, Naw S is a senior student at PAB School. She has excelled in her final years of school, earning top marks in English, Mathematics, Social Studies, Burmese, Physics, and Chemistry. But as a stateless individual, not a citizen of Thailand and not in possession of a Burmese ID card, it is uncertain whether her educational opportunities will be permanently interrupted or whether she may continue her studies abroad, should she be fortunate enough to progress further. But this has not stopped Naw S from mapping out a career path. “I want to become an educated person. My dream is to study international law at a famous university abroad. Not because I want to be rich, but because I want to serve my community, including refugees,” she says modestly.

With reports in the media referring to a possible change in Burma’s political landscape under President Thein Sein, the future for Burmese refugees in camps like Nupo remains unclear. Thailand is not currently a signatory to the 1951 United Nations Refugees Convention or the 1954 Convention Relating to the Status of Statelessness Persons, but the UNHCR has noted that amendments to the Civil Registration Act 2008 will help prevent statelessness in granting universal birth registration, allowing for the issuance of birth certificates to all children born in the country, regardless of the status of their parents. Most of the refugees are from Karen State, who, like, Naw S and her parents, are lured by the prospect of not waking up to the sounds of mortar shells and landmine explosions. Refugees who have survived similar encounters in the camp vouch for the difficulties faced by Naw S. Zoya Phan, the Burma Campaign UK Campaign Manager, has first-hand experience of living in the camp. In her bid to escape, she spent countless occasions moving between makeshift refugee camps, making the most of limited schooling before studying in Bangkok as an illegal entrant before seeking asylum in the United Kingdom and attending university. “I know exactly how refugees in Nupo camps feel, as I have lived there for a year after my village in Karen State was under attack by the Burmese Army,” Ms. Phan says.

In 2011, the TBBC identified 49 villages across four townships had been burned, destroyed or abandoned by residents following Burmese Army attacks between August 2010 and July 2011 in a report entitled Displacement and Poverty in South East Burma. Schools are often a target in the Burmese Army’s drive to prevent young people learning, so donations from volunteers in setting up a school in Nupo are critical. The 360 students attending PAB School, predominately from Karen State, are a mixture of Burma’s multi-ethnic and multi-faith backgrounds. They make the most of the limited materials available. The school is staffed by 18 volunteer teachers. One teacher, 25 year old Ko, is one of eight teachers aged 31 years or under. Before instructing students on methods of probing the laws of science, he tested the boundaries of political dissent. As a student leader in 2006, he was accused of spreading anti-government messages across his university campus in the southern Burmese city of Myeiko. Twelve months later, he joined monks marching through Rangoon in the Saffron Revolution and was detained and beaten by police. Although he is now in relative safety, registered with the United Nations as a refugee, this has not quelled his fears about being sent back over the border.

“Every day we wonder if the Burmese Army is going to attack the camp or that the Thai government will send us all back over the border,” Ko claims, a situation he identifies as being exasperated by what he calls an anti-Burma policy within Thailand. “It is time for refugees to stop being used as political ping pong balls” by (officials in) Bangkok.” In 2011, Tak Province Governor Samart Loifah was quoted in The Irrawaddy as saying that Burmese refugees in the town of Mae Sot should leave Thailand voluntarily, and indicated his willingness to work with the European Union (EU) and UNHCR to achieve this outcome by a reduction in international funding for refugee camps.[2] Since the agreement by delegations representing Burmese government officials and Karen National Union (KNU) in January 2012 to cease hostilities, Ko commented that President Thein Sein’s early reforms were “good news” for the next Karen generation. However, he remains skeptical as to whether the peace will last. He feels that it will take more written promises and photo opportunities to convince displaced populations that Burma is on the edge of a new political era. His comments are echoed by Zoya Phan, who believes that despite the initial talks, the military-backed government in Burma is unwilling to enter into serious dialogue to solve problems and end conflicts. “People want to go home, but without political solutions and proper arrangements, it will be too premature to force refugees to cross back to Burma,” Ms. Phan adds.

Once again, there is no clear answer with regards to what may happen next. For the refugees in temporary camps hoping to stay in Thailand, life goes on as normal, even though the past has taught them that sincere words of peace and reconciliation mean little without immediate action. Individuals like Ko, whose father and brother died in Burma in the struggle to gain more civil and political freedom, face uncertainty, as do the population of Nupo. But this attitude is in stark contrast to Naw S’s belief in the power of positive thinking. She is unfazed by any potential stumbling blocks.

“A crisis is a challenge and I will overcome any crisis,” Naw S says. “I have to go about my life humbly and not worry too much about mysteries I cannot explain. I have to improve myself in order to improve my world.”

Author’s note – the names of the two individuals in the camp have been changed to protect their respective identities.

Notes

[1] United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees Figures for August 2011, Thai Burma Border Consortium, http://www.tbbc.org/camps/2011-08-aug-map-tbbc-unhcr.pdf

[2] Naing, S.Y., 2011, “Time For Refugees To Go Home?”, The Irrawaddy, April 7, http://www.irrawaddy.org/article.php?art_id=21094 Accessed 31 January 2012)

To Dream the Impossible Dream… A Future with Prospects

Book Review - Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Arts Diary - Antonio Graceffo

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/01/28/khun-khmer-cambodian-martial-art-diary-by-antonio-graceffo/

Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Art Diary by Antonio Graceffo

by David Calleja

January 28, 2012

Antonio Graceffo, Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Art Diary (VMA Publications, 2011).

 
American author Antonio Graceffo traverses Cambodia to reveal Bokator in Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Arts Diary. Graceffo’s 7^th book is an in-depth look at an indigenous fighting art once feared lost forever. In his quest to provide the most detailed publication on Bokator, as well as Bradal Serey (kickboxing) and Japbap Boran Khmer (wrestling), Antonio takes readers through every sparring session with past heroes and future prodigies of this unique fighting art.

While much of the book concentrates on the art of Bokator, it also pays tribute to the individuals who have influenced Antonio throughout his sojourn, acknowledging the tireless efforts of individuals who have fought hard for many years to allow locals mired in poverty to have dignity. His perilous efforts in tracking down teachers and devoted practitioners, as well as meeting with memorable individuals and recounting less savory aspects of the poverty faced throughout the country, is what makes this book enjoyable. Antonio’s meeting with instructor Grand Master San Kim Saen, one of the few men who survived the Khmer Rouge’s purge, and Aki Ra, the one-man NGO landmine remover, are among the highlights. The hours of training for professional fights and on-camera appearances with martial arts practitioners and future prodigies battling to earn for living each day gives Graceffo’s account a distinct edge. Cambodia is a country not for the faint-hearted, and what we learn is that moments of frustration of frustration and inspiration can shift as often as the wind changes direction. But this is why Graceffo appears to love the country so much, because his limits are constantly tested, both inside and outside of the fighting arena, and he is never one to back away from a challenge.

As with his previous books, Antonio does not hold back when faced with confronting questions, such as the sensitive issue over the true whether Thailand or Cambodia claim rights to a martial art practiced, when explaining the link between the martial arts, unique characters he interviews and the grinding poverty endured by Bokator students, providing context the horrible impact of Cambodia’s civil war and how the country is still haunted today by its aftermath, or why a hospital worker charges $40 per night to keep a dead body safely stored in a hospital for identification by consulate officials.
Not only does this book have the potential to spark a surge in interest and participation in Bokator, Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Art Diary may prove to be Antonio Graceffo’s magnum opus for unearthing a treasure once feared lost. The moments of frustration and anger in the text are a reminder of how passionate Graceffo is about training and self-improvement, and showcasing another highlight of Cambodia, the land that has become a home away from home for the author. Graceffo’s insights are hard-hitting and provide the perfect backdrop to cheer on underdog combatants. This is a tough environment where fighting has long been a national currency, but Graceffo ultimately makes us all feel comfortable in a land with a proud tradition in Bokator. Hopefully it will soon unearth a new breed of Cambodian ambassadors and champions.

Book Review - Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Arts Diary - Antonio Graceffo