tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38559795112199117472024-02-18T22:03:11.992-08:00David J CallejaDavid Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-66831893382111936392013-09-27T06:44:00.003-07:002013-09-27T07:13:09.378-07:00Bang It Like Bonham<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Bang
It Like Bonham </b></span></span>
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">by David
Calleja</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">From the
age of 15, I wanted to be a drummer. In class, I would draw myself in
stick figure form, holding two sticks in the air, ready to thump the
skins hard. But my parents could not afford to buy me a drum kit and
lessons were too expensive, so I made my own, wedging the ends of art
paintbrushes between slits of wood to use as cymbal stands. My older
brother’s ABBA records were transformed into makeshift cymbals. An
empty Vaseline jar became a snare drum and an empty tin of powdered
chocolate milk drink served as the bass drum. I used two pens as
sticks, and in absence of a bass pedal, my knee would thump on the
carpet. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Every
night after school, I listened to the radio and practised. One
evening I tuned the radio to a station that played rock music from
the 1960s and 1970s. For me, it felt like stepping into a time
machine. When an echoing voice on the radio announced, “And now a
Led Zeppelin triple play”, I held my breath. Then the symphony of
guitar riffs, wailing vocals and thumping drums smacked my ears so
hard, I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. I had just
experienced “Whole Lotta Love”. My sheltered Catholic upbringing
meant that I did not understand what the lyrics “Shake for me/I
wanna be your backdoor man” referred to. In spite of my naivety, I
found a modus operandi for listening to rock music. For years to
come, I would devote many hours absorbing complex symphonies,
partnered by lyrics about the mystic East, Nordic gods, the blues,
and sojourns with women. All of this from the band that I branded The
Real Fab 4, whose discs I wore out and replaced. It made me obsess
about playing the drums one day, just like John Bonham. But it took
several years, and the opportunity arose in the unlikeliest fashion.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">In late
2003, I accepted a job teaching English to primary school students
from ethnic minority backgrounds in Chiang Rai, Thailand. On an
evening ride into the city centre, I happened to get a flat tyre
outside a venue called The Cat House. The bar's name sounded more
like a stripper's venue, but since I did not know how to repair a
puncture, I walked inside and looked around for help, but there was
none to be found. It seemed as if I had stepped into a 1970s themed
bar, for it possessed an alluring charm. A sign reading “Have A Jam
With Sam” made me relax a little, for I knew it was not a sleazy
premise. Photos of a band were plastered across the wall. That is
when I caught sight of amplifiers, an electric piano, guitars, and a
drum set. Could this be the night for me?</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">‘<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Dear
Sam, whoever you are,’ I thought to myself, ‘Please let me play
the drums. It has been my boyhood desire.' My dreams must have echoed
because a guy with short black hair and a moustache tapped me on the
shoulder, startling me. It was Sam, the bar owner. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Yes,
can I help you?” Sam said to me in a low voice.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I told
him about my dilemma with the flat tyre, but he did not know how to
deal with it. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Well
Sam, can I play the drums?” I asked him. Instead of rejecting my
request, he asked me to sit down with him so he could tell me about
the place, a polite way of saying no.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
wanted to offer something different in this street,” he began.
“</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Farang</i></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
(foreigners) come here with big dreams of opening a bar and think
they will get rich. But it costs a lot of money for licence and they
complain nobody comes.” He got up from the table, walked to the bar
and retrieved a black and white photo. It showed a long-haired man on
a bicycle, guitar slung over his back, mountains in the distance.
“You see this photo? That’s me in Kashmir, 1970s. I went there
before I met my wife. I had long hair and my good luck charm,” Sam
said, pointing to his moustache, a once-thick plot of hair cover his
upper lip now trimmed to look more refined.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">What
impressed me was that he cycled to Kashmir, let alone India. What
intrigued me was the motive for him doing so. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I
wanted to visit Kashmir because of the song.” </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Sam was
referring to the 1974 song by Led Zeppelin. It stunned me that a song
could drive an individual to a particular destination so desolate;
this was the first time I had ever met anybody who admitted this.
“Because of Led Zeppelin, I took my guitar with me everywhere. I
was a big fan.” He spoke of the desolate roads, stopping in
villages to eat, sleep and play music reminded me of the lyrics in
Kashmir, speaking of a windswept, sunburnt place that once had a
magical air about it. “If the chance comes again, I would return.
But now I have this bar and my wife. Much harder now,” he added. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">At that
moment, two guys came through the entrance and greeted Sam, who
introduced me to the two guys that played in his bar. The first man
had shoulder length blond hair sprinkled with tinges of grey. I
immediately thought of him as being an aggressive individual who
could be confronting. “I’m Den,” he said, while shaking my hand
roughly.” How are you doin’, brother?” </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Fine
thanks,” I responded, even though my arm felt like it had been
pounded.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve
been playing in bands for 30 years, mainly back in Los Angeles. But I
moved to Thailand for the easy life because I hated the traffic and
people,” Den added. He played lead guitar and cited Eric Clapton,
Chuck Berry and Marvin Gaye as influences. But as he constantly
flicked his hair from side to side, and had an arrogant swagger about
him, I paid no attention to his musical prowess. I nicknamed him
Maestro. The second guy, Charlie wore thick-rimmed black glasses and
played bass guitar. He was much quieter, nodding his head and smiling
to acknowledge my presence. Charlie seemed more comfortable in a
science laboratory, wearing a white coat, surrounded by beakers,
Bunsen burners and microscopes. I felt like I could get along with
him more than Maestro. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I waited
inevitably for the secret question. When nobody said a word for 30
seconds, I took the initiative and stated that I wanted to play the
drums with their band. But Maestro queried my motive.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">David,
why do you want to play the drums with us?” </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I wanted
to say that I had resorted to making my own drum kit out of household
objects, or that the flat tyre on my bicycle was no accident, But I
explained that drummers could silence and erupt musical lovers in one
breath, and that a musician armed with two sticks possessed as much
power as a soldier and his firearm. It was the most garbage I had
ever spun in my life.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">David,”
Maestro said, “To play the drums, it is not about how loud you can
sound. You have to be part of a machine that works harmoniously.”</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>
</i></span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">A
machine? What machine? Certainly not a car, I thought to myself. Nor
a robot. Instead, I declared that a drummer is the backbone of a
band, supporting all other body parts. That was enough for Maestro;
he said I could join. The excitement I felt tore through me; finally,
my dream was about to become reality.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It is
one thing to talk about being in a band, but playing the part right
is much harder for a beginner. Hopping behind an instrument that
takes up so much room, especially a set of drums which look so
imposing, is like learning to drive a tank. I felt out of my depth.
The urge to play had disappeared because I would be shown up for a
time waster. Maestro, Sam, Charlie and I had an auspicious beginning,
taking 5 minutes to agree on a song to play. A middle aged man who
had wandered in unnoticed and taken a seat yelled out, “Sing
‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’”. Even the audience was getting
restless, so it was a relief when Sam played his guitar, followed by
Maestro and then Charlie on the bass, I hesitated several times
before entering. Even without a major audience, stage fright had
taken hold. To overcome my adversity, I started banging the drums,
hoping to establish a rhythm. Maestro and Sam cast glances in my
direction, a sign to slow down. But I kept feeling restless, and
after 2 minutes I hit a cymbal so hard with my drumstick, sending it
flying. Thankfully nobody was hurt, but it brought proceedings to a
halt. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I…
I’m sorry guys, the stick slipped,” I said quietly. But Maestro
was furious and he wanted to make it clear who was boss.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Who
do you think you are, John Bonham?" Maestro yelled at me, his
face turning bright red. "Get outta my sight. NOW." </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">There
were 10 steps between the drums and the bar. What should have taken
no more than 3 seconds felt like it had been prolonged due to the
tense atmosphere. Maybe I should have gone home with a flat tyre, but
looking outside, I could see the rain coming down hard. The bar was
closer and considerably warmer. Maybe one drink would soothe
everything over.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">When the
Maestro pulled up a chair and sat next to me, I expected a blasting,
but he adopted a conciliatory tone. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"David,
when you play, you have to feel the beat and keep in time with
everybody. Remember, we're a machine. Everybody relies on each
other.” Maestro said. He slapped my back, urged me to drink up and
get back to my seat. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">All
right, everyone. Let’s go again.” Maestro called out. Turning to
me, he said,“David, remember what I said – timing.” I nodded,
psyched myself and then waited. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">OK
David,” Maestro shouted. “Hit it.”</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Then
stage fright got to me. I sat motionless, in a trance-like state.
Charlie looked at me, I stared across to Sam who shrugged his
shoulders as if to say, ‘Don’t ask me’. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Maestro
started to get edgy. “Come on, I haven’t got all night.” </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">For one
hour, I pounded those drums and worked myself into a groove, feeding
off the guitars, bass and vocals. Communicating with a series of
appreciative nods and smiles from other band members, culminating
with a mid-song grin from the Maestro, my confidence had improved.
Maybe playing the drums could be more than about getting together
with like-minded individuals. It is possible to have fun. This is
when I decided to undertake the glory pose, just like the stick
figure drawings I used to sketch in class. With one swift action, I
shot up from the chair and raised my arms, ready to deliver a
thumping conclusion to a song that we had been playing for 10
minutes. But Charlie's mobile phone rang shortly after I had jumped
off my stool. My concentration lapsed for a second, just enough time
to lose balance, knock over the bass drum and cymbal stand. Sam open
his mouth and gasped, horrified to see his equipment tumbling over.
But Maestro's reaction frightened me; the manner in which he threw
the guitar strap over his head and carried the guitar by the neck had
turned me into a target. My brain told me to hide, yet my body was
incapable of moving, gripped by fear. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It had
now come to the moment of truth, only half a metre separating us. I
pictured myself drowning in tidal waves of his dripping sweat,
seething at the veins bursting from his neck whipped up a frenzy. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">David,
I told you once to concentrate. But you did not listen,”</span><span style="color: red;">
</span><span style="color: black;">Maestro yelled. I told him to calm down,
a move which only increased the tension. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Who
asked for your opinion?” Maestro screeched. He turned to Charlie
and Sam and said,”I cannot have this wise guy playing in my band.”
</span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And this
is where I fought back. “Your band? These are not your instruments,
and we are not your robots.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: black;">Nobody
spoke for a few seconds, not even Maestro. We seemed content to see
who would lose their cool first, but the unknown customer in the
background, bored with either the lack of action or music, or the
quality of his beer, started chanting “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”
Maestro had a sadistic look in eye; he wanted to swing the guitar at
me.</span> <span style="color: black;">Conflict resolution in Thailand,
however, does not favour any form of combat; saving face and
resolving differences peacefully is the emphasis. I used this to my
advantage, demanding that before I leave, I wanted to play the drums
on one Led Zeppelin song. Maestro was not so accommodating. “I
don’t play Led Zeppelin and even if I did, you would not be
playing,” he stated.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">That
sentence should have ended everything, but he made a crucial error in
declaring a weakness; not playing the music of a universally idolised
band. I downgraded him from Maestro to Scheister. </span></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">And you call yourself a
musician. Not one Led Zeppelin song. Unprofessional,” I said. I
wanted to continue, and the curse words would have oozed out, but Sam
intervened. </span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Please, no fighting,” he
growled. It may have been the first time this normally placid man
lost his temper in public. Maestro and I agreed to cease hostilities
with each other, ending what had promised to be my transformation
from dreamer to achiever. The bubbling tantrum petered out to a tea
party, a somewhat premature conclusion to my burgeoning music career.
</span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I dropped the idea of playing
drums, but not because of lack of faith in my ability. I realised
that my purpose in Thailand was to communicate confidently in the
form of teaching English to young learners, a role that requires as
much nurturing and dedication as it does talent. Nearly ten years
have since passed, and it is the wisdom of Led Zeppelin's song Over
The Hills And Far Away that provides inspiration for self-belief:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Many dreams come true/And
some have silver lining/I live for my dream/And a pocketful of gold</i>.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">These are great words to live
for and beat your own drum to, no matter what the focus is. </span>
David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-2381800620301768042013-08-01T08:36:00.001-07:002013-08-01T08:36:51.022-07:00Bovine Intervention<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bovine Intervention</span></h1>
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</h2>
<h2 class="singlePageAuthor" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1; margin: 0px 0px 5px; padding: 5px 0px 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by David Calleja, Foreign Policy Journal</span></h2>
<h2 class="singlePageDate" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 12px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">December 29, 2008</span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Weblink: <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2008/12/29/bovine-intervention/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2008/12/29/bovine-intervention/</a> </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="pf-content" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; line-height: 19px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3855979511219911747" id="dd_start" style="border: 0px; clear: both; float: left; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></a><br />
<div style="border: 0px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border: 0px; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">U</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">nderneath the burning sun, the village traffic consists of malnourished cows with ribs sticking out of their bodies heading towards rice fields. They are being marched along a track covered in rocks and dust under the watchful eye of their owner. Sometimes it is an adult at the helm; other times a young boy or girl carrying a scarf weaving apparatus is responsible for supervising the herd. Occasionally, a lone cow breaks from the pack to search for vegetation or garbage to eat in a residential yard, and is unphased by the bamboo whip cutting sharply through the air and whacking the side of its body or legs. </span></span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I became accustomed to such sights and sounds while working as a volunteer English teacher in the village of Tropang Sdok. Sreat, a local resident, spent time sharing his experience of working in the fields during the rice planting period. It also presented me with the scenario to examine the relationship between humans and cows. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“To us, cows are a part of the family,” Sreat told me. “But in the same way that a parent disciplines a child, if we are prevented from doing our work, we have to let the cows know.” </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Do you whip them? How often?” I asked. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, we whip their legs to tell them to move faster. They do not feel it, but I still feel bad because cows experience pain too,” Sreat continued. “Considering how much they are loved, farmers feel guilty about using a bamboo stick, but it is the only way to stop them from running away.” </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rather than being a form of punishment by defining the relationship between animal and farmer and reinforcing the belief of humankind’s superiority over animal life, it is a reminder to the beast that during the wet season, time is precious and that much work lays ahead to plant rice between June and November. The coming harvest season will provide Cambodian families with the staple food that guarantees survival, and the manual labor that cows and oxen perform in pulling ploughs and softening the earth is the backbone of the rice planting season. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Farmers in the rural Cambodian district of Roviang have a high degree of love for bovine creatures. Owning a cow opens the doorway to obtaining more respect in society, for they will be capable of cultivating their fields to grow rice and feed their family. However, ownership also allows farmers to generate more wealth. The average price of a cow fetches $USD300, approximately one year’s salary for Cambodian workers. Since cows breed at a rate of every 9 months, this income generation has the potential to multiply numerous times. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tropang Sdok’s male farming population consists of 99% of the 100 families living in the village, so nearly every man has spent some point of their life as a rice farmer leading cows into the fields. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“In Cambodia, every man is a rice farmer at some point in their life because all Cambodians like to eat rice. It is our most important food,” Sreat explained to me. “But without the help from our cows, we cannot work the land.” </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For a young man of 23 years, Sreat is familiar with the grind of rice planting and the reliance of his family’s prized cows. During the rice planting season when he was not at school, Sreat’s day would begin at 5am with the sunrise, when he would gather the cows and lead them to the family farm to work on the fields. He would spend an average of 8 hours in the fields, planting rice and ensuring that the cows ploughed enough land to prepare for planting crops. The clay surface, mixed with rains that measured up to the knees in the height of the wet season, would present difficulties, for the land would be too soft for crop preparation. Also, persistent rain would result in mass flooding of the rice fields, followed by prolonged periods of dry weather. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What is the main task that the cows do?” I asked. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“They pull the ploughs that make the land more fertile for planting rice stalks and allows for the rain to enable the crops to grow,” came Sreat’s response. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sreat admitted to me that in recent years, farmers were very worried that uneven distribution of rain meant that crops would often die early, normally within 2 or 3 months of being planted. This would drastically affect the total amount of rice. Eager to know the social connection between male farmers en route to the fields, I queried Sreat on what farmers talked about and how often he took part in such discussions. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We always talk to each other because it makes the long walk more bearable,” Sreat began. “After we acknowledge each other, as soon as farmers meet, the conversation focuses on rice planting. We talk about whether we have grown any more crops, or how much land we have left to cover.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Was there a competition between farmers as to who could produce the most rice in the quickest time? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, but occasionally we make jokes between each other as to who may be the slowest. When the weather is hot, we need to make the best of a long day,” admitted Sreat. Being the youngest of the farmers in the midst of most conversations and always mindful of the respect paid to the elderly men who farmed full-time for a living, Sreat found himself being good-natured on days when he was singled out by the more experienced men. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We cannot answer back to the older men in Cambodian culture. We are not allowed to be rude to anyone that is older than us. Doing so meant that we would be looked down upon and if rumors about my behavior reached home, then my parents would not be happy with me,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So who gets the blame if not much work is done?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sreat’s answer to me was simple. “We blame the cows, because they cannot answer back.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Farmers understand the importance and value of cows to their families, but the limits of their work are set by the ability of cows to prepare the ground for them. At some point, cows undertaking hard labor feel the threshold of pain in the same way that human beings get tired when they are working in the sun. Due to the lack of vegetation and grass in the dry parts of Cambodia, cows do not appear anywhere as healthy as their Western counterparts, and seeing ribcages exposed is an example of shortfalls in livestock feed and water. Cows from as young as one year experience this, yet they are still asked to go and do work on the farms day in and day out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sreat went further to explain that when farmers would seek shelter in isolated pockets of the property at hourly intervals, cows would remain in the sun and stand resiliently in a huddle, knee deep in water, looking in the direction of empty fields. I wonder if this represented a longing to escape to a simpler life in the same way that poor workers dream of emigrating to developed nations, or employees think of retiring from their jobs to travel worldwide and seek greener pastures themselves. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“At the end of our day on the farm, we round up our cows and head home. Usually we know when cows feel tired and overworked because they moo loudly. Calves cry by mooing longer,” said Sreat. “They miss their mom and want only to return to a peaceful field, where they can stay close to their parents. They are just like Cambodian children.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It may be difficult to comprehend the logic of tough love and how it affects the relationship between farmer and animal, but to understand the dynamics of acquiring a cow in a village where income levels are too low to afford bulk purchases of valuable livestock, non government organizations operate animal husbandry projects designed to provide a greater number of families with opportunities to generate more income and increase standards of living. One such scheme is the cow lottery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Organizing and facilitating a cow lottery operates in a manner similar to a regular random draw numbers game. Numbers are written out onto a piece of paper, rolled up and placed into a bowl before each entrant would be invited to draw a number out. The winning ticket holder is entitled to own the cow for 9 months in what is similar to a leasing scheme, but instead of paying the market price of $USD300 for the bovine, the winner would only need to pay 31,000 Cambodian riel ($USD7.75). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After 9 months, the holder would be required to give the cow back to the NGO and another lottery would take place for the benefit of all community members. This maximizes the chances of spreading wealth within the community and ensure local ownership of a treasured resource. One of the key concepts that ensures long-term income generation is that the cow lottery winner is allowed to keep the first born calf permanently. Subsequent calves born in the same litter will become property of the host organization on behalf of the community. Eventually, the calves will be available in future lotteries. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the day that I observed the drawing, 38 people, one representative from each family showed up. It was to be conducted inside the grounds of a pagoda that serves as a community meeting place. Next to the statue of an upright Buddha wer four photos of donors contributing the most money towards the construction of the pagoda, and beneath the images a list of everybody who gave money. Some of the participants already had a cow, whereas others did not have one and saw the lottery as a one-off chance to generate income through means other than growing vegetables for sale at the local market. Children played gleefully on the equipment outside, oblivious of the events being undertaken. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Formalities commenced with a series of speeches in Khmer to thank everybody for showing up and inform participants of the process and spirit in which the lottery is to be conducted. Any visiting dignitaries or foreigners observing the day’s events are also expected to say something, regardless of the language which it is spoken. The message will be relayed in Khmer for the benefit of the participants, but even if it were not translated, the speech’s completion will always result in polite applause from the audience, out of respect. The general message is that one day, it is hoped that everyone will get a cow; but if you do not, your opportunity will arrive someday in the future. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From my own perspective, I wanted to wish good luck to everybody, and for the winner, to please treat this cow as if it were their own child and this cow’s life as if it were their own life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the greatest difficulties for village families to is to adequately clothe, feed and educate their children. But for the eventual winner, a 38 year old woman with four children, her winning number presented an economic lifeline and instant change in fortune for her growing children, as well as herself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hopefully, the lottery will also be a guaranteed ticket for the cow’s tranquil existence.</span></div>
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David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-19933831374177143812013-08-01T08:20:00.001-07:002013-08-01T08:20:08.353-07:00Encounters With Rogue Monks in Ho Chi Minh City<h1 class="entry-title" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 24px; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Encounters With Rogue Monks in Ho Chi Minh City</span></h1>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by David Calleja, Foreign Policy Journal</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">July 30, 2013<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDGDscUR2ROumbiEekLJzAX_rhFqylYHRp_uV9gyJ7GQFnWRiXfi8fu8ffPDT0rI6lq5CsHAkon9n7TTSd2gYrWIK0uS618AYwbNUqiUZH77uoWSxg5jrYMny3NBavVeWik_jdk6EFN8/s1600/IMG_0255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDGDscUR2ROumbiEekLJzAX_rhFqylYHRp_uV9gyJ7GQFnWRiXfi8fu8ffPDT0rI6lq5CsHAkon9n7TTSd2gYrWIK0uS618AYwbNUqiUZH77uoWSxg5jrYMny3NBavVeWik_jdk6EFN8/s320/IMG_0255.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ben Thanh Market, Ho Chi Minh City.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the lead-up to Tet, the aisles of Ben Thanh Market in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, are tough to navigate through. It requires patience and tact to squeeze between shoppers clamoring for food, gifts, and ornaments. Catfish wrestling in empty plastic tubs wriggle to the beat of loud pop music, while battling with stall owners bargaining with vendors. The entire country seems to be on the move to ancestral homes in country provinces, preparing for massive parties. For the uninitiated, Tet is a festival with the importance and activity of Easter, Christmas, New Year’s Day, and Independence Day rolled into one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Amid the chaos, I am drawn to the sight of an elderly man standing in a middle of an aisle, even though passers-by seem to be avoiding him. Perhaps his wrinkled face presented a snapshot of wisdom, which does not fit in with the fast-changing commercial hub of Vietnam. Or his grey and orange wrap-around robe, a symbol of the faith he represented, fit in well. Instead of holding out alms for collecting money, he cupped his hands together. He must be a monk, I thought to myself. But why people favored crabs, catfish, and cabbages over humanity was something I could not comprehend. Inspired by the spirit of Tet, I made it my mission to demonstrate a good example to others in the market and donate some money. As expected, I questioned my logic and sanity. Was he really a monk? The color of the monk’s robes were not consistent with the mustard and burgundy colors I regularly associated with Buddhist monks. Maybe it was a different sect of Buddhism. But I remained determined to put my good deed into action, have it noticed and start a chain reaction.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I waited for him to face me before approaching him. It’s all about timing, I reminded myself. Five minutes passed; plenty of shoppers were more interested in looking at the ground as opposed to his face. I was not getting attention, either. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a 20,000 Dong note ($1), and took five measured steps forward. I felt confident in holding my money out far enough to be seen without being concerned about being robbed. A few more steps, but still no eye contact from the monk. So much for timing and tact; it was now time to be brave and break with conformity. Just put the money in his hands, greet, and be gone. No time to worry about personal glory and being showered with praise. This is a market, I told myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I got to within two steps of the monk, he finally recognized me, cupped his hand, and smiled. He knew what my plan was all the time. After I had handed over the money and delivering my greeting, I came to the conclusion that my so-called reconnaissance mission to inject some foreign-led humanity seemed more like a failed stunt. I needed anonymity and food to settle my fast-beating heart and mask my shame.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I retreated to a nearby stall to eat, or ‘assemble’<i> </i>a<i> banh xeo, </i>a savory pancake filled with shrimp and alfalfa sprouts, wrapped in lettuce leaves and dipped in spicy fish sauce. As opposed to my hyped up act of kindness, I impressed with my culinary, handling chopsticks with relative ease. A middle-aged Vietnamese woman sitting opposite me asked where I refined my chopstick skills, whilst shielding me from numerous beggars asking for money, telling them in a straightforward manner to leave me alone, or at least, that was what her tone implied. Perhaps these beggars had heard something about or watched my generosity with the monk and wanted a piece of the action, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You must be careful here,” the lady said to me. “Some of these people will do anything to take money from you.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What will they do?” I asked, half expecting a lecture. Maybe this lady had seen me get sucked in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Anything, sometime(s) they pretend to be a monk” she said. ”Poverty encourages desperation.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Damn my stupid generosity and wanting to make a difference in Tet. Whatever street smart credibility I had built up over the years had just been destroyed. I kept asking myself why anybody would dress up as a monk to take money from another person.<i> </i>But then he did not physically steal it from me. I offered the 20,000 dong note.<i> </i>It reminded me of the saying “There’s a sucker born every minute.” Obviously the alarm had gone off and I missed it when it counted. Seclusion seemed like a more viable option.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the sapping humidity, the 10 minute walk to a nearby café tested my patience. Normally, I would have headed to the nearest bar for a drink, but my pledge was to remain alcohol-free in Vietnam, a real challenge considering the price of a beer was 10,000 Dong, or 50 cents. Hence began my addiction to cà phê sữa đá (iced coffee)<i>. </i>I chose a nearby café, attracted to its outdoor wooden chair setting and a shaded area which offered protection from the heat.<i> </i>An iced coffee and a nice place in the shade to reflect on the day passed thus far.<i> </i>But that peace was shattered by another monk seeking my attention. He, too, wore the same colored robes as the monk in Ben Thanh Market. Still smarting from what happened<i> </i>earlier, I cautiously greeted him in the manner of pressing my palms together<i>. </i>He returned the gesture and smiled.<i> </i>This monk, however, was more forthright. He sat next to me and called over the owner in Vietnamese, who quickly returned with two menus.<i></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The owner, a rough-looking middle-aged woman, said to me, “I get you cà phê sữa đá. The monk wants to talk with you.” She then barked an order at one of her waitresses who nodded and rushed off. The monk adjusted his spectacles, smiled and to my surprise, pulled out a stash of posters, calendars, and amulets. This man is no monk, I thought to myself; he is a salesman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We sat there exchanging awkward smiles. Not much talking done here. I sensed that the café owner would act as the interpreter, negotiator, and stand-over woman. She spoke with the monk, leaving me to smile foolishly and try to guess what the two were saying. This took place for nearly five minutes, by which time a waitress had returned with my iced coffee and placed it in front of me together with a serviette.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The owner said in a sharp tone, “Today is your lucky day.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘I have had one of those already,’ I mumbled to myself, before saying “Why is that?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Because the monk wants you to buy something from him. Good luck for you,” the owner said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As soon as I started saying, ‘Here we go again,’ the monk started showing me his wares. I refused to focus on each poster, calendar, and amulet laid out in front of me, in case it indicated that I wanted to buy something. He should have been at Ben Thanh Market, not a café. I can sense that he was frustrated that I refused his inclinations to purchase anything. In a desperate attempt for me to pay for something, the monk grabbed the menu, pointed to Ca Phe Sua Da and made a drinking gesture. He wanted an iced coffee, just like me. I did not know how to react. I thought that he was not allowed to have dairy and caffeine. I was very tempted to say something, but backed out, realizing that I would earn the owner’s wrath and the monk’s displeasure. Then the monk made his move. He leaned over, snatched my iced coffee and then started sipping from the straw. All I could do was watch in amazement as he slurped away, conversing with the café owner in between drinks. The sweet taste of iced coffee on a hot day should have been comforting my parched lips, not this religious salesman.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By this time I had seen enough. “The monk stole my coffee,” I shouted, breaking the first rule of life in Vietnam – shouting does not guarantee you victory in anything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You did not have to greet him the way you did,” the café owner said to me. She was unfazed by my child-like tantrum. “It meant that you give everything to him. It’s your own fault.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course it was a lie. If my coffee was fair game, would Freddie Freeloaded the Monk reach for my personal belongings? I hurriedly moved across the seat, holding on tight to my wallet and passport, which were in a day pack protected with a lock. I even contemplated taking the matter to the tourist police, but did not expect anyone to believe that a man in robes posing as a monk stole my coffee. I felt cheated and handed my money over to the café owner, with a greeting to wish my iced coffee all the best.<i></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What you say?” the owner asked, not sensing my disappointment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“</i>Tell the monk to enjoy <i>my</i> cà phê sữa đá,” I said, smiling before walking away. <i> </i>The only way I could cleanse myself was to attend a Buddhist temple, and hopefully meet with a real monk. But after two false starts, could I tell the real deal from the imposters? There was only one thing for it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hailed a motorcycle rider, who handed me a helmet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where you go? I take you boom boom pretty lady, good smoke,” the driver said to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Xa Loi Pagoda, please,” I said bluntly, who threw a helmet to me, disappointed that I would not take part in some form of debauchery. This must have influenced his riding technique.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We swerved through gaps and ran red lights at leisure. In Saigon, this is tantamount to kamikaze road behavior and begs for an accident, but somehow nothing came of it. I found it more amusing that he was able to accelerate to greater than 40 km/h, in spite of all the traffic. Amidst the motorcycles pushing to move forward, he squeezed into non-existent empty spaces, laughing off the occasional aggressive word directed at us. This is all in a day’s work for a motorcycle rider.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Xa Loi Temple is hidden in a small back street just outside of District 1. I paid my rider the fare, complete with my baby-like Vietnamese language pronunciation of “Cám ơn”, (pronounced gahm uhn, meaning ‘thank you’). He ignored my attempt at gratitude, as if to say “I did not save your life.” However, he watched on in amusement as a small girl cursed me at the temple gates for not buying incense sticks. I mistook her for a regular street beggar. When I discovered that nobody else sold them, I returned to her and asked for a packet. She agreed, but for an increased price. Having been conned by two so-called monks, my descent into a clueless tourist convert had now commenced.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In front of the main monument, I lit the wrong end of the sticks. I knelt incorrectly and embarrassed myself by interrupting other attendees, asking them what order I should undertake the ritual. After I had fished praying, the xe om driver who brought me to the pagoda walked up to me and asked if I was married. When I said no, he added, “What woman would marry a man who cannot light his stick?”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was taken aback. All I wanted to do now was seek refuge in the temple, where I could safely reflect upon my encounters with the bogus monks and hope for enough moral strength to get me through the day. After finishing my tasks, I stood on the balcony and stared intently at a durian tree while listening to the sounds of children laughing and screaming from a nearby primary school, before a bell started ringing. Finally, from the peaceful surroundings of a temple, protected from the hectic street life in Ho Chi Minh City, I started to form an image that I could identify with. All I needed was to see a monk. Instead, two local women, introducing themselves as Thao and Tran, joined me. They wanted to know my motivation for coming to Vietnam and what I thought of the country. My explanation was brief, saying that I had been once before and had wanted to return. They showed me samples of bracelets, necklaces and baby clothes they made as part of their small business enterprise. The bracelet was made of fiberbrush and tiny bells with intricate and colorful designs.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Tran handed me a business card in the shape of a basket, an elderly monk appeared from a room. He looked like the same guy that I donated money to at Ben Thanh Market. But Thao refuted my claim.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘No, not the same person. This man never leaves pagoda,’ Thao explained to me. ‘The monk you talk about pretends to be a monk. Wait here.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She disappeared down a hallway and into a nearby reading room, returning one minute later with accompanied by another monk with a chubby face. The two had a brief chat in English about the man I had spotted at the market. He confirmed my fears.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We know that man who begs, he pretends to be monk so he will get money. You should not give him any.” the monk said to me. “We call him the Market Monk.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I raised the point about the monk who took my iced coffee, once again he confirmed that the man in robes was an imposter.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That man is The Thieving Monk”, the chubby monk said. “Where did you meet him?”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“In a café near Ben Thanh Market,” I said.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The chubby monk nodded his head. “You should stay away from him.” He then smiled and walked away to the reading room.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Was that the leader?” I asked. Tran nodded and said to me, “We call him the Queen of Monks because he is beautiful, always smiling.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did not notice a smile on his face when he warned me to keep away from scammers in robes, but maybe that was the whole point. And then I recalled the sentence that the lady said to me earlier in the day, “Poverty encourages desperation.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In this city, it seems that every monk has a name. Today it was clear what my name was – mud.</span></div>
</div>
David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-69931871354679528502012-12-13T03:54:00.001-08:002012-12-13T03:54:16.960-08:00Book Review - Escape From Camp 14 by Blaine Harden:
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">ESCAPE FROM CAMP 14: One Man's
Remarkable Odyssey from North Korea to Freedom in the West</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">By
Blaine Harden<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Published
by Viking<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Review
by David Calleja<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
according to Human Rights Watch, more than 200,000 civilians in North Korea are
locked away in these death camps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This
book review originally appeared on the Foreign Policy Journal website, <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/"><span style="color: blue;">www.foreignpolicyjournal.com</span></a>, on
11 December 2012. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-64682556250699222262012-09-17T06:04:00.002-07:002012-09-17T07:07:31.833-07:00A Visit to The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng Museum<a class="pf-src-url" href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/09/17/a-visit-to-the-killing-fields-and-tuol-sleng-museum/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/09/17/a-visit-to-the-killing-fields-and-tuol-sleng-museum/</a><br />
<h1>
A Visit to The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng Museum</h1>
<div id="readability-content">
<div id="post-16079">
<h2 class="singlePageAuthor">
by David Calleja </h2>
<h2 class="singlePageDate">
September 17, 2012</h2>
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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?”<br />
<br />
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. He did not wait for me to answer.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Did you know of families that were killed?” I asked him.<br />
<br />
“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.’”<br />
<br />
“What was your secret in surviving?” I quizzed.<br />
<br />
“(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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I wanted to know what went through his mind at the mind and how he reacted.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Now was probably not the right time to ask Sroun about his opinion of Pol Pot, but I took a chance.<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<div class="hilight">
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.</div>
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“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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
Published on Foreign Policy Journal: <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/09/17/a-visit-to-the-killing-fields-and-tuol-sleng-museum/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/09/17/a-visit-to-the-killing-fields-and-tuol-sleng-museum/</a> </div>
</div>
David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-87672628168786971682012-07-05T03:06:00.001-07:002012-07-05T03:06:09.836-07:00Film Review: This Is Not A Film<a href="http://arabiangazette.com/dvd-review-this-is-not-a-film/">http://arabiangazette.com/dvd-review-this-is-not-a-film/</a><br />
<br />
<strong>DVD Review: This Is Not A Film (2011)</strong> – Iran, Farsi language, 75
min.<br />Review by David Calleja<br /><br />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.<br /><br />You can physically imprison a person’s movements and
thoughts, but the most innovative individuals will always find a unique way of
expressing themselves.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-77572234968905376872012-06-14T04:09:00.001-07:002012-06-14T04:10:20.477-07:00A Night at the Theatre With Vietnam’s Water Puppets<h1 class="hilight">
<span style="font-size: small;">Weblink: <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/06/14/a-night-at-the-theatre-with-vietnams-water-puppets/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/06/14/a-night-at-the-theatre-with-vietnams-water-puppets/</a></span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">A Night at the Theatre With Vietnam’s Water Puppets</span> </span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;">by David Calleja, Foreign Policy Journal </span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;">June 14, 2012</span></h2>
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBNrt3mNsTE6QhoaWAJHIA_ujBLqoT_5em36KJ7Vnan7z11axaDaeVDiYj4khOa06mskyH_sD0mVQrzEfHozRKy7MyYRyzakaYfNpCkuQpWmnxzSNEP2JUy1p2_3wwbZeAMfYDlT_sEYI/s1600/Hanoi+WPT+Waterfight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBNrt3mNsTE6QhoaWAJHIA_ujBLqoT_5em36KJ7Vnan7z11axaDaeVDiYj4khOa06mskyH_sD0mVQrzEfHozRKy7MyYRyzakaYfNpCkuQpWmnxzSNEP2JUy1p2_3wwbZeAMfYDlT_sEYI/s320/Hanoi+WPT+Waterfight.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
The use of <em>Cheo</em>, 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3Z5v6LbBjIcxBa-UNCNY7PedzJ1M2JdbNM5Yb3U68L7F1avsnIEjT08_KRxcn7azHNyxBMgLUHZlbwRTWmlPLN-5Z_ngrRKuHCHWikaubytNbkcemEuriN4J4om1yKJe8-dGYB1PyeA/s1600/Hanoi+Water+Puppet+Theatre+musicians+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3Z5v6LbBjIcxBa-UNCNY7PedzJ1M2JdbNM5Yb3U68L7F1avsnIEjT08_KRxcn7azHNyxBMgLUHZlbwRTWmlPLN-5Z_ngrRKuHCHWikaubytNbkcemEuriN4J4om1yKJe8-dGYB1PyeA/s320/Hanoi+Water+Puppet+Theatre+musicians+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<u>Bibliography</u><br />
<br />
<div style="display: none;">
Bibliography</div>
Contreras, G. (1995), “Teaching About Vietnamese Culture: Water Puppetry as the Soul of the Rice Fields”, <em>The Social Studies</em>, Volume 86, Number 1. Pg. 25.</div>
</div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-36187258875574926442012-04-28T10:27:00.000-07:002012-04-28T10:27:03.343-07:00Film Review: The Lady<strong>Film Review: The Lady</strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">by David Calleja</span></h2>
<h2 class="singlePageDate">
<span style="font-size: small;">Foreign Policy Journal, April 28, 2012</span></h2>
<h2 class="singlePageDate">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="aligncenter"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/04/28/film-review-the-lady/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/04/28/film-review-the-lady/</a></span></span></h2>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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<em>The Lady</em> 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.</div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-31181145983547071412012-04-27T04:53:00.001-07:002012-04-27T04:53:18.613-07:00<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
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<em>Muay Thai</em> in Chiang Mai: bye-bye integrity</h2>
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By David Calleja<br /> 27 April 2012</div>
<br />Weblink - Travelmag: <a href="http://travelmag.co.uk/?p=6978">http://travelmag.co.uk/?p=6978</a><br />
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<tr><td class="singlecontent" colspan="2">What inspired me to check out a Muay Thai fight in Thailand for the first time? I read in <em>The Green Book</em>, 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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So this is all I would take away; the musings of a madman. And a handful of foreigners were to blame.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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“Excuse me,” I said, “how old are the boys in the boxing ring?”<br />
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“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.<br />
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“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.<br />
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“Most come from the countryside to earn money,” she said. “The prize is $USD30, but none of it goes to the winner.”<br />
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“Why is that?” I asked.<br />
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“The trainer gets some. So does the stadium owner. The boy’s parents get the rest,” she said. “Now do you want a beer?”<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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“Awful, isn’t it, mate?” Dean slurred in his Cockney accent, taking a swig of beer and then letting out an enormous belch.<br />
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“The service or the surroundings?” I asked, not sure what he was referring to.<br />
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“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?”<br />
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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.”<br />
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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.<br />
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“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.”<br />
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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.”<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <em>aurum de stercore</em>, or gold from dung. Originally published in Primo Levi’s book <em>The Periodic Table</em>, 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<!-- (7.7)-->Copyright © 2012 David Calleja</h3>
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</table>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-86314944912315180182012-02-24T03:59:00.000-08:002012-02-24T03:59:07.311-08:00To Dream the Impossible Dream… A Future with Prospects<strong>Burma: To Dream the Impossible Dream… A Future with Prospects</strong><br />
by David Calleja<br />
<h2 class="singlePageDate"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/02/24/burma-to-dream-the-impossible-dream-a-future-with-prospects/"><span style="font-size: small;">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/02/24/burma-to-dream-the-impossible-dream-a-future-with-prospects/</span></a></h2><div id="nr_fo_top_of_post">February 24, 2012</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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 <em>Displacement and Poverty in South East Burma</em>. 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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“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 <em>The Irrawaddy</em> 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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“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.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><em>Author’s note – the names of the two individuals in the camp have been changed to protect their respective identities.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Notes</strong><br />
<div>[1] United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees Figures for August 2011, Thai Burma Border Consortium, <a href="http://www.tbbc.org/camps/2011-08-aug-map-tbbc-unhcr.pdf">http://www.tbbc.org/camps/2011-08-aug-map-tbbc-unhcr.pdf</a><br />
<div><br />
[2] Naing, S.Y., 2011, “Time For Refugees To Go Home?”, <em>The Irrawaddy</em>, April 7, <a href="http://www.irrawaddy.org/article.php?art_id=21094">http://www.irrawaddy.org/article.php?art_id=21094</a> Accessed 31 January 2012)</div></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-47974468002975251942012-01-28T06:33:00.000-08:002012-01-28T06:33:06.296-08:00Book Review - Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Arts Diary - Antonio Graceffo<a class="pf-src-url" href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/01/28/khun-khmer-cambodian-martial-art-diary-by-antonio-graceffo/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2012/01/28/khun-khmer-cambodian-martial-art-diary-by-antonio-graceffo/</a><br />
<h1 class="hilight"><span style="font-size: small;">Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Art Diary by Antonio Graceffo</span></h1><div id="readability-content"><div id="post-14255"><h2 class="singlePageSubtitle"><span style="font-size: small;">by David Calleja</span></h2><h2 class="singlePageDate"><span style="font-size: small;">January 28, 2012</span></h2>Antonio Graceffo, <a href="http://www.valleymartialarts.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=11_56&products_id=1706" target="_blank"><em>Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Art Diary</em></a> (VMA Publications, 2011).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQh3ZsX5JQhZw4FMdRBmyX9Qx5fNVnj6n4AM_3_nQV9szKPf1bkp3v4GVALFC2gaMRcOhw9JZ2e14WrzoThGFoiRuxXg-XzLOhTI-HnrhOaNFT2_LSWq330d4cZw0o2tUhfKwDGC7rgI/s1600/Graceffo_khun+Khmer+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQh3ZsX5JQhZw4FMdRBmyX9Qx5fNVnj6n4AM_3_nQV9szKPf1bkp3v4GVALFC2gaMRcOhw9JZ2e14WrzoThGFoiRuxXg-XzLOhTI-HnrhOaNFT2_LSWq330d4cZw0o2tUhfKwDGC7rgI/s320/Graceffo_khun+Khmer+cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><strong><br />
</strong><br />
American author Antonio Graceffo traverses Cambodia to reveal Bokator in <em>Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Arts Diary</em><em>. </em>Graceffo’s 7<sup>th</sup> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
Not only does this book have the potential to spark a surge in interest and participation in Bokator, <em>Khun Khmer: Cambodian Martial Art Diary</em> may prove to be Antonio Graceffo’s <em>magnum opus</em> 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.</div></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-10532565848103979752011-11-24T03:38:00.000-08:002013-08-01T08:37:03.851-07:00Cappuccino With A Country MonkCappuccino with a Country Monk<br />
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by David Calleja</h2>
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November 22, 2011</h2>
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On Good Friday, Christians connect with God. But as I ran across Flinders Street station and raced down the stairs while clutching a bag of donuts and a take-away cappuccino spilling everywhere, I found myself drawn to a Buddhist monk on the Werribee train, headed for Melbourne’s outer western region. He was a calm figure amidst the noisy carriage. For the first two minutes, we looked all around us, making eye contact occasionally. Neither of us said a word. I offered him a donut in an attempt to start a conversation, forgetting that monks do not eat after midday. But my faux pas broke the ice. This is how I befriended I Saw (pronounced <em>Ee-sor</em>).</div>
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“I have not seen my family since I was 15. My parents let me leave home to study as a novice monk at a monastery in eastern Burma. Every day, I would wake up at four a.m. and collect food from residents. We would visit their homes or they would line up to donate food as I walked past with the other novices,” I Saw told me. He said that rice, curries and meat sandwiches were his favorite foods. Unlike senior monks, novices were allowed to eat meat, I Saw said, and this helped get him through a long day. He did not mind the classes, but found the sunset chanting and meditation sessions challenging.</div>
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“Whenever a novice broke the rules, a senior monk hit us on the leg with a stick; it hurt very much. Nowadays, such practices have become less frequent because parents complain about bruises appearing on their children’s legs,” I Saw said. He did not say how many times he was punished, but just thinking about being struck on the shins with a bamboo stick made me shudder. If I was in class, I </div>
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would definitely have had the most bruises. I admitted to I Saw that I could not sit cross-legged. </div>
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“Show me,” was his response.</div>
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My face grimaced as I tried crossing my legs into a bow, making a spectacle of myself in the process. A few painful seconds slowly passed before I began to fidget. I Saw leaned over and whispered, “Okay, no problem. You sit on your knees like woman.” The public humiliation of showing my inflexibility now over, it was time to return to our conversation. What did he like to do in the minimal spare time he was allocated each night?</div>
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“For one hour, we were allowed to read before the senior monk would switch off the lights. So when the lights went out, I hid under the blanket and switched on my torch to continue reading stories and comics—about Buddha, or famous people in Karen history. I like the story about Pa Da Mei, the first Karen monk,” I Saw said. Taking a quick glance, I noticed that our conversation had attracted the attention of others. A child sitting in the next allotment of seats asked his mother something about why I Saw wore a mustard and burgundy robe. His mother explained that a monk was similar to a priest. A second passenger asked I Saw if he had met the Dalai Lama. The initial look of excitement on the passenger’s face disappeared when I Saw said no before providing an in-depth response of Buddhism’s meaning, obviously not the answer the passenger was hoping for. I shared his disappointment, if only because it was costing me valuable conversation time and a chance for me to arrange a second meeting. In the end, I Saw and I hurriedly exchanged <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD3">phone</span> numbers and promised to catch up again.</div>
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On a cold and windy Sunday two weeks later, we met again, this time at Southern Cross railway station. The arranged time was 12 o’clock. I glanced at my <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD1">mobile phone</span>; five minutes to go and no sign of I Saw. I ran between platforms and the coach departure dock. Twenty minutes had passed and I Saw had still not appeared. In between frantic dashes, I missed four phone calls because my phone did not have reception. When my phone finally rang, I asked where he was. The anxiety in my voice made me sound like a parent looking for their lost child. I Saw calmly said, “David, I am near some food places. Go up the stairs and you will find me.” After running up <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD8">a flight</span> of stairs, I could not see him. Then out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of I Saw’s robe. He was sitting down at a table in the food court area.</div>
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When we finally saw each other, I did not know whether to express relief or frustration. “You look tired, David,” I Saw said to me, noticing the sweat dripping down my forehead. He apologized before saying, “I came here early. I live in Wan….Wan…Tarrr.”</div>
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I reached into my bag and pulled out a pen and <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD2">notebook</span> so he could write down the word he wanted to say.</div>
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“Wonthaggi,” I said, referring to a town in country Victoria.</div>
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“Yes, David. That is where I live. It take me four hours to get here. Last night I stay with my friend, and I go home this afternoon.” I smiled because I admired his commitment to honoring our agreement. </div>
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The least I could do was ask if I Saw wanted something to drink. He asked for a cappuccino.</div>
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For a short time, we stared outside the large tinted windows overlooking the platforms, sipping on our coffees while watching adults and children dressed in their favorite football team’s jerseys, armed with matching club flags and other paraphernalia, walk towards Melbourne’s Docklands Football Stadium.</div>
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“David,” I Saw began, “In Burma, one cup of coffee can cost up to 2,400 <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD7">Australian</span> dollars.” I snorted in amazement because I thought I misheard him. Maybe he meant Burmese <em>kyat</em>, so I asked him to repeat the price.</div>
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I shook my head in amazement. “How do you like the taste? Is our coffee here worth $2,400?” I asked.</div>
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I Saw smiled. “It is like tea, only bitterer. When I buy a cup, I make sure the senior monk does not catch me,” he <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD4">added</span> with a smile.</div>
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Another awkward silence ensued. I Saw knew what I was going to ask him about, and must have been prepared with an answer.</div>
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“David,” I Saw began, “You probably know about the war in Karen State, and the political situation and human rights matters in my country. That is why you wanted to ask me on the train, so what I say will not be anything new. But you are curious and ask a lot of questions.” He then proceeded to describe about life sleeping in dense forests, hiding in villages from Burmese Army soldiers. But I Saw was lucky enough to make it into a Thai-Burma border camp, where he taught Karen language and Buddhist chants to children, and developed a close link with another family in the camp who looked after him. They still speak by telephone occasionally. When I asked I Saw about his prospects of seeing his birth family again, he remarked, “this will only happen when my homeland is peaceful.”</div>
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In spite of everything that has occurred, I Saw has always maintained a positive outlook. For example, I Saw told me how much he loved adding bamboo bark to <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD6">soups</span> or curries in dishes he cooked at the camp. Bamboo bark, he said, gave dishes extra flavor. He also spoke enthusiastically about life in Wonthaggi.</div>
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“Every evening after English classes, I walk along the beach. It is very soothing. On Saturdays I take driving lessons. I have been learning for a few months. It is nerve wrecking, but I am getting better,” I Saw said.</div>
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It seemed like I Saw and his life in the small Victorian country town were really coming together. </div>
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“What is one thing about life here that fascinates you?” I asked.</div>
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“When I first came here, I loved to sit in the cafe and watch people exchange money when buying a coffee or food. Monks do not <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD5">need money</span> in my country. We require only happiness.”</div>
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I looked into the paper cup and saw the frothed milk clinging to the bottom, a sign that our meeting was nearly over. Before we parted ways, there was time for one more request. “David, there is so much knowledge to discover in the world. Come to Karen State and document life in the villages and forests. You will get all the happiness you want.”</div>
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With that, we shook hands and professed to meet again in the future.</div>
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Hopefully, I will have as many chances to gain more wisdom as I have opportunities to consume cappuccinos.</div>
David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-61770701110889302862011-09-22T08:14:00.000-07:002011-09-22T08:14:32.258-07:00Hanoi, Quy Nhon and My Bargaining Curse<strong>Hanoi, Quy Nhon and My Bargaining Curse </strong>by David Calleja<br />
Published in Foreign Policy Journal - September 20, 2011<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2011/09/20/hanoi-quy-nhon-and-my-bargaining-curse/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2011/09/20/hanoi-quy-nhon-and-my-bargaining-curse/</a><br />
<br />
From the moment I arrived at Hanoi’s main bus depot late at night after a 27 hour bus ride, I had a bad feeling about what would transpire. The only available transport to my guesthouse near Hoam Kiem Lake was a taxi driven by a sleazy looking driver twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Noticing the absence of xe om (motorcyclists), I reluctantly agreed to get inside, knowing that I would probably end up paying an inflated price for my journey. The driver continually took wrong turns, stopped to make personal calls without switching off the meter and even drove on the wrong side of the road. He should have been paying me danger money for surviving the ordeal. When I refused to pay the driver’s fare, it triggered a major argument. He threatened to throw me out of his car and drive off with my backpack, so I opened the door and yelled out that he was trying to rob me. Embarrassed and exhausted, he relented, accepted my price, which was half of what he originally asked for, and ordered me to collect my things and get out.<br />
<br />
From this moment, I would be cursed in dealing with motorcyclists. But it also extended to the art of bargaining. The following afternoon, a street vendor sold me a photocopied book for US$8. After he walked away, I opened the book and pages started falling out. A Guatemalan-born wrestler whom I had befriended at my guesthouse said he had bought the same book for US$1. Even the guesthouse owner scolded me for being naïve. “If you can come to Vietnam and pay eight dollars for bad quality book, then you are rich…and stupid.” He was right. I withdrew from all bartering exchanges for two weeks, until I got to the provincial city of Quy Nhon (pronounced <i>hwee ngon</i>).<br />
<br />
It must have been a slow day, for when I collected my belongings, five motorcyclists in their 50s and 60s surrounded me and started pulling my arms in different directions. Being tugged and pulled in different directions is no fun. Throwing away the language of diplomacy, I yelled at the drivers to stay away and called them piranhas before turning my back to commence the 10km walk into town. I barely made it past the front gate before I selected a random rider who then demanded 50,000 Dong (US$3). We then got into a heated discussion. It took us nearly five minutes to agree on 30,000 Dong, only because we were both tired of hearing each other’s’ voices. Less than halfway into the journey, the bike slowed to a crawl before the driver eventually pulled over. “No gas,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and flashing a row of betel but-stained teeth, suggesting that I deserved to be left stranded. In an effort to save face, I dug into my pockets, smiled and handed over 50,000 Dong. But the driver snatched my money and then wheeled his motorbike away. He was not concerned in returning my conciliatory gesture. It had only taken me thirty minutes to develop an arch enemy.<br />
<br />
I dropped my backpack in frustration and rummaged through the front compartment, pulling out a photocopied map, trying to make sense where I was. For 15 minutes, I stood rooted to the spot before a middle-aged man sided up to me. He explained that I was standing in front of his noodle shop. Taking pity on me, he noticed how dehydrated I looked and ushered me inside. A few moments later, his wife brought me some tea. “Where you go?” he said in a helpful voice. I showed him the map and circled the spot where I wanted to go. He studied it, scratched his head and then said, “My daughter speaks English. I get her,” before disappearing. Moments later, a young woman wearing sunglasses and a T-shirt with Snoopy and Woodstock from the Charlie Brown Show came over and stood in front of me. “You lost? I help you”, she asked, before I told her in broken Vietnamese the address I was looking for. She looked at my map and conversed with her father in Vietnamese, fingers pointing everywhere. “My daughter take you on motorbike,” the father said. “I take you to foreigner place,” his daughter added, referring to the guesthouse. The scooter sank the moment I sat on it.<br />
<br />
“You big man….fat,” she said. I did not know the Vietnamese wording for “I’m not fat, just big-boned.”<br />
<br />
The bike made several spluttering noises upon acceleration, attracting the attention of pedestrians. I thought that the two-wheeled curse would strike again. In a desperate attempt to will the scooter to my destination, I repeated the mantra of The Little Engine That Could – “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can”. It must have worked because I reached my destination. My emergency motorcyclist refused to accept money from me, but requested that we practice English together upon our second meeting at her father’s noodle shop, to which I agreed without hesitation before we said our good-byes.<br />
<br />
I was so happy not to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, any request would have sounded reasonable. My elation, however, was short-lived. A message posted on the front door read, “Sorry we have moved. See you there. Management.” The woman who had dropped me off was no longer in sight. Once again I was on my own, clueless as to which way to turn. I was convinced that the first xe om possessed a voodoo doll resembling me, and kept driving the needle deeper, inflicting bad luck. I stared across the ocean and focused on a statue in the distance, who turned out to be 13th century military commander General Tran Hung Dao. A national hero in Vietnam, General Tran cuts an imposing figure. His stance of pointing north is a gesture to show invading forces the way out of the country. It is said that his 1284 speech entitled Hịch Tướng Sĩ, or Proclamation to the Officers, inspired his troops to defeat the Mongol Army, through the heroic acts of past warriors. Victory, he said, would guarantee serving officers eternal immortality, whereas failure would curse future generations.[1] Reflecting on my own situation, I thought that the General was telling me to leave if I would not change my ways.<br />
<br />
I took the opportunity to walk by the shore. Fishermen worked feverishly to prepare their boats for catching fish at night using giant nets. Children played football with a plastic bottle on the sand, or hide and seek in discarded jeep and tank shells. Had I not turned around to catch a glimpse of the xe om who yelled out “Hello foreigner!”, I would not have seen a signboard sitting outside the guesthouse I was seeking. After checking in and unpacking, I developed the urge to hire a motorcycle and get out of the city altogether for the day. But I accidentally held the accelerator after starting the motorcycle, sending me flying into a table and set of chairs in front of a passing pedestrian. She stared and erupted into laughter when I got up gingerly. Brushing myself down, I handed the motorcycle to the guesthouse owner. When she asked why I had changed my mind, I said that I liked bicycles more, but to her I did not sound convincing enough. It obviously came across as an excuse for chickening out. “You are afraid,” she responded. Afraid of what, I had no idea, but she probably knows my inner fears better than me.<br />
<br />
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<br />
For three hours, I rode around town, happy not to crash my bicycle. I stopped by a park where children and their parents and grandparents were flying kites made of plastic and crepe paper. Kids squealed as their kites flew in the air and crashed to the ground. Watching one fall was like viewing a plane shot in slow motion. I managed to catch the image I wanted so much; watching families congregating in large numbers while undertaking one of life’s simple pleasures in a small town. At the same time, I wondered whether my presence was unsettling to the locals. It is not every day that a foreigner on a bicycle arrives in a small town armed with a camera, taking a series of photos. When two elderly citizens sitting on a nearby bench started to stare at me for a prolonged period, the time felt right to move on.<br />
<br />
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<br />
As the sun slowly descended, I headed to the esplanade, passing a group of young men revving motorcycles and listening to pop music. When I rode past, a row of cold stares greeted me, as if I was invading their turf. Further down the road, young couples walked hand in hand, and children chased my bike shouting, “Hello, where you go? Where you from?” One boy stuck his middle finger up at me, which shocked me a little. While figuring out why he had done it, a young mother carrying her new-born baby stepped out from the footpath and stood directly in path. I gripped the brakes tightly as the bike shook and tires screeched. Once the bike had stopped, she placed her child in the basket connected to my handlebars, its legs kicking in the air due to the basket’s small size. “You want baby?” she added before backing off, her baby letting out a ferocious cry. I called for her to take her kid back, but she stood and did nothing. I started to panic, thinking that she would run away. Behind her sat a group of women and men, one of whom called out “You buy baby, two dollar? One dollar?”—a sentence which everybody seemed to find amusing. The woman did remove her child from my basket, and my short-lived nightmare was over. When I asked a local worker at the guesthouse about these people, he replied that incidents like this were common. Maybe it was a beggar’s racket, or just a group of homeless people. Either way, the experience left me rattled and I wanted to get out of the area. But it was late and I would have to wait until morning.<br />
<br />
I rose half an hour after sunrise and took a walk to watch fishermen haul in their nets. Thankfully, my accomplices from the previous night were nowhere to be found along the beach. As I stared across the sea, I imagined the voice of General Tran Hung Dao instructing me to visit the Cham Towers immediately, or that the opportunity to appreciate its beauty would be lost forever. Unwilling to take a chance on riding a motorcycle again, I organized for a local xe om to take me up to the hills. As luck would have it, my xe om for the day was the same one I argued with over the fare. A scowl instantly appeared on his face and I assumed the worst. Maybe this time, he would leave me stranded in the countryside, the ultimate humiliation. But he simply told me to hang on tight. Only when we reached the Cham Towers did he speak to me.<br />
<br />
“You go see towers, learn respect. I wait here.” The severity of his voice tone suggested that he still had not forgotten our encounter. When I asked if he would come with me, he declined. “Your lesson,” he said curtly.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Reaching the hill’s summit, I spent time appreciating the structure of what were once old temples. The Cham Towers, unlike other temples with fewer remains, is not overrun with tourists. But I spent less time checking out the structure and more time reflecting on my thoughts. Gongs from a distant pagoda rang out, providing me with the chance to understand how I was responsible for my own bad luck the previous day; the motorcycle breaking down, getting stranded, the close call of having a baby dumped in my bicycle basket. I could have avoided all of this if only I had shown more restraint and commonsense when it mattered. Thirty minutes must have passed before I headed back. The xe om was waiting for me at the bottom of the hill and asked me why I had taken so long. I told him that I needed time to myself.<br />
<br />
“What did you learn?” he added.<br />
<br />
“If I don’t give respect, I will be lonely,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Very good,” he said to me. “You make this mistake, you have nobody. Arguing to save a little money will cost you more than you think. Remember that.” He then urged me to hop on the motorbike, as dark clouds appeared overhead. The last thing I wanted was to be drenched in rain, without the protection of plastic coats.<br />
<br />
Looking at the vast stretch of hills on the long road back to Quy Nhon, I concentrated on ways to alter my own behavior The last thing I wanted to do is prolong my curse in dealing with local people and deal with more consequences resulting from my own actions, an act that did not require me to study the work of Principles Of Military Strategies, as General Tran Hung Dao once did for his famous address. All that was needed was for me to stop dwelling on the past and ensure that through my own actions, I would follow the right path and receive good fortune for my remaining days in Vietnam.<br />
<br />
Note<br />
<br />
[1] General Tran Hung Dao’s Proclamation To His Officers, Translated and Adapted by George F. Schultz, Link: <a href="http://www.webcitation.org/query?url=http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Den/5908/history/tranhungdao.html&date=2009-10-25+09:59:39" rel="nofollow" target="_blank" vglnk_1316703820708="1"><span style="color: darkblue;">http://www.webcitation.org/query?url=http:...-10-25+09:59:39</span></a>.David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-12270156396212930082011-05-21T07:36:00.000-07:002011-05-21T07:36:53.146-07:00Postcard from Soweto - January 1999<div class="dd_post_share dd_post_share_right"><div class="dd_buttons"><div class="dd_button"> <script>
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</script><strong>Postcard from Soweto - January 1999</strong></div><div class="dd_button">by David Calleja</div><div class="dd_button">May 21, 2011</div><div class="dd_button"> </div><div class="dd_button">Published in Foreign Policy Journal: <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2011/05/21/postcard-from-soweto-january-1999/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2011/05/21/postcard-from-soweto-january-1999/</a></div><div class="dd_button"> </div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My doctor tried to persuade me to change my mind about going to South Africa in November 1998. He told me about an acquaintance whose friend had been shot while attending a funeral in Johannesburg. I put that down to bad luck. When he accepted that nothing would stop me from going, he advised me to “make myself as inconspicuous as possible” because he wanted to see my photos, not an autopsy report.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The day before I went to Soweto (an abbreviation for South West Townships), a hairdresser dyed my hair tomato red because I wanted to stand out for my visit. When the mini-bus driver arrived to pick me up, he took one look at me. “So Ronald McDonald is finally coming to Soweto,” is what he must be thinking. He introduced himself as Adolph – “but not that Adolf.” In a way, it reminded me of the Monty Python’s Life of Brian film scene when Reg (John Cleese) from the Judean People’s Front movement formally declared their newest recruit as “Brian that is called Brian.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The possibilities could be enormous. This is probably the only driver in South Africa who can tell travellers to “F off” without getting sacked, as in “You have to take the <em>F off</em> the end of my name and replace it with <em>ph</em>.” How could this guy explain to a group of elderly Jewish people that they could trust a man whose first name was similar, but not quite the same as, a 20<sup>th</sup> century tyrant, as opposed to being left in the middle of Soweto?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">With an estimated 1.3 million residents spread across more than 30 townships, it makes up over one-third of Johannesburg’s population (<a href="http://www.joburg-archive.co.za/2008/sdf/soweto/soweto_statusquo_context.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="color: #29568f;">2008 estimate</span></a>, Soweto Integrated Spatial Framework). Adolph is proud of the township, home to Nobel Peace Prize winners Nelson Mandela, South Africa’s first black president and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Soweto also houses the Hector Pieterson Museum, a monument to the 12 year-old boy shot and killed by police on June 16, 1976, known as The Soweto Uprising.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“You cannot understand the past without seeing, breathing and feeling Soweto. All this talk of ‘Go to Cape Town because the weather is perfect for scuba diving.’ So what? Tell me one beautiful woman who can live under the sea and I will marry her.” Then he flashed a trademark smile, laughed and added “Don’t tell that to my wife.” He introduced me to Vincent Matlou, my guide and protector, and an African National Congress (ANC) political activist from the 1970s during apartheid’s bloodiest days. Vincent and Adolph assured me that I would be in safe hands and leave with some wonderful memories. Adolph excused himself, saying that he had to return to downtown Johannesburg and that he would return to collect me in just over 24 hours.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After enjoying a snack of spiced sheep’s brains, Vincent spoke about the dangers of being a student activist in the 1970s. “I was tortured and given electric shock treatment while my head was under water.” He observed that what the two of us were doing – having a discussion on the street – was unthinkable in his time; we would have aroused suspicion among the authorities, and that I could have been arrested by simply talking to a black man. He fled to Tanzania in exile, and would not return until the African National Congress (ANC) was taken off the list of banned organizations in South Africa and he felt comfortable enough to put the nightmares behind him. Both he and his wife started up their own tour company, Phomolong Tours, one that would promise the authentic Soweto experience – homestays, meeting remarkable people, experience the excitement of <em>shebeens</em> (drinking holes) and the mandatory <em>braai</em> (BBQs), and the friendliness and vibrancy that bounces off Soweto. But when his wife passed away, he lost the passion.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">These days, he loves to smile and laugh; appropriate, considering that South Africa had been reborn under the manner of the Rainbow Nation, where everyone would co-exist in harmony, a new chapter consigning the painful past to history. But it also jogged my memory of a particular close call I had in Paarl, a small town famous for housing the Vincent Verster (now Drakenstein) Correctional Centre, where Nelson Mandela spent the final three years of his prison sentence before his 1990 release. Three homeless men threw some rocks at me and shouted abuse in Afrikaans, offended by the sight of me walking with a black girl. The sight of us together, she explained later, triggered their anger, but she shut the antagonists up by calling them “white man’s dogs”. Thankfully, the stones did not hit us because the men were too drunk to aim properly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Every foreigner wants to stay in the slums for a night; nobody would live here by choice. That is why homestays are conducted in the safer confines of Soweto. But it is the warmth and sincerity inside the house that counts. I remember being introduced to Petrinas, a middle aged woman. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said to me. A table full of food was waiting for me – roast chicken, vegetables and beer. I felt honored and embarrassed at the amount of food on offer; surely my visit did not carry such significance. “Come, eat and drink. You are too skinny,” Petrinas said, pinching my cheeks. I tried to counter her statement by saying I had actually put on weight, but her friend added, “You should be jolly and fat like me,” wiggling her hips and letting go a high-pitched laugh. My face had turned the same color as my hair. “He’s a cutie, this one. Very shy, though, just like our three darling angels,” Petrinas added, referring to three young sisters who smiled at me and quickly got back to their room. “They are nervous about speaking with you.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After breakfast the following morning, I spent a short time speaking with the girls about their classes, as well as joining in their game of hand-slapping, demonstrating my lack of coordination in the process. Before the girls left for school, Petrinas handed me a card. On the front was a smiling President Nelson Mandela with the South African flag in the background. The greeting inside the card read “Soweto loves you”. Next to the printed message was a handwritten message and signed by everybody in the household. It said, “<em>To David, hope to see you soon ’cause we gonna miss you badly. With love, the Mshwakalowe family</em>“. I felt a tear run down my cheek and splash onto the card. I was also issued with the name <em>ntando</em>, meaning “the appreciative one.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It has been more than 12 years since my visit to Soweto. Hopefully it still loves me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">_____</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Author’s note: The host family’s name has been changed to <em>Mshwakalowe</em> for privacy reasons.</div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-25501119726596235732011-03-03T03:43:00.000-08:002011-03-03T03:48:39.644-08:00Fiction - Hanging By A Thread<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" style="width: 595px;"><tbody>
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<tr><th height="94" scope="row" width="454"><div align="left"><strong>Hanging By A Thread </strong><br />
by David Calleja<br />
<br />
“School is prison for the mind”; these were the words inscribed in blue ink across Col’s English exercise book in 1988. He seemed destined to be dragged through high school labelled a nerd.</div></th></tr>
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There are no auditions when it comes to determining popularity level in high school. Verdicts are handed down arbitrarily by bullies, the beautiful but not necessarily attractive people, sports jocks and anybody with more friends than Col. Nerds existed for two functions; to provide test answers at gunpoint for illiterate school tough guys who were incapable of putting one and one together, or as replacement punching bags. Maybe mathematics questions should have been phrased in the following fashion to give unintelligent thugs a fighting chance in the classroom:<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Johnny beat up three students during his lunchtime hour on Tuesday. He threw two jabs and a right hook at each student. How many punches did Johnny throw overall?</em><br />
<br />
Col cannot remember the exact day and date when he endured the latest episode of hell; only that he was a Year 9 student. He was running late for English class. If the coordinator saw him heading towards the building, there would be trouble, possibly after-school detention. His eyes are bleary from crying and lack of sleep. Sweat is dripping down his forehead and arms. Col’s mind has been preoccupied with dreams about getting bashed the day before. It was the latest in a series of nightmares, each over something menial. If not for being on the grounds of a Catholic school, he would have cursed God for not blessing him with the ability to fight, run, swim or play a musical instrument, something that would grant him immunity from a confrontation. Demonstrating academic excellence in class or showing diligence with homework did not impress the bullies unless they could personally profit from it. <br />
Col ran up the stairs two at a time, puffing and panting at the end before entering into a brisk walk. Ms. Swanley, the English teacher, scolded him the moment he entered the classroom, declaring that his tardiness showed a lack of respect to everyone who made it on time. If only she knew some of these angels she harped on about were amongst the worst bullies Col faced, responsible for his fear of turning up.<br />
“Why are you late, Col?” she yelled. <br />
He apologised meekly, but she remained unsatisfied with the response, scowling profusely to emphasise her disgust.<br />
“What time is it now, Col?”<br />
Col looked at the clocked on the wall and answered nervously. “11.40.” He hated being put on the spot.<br />
“What time does class start?”<br />
“11.30.”<br />
“So how late are you?”<br />
“Miss, is this Maths or English?”<br />
<br />
Groans could be heard from around the class, a sign of disapproval at his attempted humour or sarcasm, whatever his answer was supposed to be. ‘If one of the more popular students in class said the same thing, there would be hoots of laughter,’ Col mumbled to himself. <br />
“Thank you for your sarcasm, Col,” Miss Swanley said. “Maybe you would like to find a seat and open your book to page 45.You can start reading for us.”<br />
<br />
There was an empty seat in the back corner of the classroom, but to get there Col would have to squeeze through a maze of desks and avoid the vultures eyeing him off. Outstretched legs accidentally tried to trip him up as he squeezed his way through to the corner. Col heard a voice say, “we’ll get you after class, freak.” The safety of the desk with his name on it seemed distant, for every step felt like walking a mile in the desert. <br />
<br />
Col opened the book and started babbling on about some text that he did not know or care about. Incessant distractions such as coughs, cat-calls and the odd paper missile or eraser fragment led him to stammer through a couple of paragraphs. Nothing actually hit Col, but the insecurity of being struck by something was enough to make him stop mid-sentence a few times. Then his mind began to wander; Last week in woodwork class, two guys grabbed Col’s arms and placed in his hands in the vice, tightening the bar as a third guy punched Col in the stomach, before submitting him to a painful arm lock and shouted, “I now declare you a nerd for life.” Memories like these were drowning Col in a pool of misery, rotting away his brain and desire to try hard in school.<br />
Switching back to the book, Col hit a word which caused him to stutter - “ca…cata…catastrow,” he said before giving up. His brain was paralysed because of last week’s woodwork class moment.<br />
“Catas-trophe, Col. Catastrophe,” Ms. Swanley said. Her correction provided the queue for collective laughter from the entire class. “When you’re ready, everyone,” she screeched in an attempt to regain control of the class. Ms. Swanley called on somebody else to take over, ending Col’s public humiliation. <br />
<br />
For a few moments, Col had been left alone by everyone. Such moments were rare; it was like a stay of execution. It was time for him to take advantage of this lull. He pulled out his diary, a journal for recording odd thoughts and simple pictures. Col was not a great illustrator; he drew stick figures; a macabre comic strip of the schoolyard as an urban battlefield. There were days where Col depicted himself as a larger figure carrying a weapon, getting even with the teenagers who tormented him. This was the closest to revenge that he could realistically get. Each picture was accompanied by commentary and divided into chapters. Although the journal had no title, Col was already mapping out a vision beyond the realms of a pictorial account of his school world. He giggled to himself at the thought of adapting the show for live stage. <em>Bullied – The Musical</em>, the posters would read, with a cast of hundreds of unfortunate souls in drab-coloured and ill-fitting uniforms hounded every school day. The voiceless would receive the plaudits, the critics pelted with garbage. Then a moment of inspiration entered Col’s head and he wanted to record this historic entry.<br />
<br />
Col started to write down the words “School is prison” before his diary was unexpectedly yanked away by somebody sitting in front. Col lunged desperately to try and get it back but in the process tilted his desk. It crashed into the chair directly in front of him before hitting the ground. Naturally enough, it caught everybody’s attention, including that of Ms. Swanley. <br />
“Boys, get out! Go to the coordinator’s office!” Ms. Swanley yelled. Her face looked as if it would implode. <br />
<br />
Both Col and the other student, whose name escaped him, walked out of the room. A rough voice hissed “you’re dead” in Col’s direction as he walked past, waiting for the instigator to disappear from view down the stairs. As Col dragged his feet along the carpet, he suspected that he was being stalked. The snipers were following him like ghosts, ready to strike at a vulnerable moment. He tried to think of something else, anything would have done. ‘School is a prison for the brain’ – that would make a great title for my journal’, Col thought to himself. He longed for some water at the taps just near the staircase. His heart was racing, not just because of what happened, but at the thought of explaining the whole situation to the coordinator. He took a long sip of water and braced himself for a descent into hell. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, Col was tackled from behind and carried by his arms and legs. Looking ahead, he could see that he was being taken towards the concrete barrier, the last step before being thrown over a flight of stairs. Screaming for help was out of the question, for he would be either unconscious or dead by the time any assistance arrived. Col’s body went limp as his legs dropped over the barrier, hit a pole and then dangled in mid-air. He felt like jelly, ready to throw up. Clinging to the barrier in desperation as sweat started to run down his face and arms, he struggled to look up. Peering over the barrier were three smiling faces - Les, Ren and Biff. Les, the unofficial leader, was a tall gangly guy with the charm of a snake. His sidekick Ren rarely spoke, but it always seemed to be when his superior told him to. Biff was an obese baby-faced assassin with a grin seemingly as wide as his waistline. <br />
<br />
“G’day Col, I hope you’re well,” Les said sarcastically, a huge grin beaming across his face. “Just hanging around?” Ren and Biff, void of adding anything comprehensible, simply laughed and smiled. Col began flapping his legs about in the same manner a trout wriggled after being caught by a fisherman. He was ten metres from a sickening fall. Beneath him was a sea of brown tiling, and it appeared closer when Col’s hands started to lose grip.<br />
<br />
Biff placed one boot menacingly close to Col’s left-hand, looked down upon him and grinned before going through the motions of spitting without discharging anything from his mouth. From the look on his face, it brought him a great deal of satisfaction. Anything could happen from here. The three tormentors, as Col called them, could play a game of This Little Piggy, removing his fingers one by one. Or they could stomp on his hands. Instead, the three tormentors raised their feet over the concrete barrier and went through the motions of standing on Col’s hands, only to pull out at the last second. For nearly one minute, this cat-and-mouse game went on. Col wished that they would just hurry up and get it over with, into medical care. The only question was whether it would be for physical or psychological purposes. Here he was, a human piñata dangling, waiting to be chopped down. But the problems would not end there. <br />
<br />
As part of the recovery process, Col would have to disclose full details, thus breaching the unofficial schoolyard code; <em>thou shall not name names</em>. The penalty for breaking this law would most likely be daily beatings. Col would have to lie. Then the interrogations would begin; parents, teachers, the year level coordinator, the Vice-Principal and Principal. They would all conduct a witch hunt for the culprits. Col could not win. He was hanging by a thread and would have to take the fall – metaphorically or literally. All he wanted was for this scenario to end. <br />
<br />
And so it did. The three tormentors whose names Col did not want to think of anymore got bored with watching him dangle over hell. He was granted clemency. In an act of evil faith, Les, Ren and Biff lifted up a helpless Col up over the barrier, brushed down his jumper and patted him on the back the same way a sports coach would congratulate a champion athlete.<br />
<br />
“Remember Col,” Les said. “Nothing happened, OK?” <br />
<br />
With a signature cunning smile, both Les and his sidekicks faced the staircase and walked down the steps, laughing hysterically as if the whole matter was a joke. For thirty seconds, Col stood silently, trying to make sense of what just happened and wondering if it was real or a very bad dream. The sweat beads cascading down his back, chest and arms bore testimony to a brush with death, or at least Col thought at the time. <br />
<br />
Although there were officially three or four hours of school time left, Col had consciously decided to switch off for the rest of the afternoon. His brain and soul were effectively on strike, unwilling or unable to absorb any new concepts or instructions. Beatings, lectures, they were all the same. Col simply could not take his mind away from why he had been singled out. How would he cope with this? Where would he draw the line? Col felt overwhelmed. Deep down, he longed to live out the fantasy out of his journal and become the muscle-bound character depicted in his journal, striking back brutally. Realistically, however, the bullies had kidnapped his dignity and pride, leaving Col with no other recourse but to simply put his head down and get through the day. For Col seemed destined to serve out his remaining school days on the frontline as a demoralised soldier with other nerds, fighting off wave after wave of bullies on the school ground, with no sign of a ceasefire in sight.<br />
<br />
Col clenched his hands into a fist and punched the air before marching down the stairs to face the wrath of authority. The spineless revolution had begun.<br />
<br />
Published in Hackwriters March 2011 - <a href="http://www.hackwriters.com/Col.htm">http://www.hackwriters.com/Col.htm</a><br />
© David Calleja March 2011<br />
davidcalleja1973@yahoo.com.auDavid Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-76109695854297469472011-02-15T23:12:00.000-08:002011-02-15T23:12:50.344-08:00Meeting Elvis in Vietnam<b>Meeting Elvis in Vietnam</b><br />
by David Calleja <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnpUnXEZ0hfSZVzNNUp6ZZ-plBS44YI61nHzumR5CVSvW8HM0PkaISx7GmFAAialNTF1Q4NRiItiX2WhS7RDQsML5-bT10d0zWJg4pSBOI3TSsi4nwIMUo47NsvHFozha0JPIaC8tr64U/s1600/BMT_Yok+Don+Eleph+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnpUnXEZ0hfSZVzNNUp6ZZ-plBS44YI61nHzumR5CVSvW8HM0PkaISx7GmFAAialNTF1Q4NRiItiX2WhS7RDQsML5-bT10d0zWJg4pSBOI3TSsi4nwIMUo47NsvHFozha0JPIaC8tr64U/s320/BMT_Yok+Don+Eleph+5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Elvis is not dead. The King has come back as an elephant and lives in one of Vietnam 's most famous nature reserves. I have experienced riding bareback on an open path and even sang the opening lines of "Love Me Tender" to him. My intention is not to offend fans of Elvis Presley but simply give an insight just how far his popularity extends. I have a gambling tour guide to thank for all of this. <br />
<br />
Although the Central Highlands city of Buon Ma Thuot is not on every visitor's list for destination, it has a reputation of being Vietnam 's national caffeine capital. In March 2011, the city will host an international coffee festival. It is also home to some of the tastiest rice paper rolls. Buon Ma Thuot's tourism slogan may well be "You're In Flavour Country." But there is a greater attraction more addictive than the region's coffee and rice paper rolls - Yok Don National Park. <br />
<br />
Slightly larger than Hong Kong, Yok Don National Park is a popular destination for domestic and international visitors wanting to experience elephant riding and overnight stays with ethnic minority groups such as the E De and Jarai who live in the nearby hills and farm the land according to traditional practices, Huang, my guide for the day, told me. He also mentioned that grounds near the elephant tracks may become home a resort to cater for wealthy holidaymakers. <br />
<br />
Having met several individuals committed to becoming tour guides in cities such as Hanoi and Hue , there was something different about Huang. He admitted to being a regular gambler, unafraid of wagering large sums of money on sports. When I first stopped by his small office, he did not launch into a sales pitch outlining why only he could deliver the perfect tourist package. His first question was, "Which country should I bet all my money on to win the 2008 European Football Championship?"<br />
<br />
As a non-gambler, I confessed to not having the slightest idea. An unknown large quantity of money could be riding on what I say. I ended up suggesting Italy . Huang immediate disagreed.<br />
"Ha! They cost me 600 dollars last night because they lose to Holland ." At least I knew where he stood on the matter. To make things even worse, Huang explained that he also had to buy everybody drinks for all 20 of his friends. "I regret being popular," he added. <br />
<br />
Before becoming a tour guide in 2003, Huang taught mathematics at a high school between 1997 and 1999 on the outskirts of Buon Ma Thuot, earning $USD50 per month; "standard rate," he says. While he received lots of respect from his colleagues, students and their parents, his mind was distracted by the lure of Vietnam 's steadily growing tourism industry, making more money by chaperoning middle-class families from Saigon and international visitors on short-term stays. Flush with extra money, he participated in card games and eventually found sports gambling. "I could never go back to the classroom," he said. "Imagine if the school found out if I gambled. I would lose face, no more respect." Being a tour guide helps to cultivate his entrepreneurial spirit. It has also fuelled his desire to improve his English. <br />
<br />
"What about France ? You think they are good, David?" Huang asked me. <br />
<br />
"Why would you support a former colonial power?" I said quizzically.<br />
<br />
"Because I love the colour and smell of money," Huang said with a grin. "You know, in the 2006 World Cup, my gambling losses were so bad, I had to sell my Yamaha motorbike. I loved that bike, it was like my identity. But gambling is a hard habit to break, like drinking and smoking."<br />
<br />
Gambling is illegal in Vietnam , but motorcycle (<em>xe om) </em>drivers play card games avidly during their down time, especially when shop closes for their lunchtime siesta. When it is time for large scale football tournaments like the World Cup, football fans are not scared to bet large sums of cash. They adopt a team, wear replica shirts, paint their faces and sing along to the tune of pounding drums. Huang says that he sometimes gets into the face-painting activities, because it makes him feel like he is at the ground, just metres away from where all the action is taking place. <br />
<br />
"Are you as passionate when Vietnam is playing?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"No, they not win much," Huang said. <br />
<br />
<br />
I really was fascinated by Huang's love of football. He was certainly more into the sport than me. But I was also keen to speak about where we were heading today. Huang said that Yok Don was home to domesticated elephants, buffaloes, monkeys and the elusive white tiger. <br />
"When the park had lots of trees, it was not rare to see the white tiger. But deforestation, logging and more tourists has sent the tigers and wild elephants west towards the Cambodian border," Huang said to me. <br />
Before we left the city bound to take the bus, I received a warning not to be shocked at the condition of some of the elephants. All sorts of gruesome possibilities entered my head at that point, and I could only hope that he was exaggerating. <br />
<br />
The bus arrived to take us into the countryside that would stop near a dirt path leading to an entrance for the Yok Don National Park . It was full of city dwellers going home to spend time with their families and help plant rice for the upcoming wet season. I could feel 40 pairs of eyes scanning me; their prolonged glares, combined with the stifling humidity, make me feel like a roast pig on a rotisserie. To my right was a vacant seat, but since a lady was breastfeeding her young baby, I opted to stand. An elderly person was more deserving of the seat. Passengers of all ages and occupations - police officers, businessmen, farmers, mothers, and students - were on board. <br />
<br />
We soon left the centre of Buon Ma Thuot, the symphony of buildings, orderly traffic, outdoor food stands and war statues quickly replaced by an endless sequence of dirt roads filled with holes, farmers riding bicycles and rice paddies. Suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a runaway calf, and I hurtled forward. I avoided colliding with the mother nursing her baby, but still felt a thud. Fortunately, it was my hands which hit the window. It startled the child, and as his wide brown eyes passed glances with mine as I attempted to regain my composure, I thought this would send him into a crying fit. Thankfully it did not. Students in neatly pressed uniforms of white and blue giggled as I straightened myself and offered a sheepish grin. <br />
<br />
Huang, who was standing in front of me, whispered, "Try not to stare directly at people. They look scared of you because you are different." <br />
<br />
I urged for somebody to break the ice. Then a female student sitting behind me stood up. I assumed that she was about to get off the bus, so I moved aside as far as I could. Instead, she smiled and spoke a few words in Vietnamese to Huang as I looked on. <br />
<br />
"David," Huang said, "This girl would like to practise speaking English with you." <br />
<br />
The girl sat back down again and asked me to sit next to her. Looking at Huang for assistance as if to ask for help, I initially stood next to her seat, but out of fear of offending her, I sat down. Her skin was darker than most people I had met in Vietnam , a sign that she may have been a member of one of the ethnic groups from the region. <br />
<br />
Speaking softly, she asked me, "Where you from?"<br />
<br />
"Úc", I answered back. <br />
<br />
"Oh-stral-e-ya?" she said, to which I nodded and said, " Australia ." <br />
<br />
She smiled and clapped her hands with excitement.<br />
<br />
"I am in 11<sup>th</sup> grade in school, learn English seven year now," she said. We went through a simple question and answer exercise, covering topics of interest, favourite colours and if I liked Vietnam . For the more complex words, she wrote down a sentence in her note pad in Vietnamese and handed it to Huang, who then translated everything into English. <br />
<br />
After a short conversation, she opened her book to a different page and showed me some sketches of farm animals, the countryside, portraits of her family, and a drawing of a house on stilts. As I looked through the drawings and said how beautiful the drawings were, she saw my digital camera that I had been holding. I took it out and showed how to operate it. She was intrigued by simple functions such as watching the lens zoom in and out and held it carefully, before I taught her how to flick through pictures of different places I had been in Vietnam ; cities, towns and villages she may never get to see. In my mind, her black and white sketches of the same images that I needed a camera to capture would have been amazing. After taking some photos out of the scenery outside as our bus slowly drove past farms, she told Huang that it was her first time at using a camera, but could not make sense of all the buttons and noises. "It is easy for me to draw," she said to me with a smile. <br />
<br />
Before getting off the bus, she pointed to a picture of a girl in full tribal clothing. "That is me," she said. "I am E De person." It was a very beautiful sketch, complete with a full length dress. The E De ethnic people are a group who lived in the outlying hills of Yok Don National Park . They live predominately in southern Vietnam . <br />
As the bus slowed down, she got up. "Now I am near home. Tomorrow I help plant rice with my family. Thank you for talking," she said. <br />
<br />
"Thank you too," I said, smiling back. <br />
<br />
<br />
She stood in the aisle, waved to me and said, "Goodbye, Australian friend.", before stepping outside. Then the door slowly closed, the engine roared into gear and the bus took off. <br />
<br />
About fifteen minutes later, it was time for Huang and myself to get off. We walked for an hour in the humid conditions, with Huang noticing that I was perspiring a lot. He told me that the previous wet season did not start on time and that 2008 could be a repeat. "The forest around us is dying, because there is no rain," he told me. There were tree stumps but few animals. The healthiest part of the forest, Huang said, lay deeper in the jungle heading towards the Cambodian border. "Years ago, wild elephants used to roam here. But the forest is disappearing so there are none left. You will be riding older, tamed elephants." When I asked him about the younger elephants, he tried to shy away from the subject, but then he said that ethnic minorities, such as the E De and Jarai, killed elephants for their ivory tusks and made traditional jewelry and medicine. <br />
<br />
"That is against the law here in Vietnam ," he said.<br />
<br />
We then walked in silence for a while. Maybe he had a bit more to say about the topic but did not know the right words to express his views. Maybe he did not want to sound offensive to a foreigner in case he developed a bad reputation. In his trade, no tourists means no income.<br />
<br />
Finally we reached the elephant reserve, and both Huang and I got what we wanted - some shade and iced tea, which I purchased for him. Huang said that he would negotiate with a Mnong native to select an elephant for me. The Mnong people are divided into three categories based on their geographical location in Vietnam ; Central, Eastern and Southern. An elderly man appeared from a hut to pick an elephant from the herds of six. Each was bound by a rope and tied to a tree. Five out of the six elephants had their tusks removed, which was described to me as part of the domestication process as a sagfety measure. One elephant, however, had only half a tusk and roared persistently. I wondered if he was passing on a signal to be put out of his misery. <br />
Huang called me over to say that my elephant was now ready. "The guide has picked an elephant for you. His name is Elvis."<br />
<br />
I was astounded. "Elvis?" I repeated in disbelief.<br />
<br />
"Yes, Elvis," Huang repeated. He then gave me a brief biography of the elephant. A rich American who regularly visited Vietnam named the elephant after the world's most famous vocalist. He was a fan of Elvis Presley, and the name stuck. While this may not sound glamorous, it would have been more of an insult to a revered creature to be named after Justin Bieber.<br />
<br />
The M'nong guide was already seated on the elephant's neck. He crouched down, whispered a few words into Elvis's ear. I hoped it was something to do with handling me with care. Then he looked at me and said a few words loudly. Huang relayed the message; "he wants you to get on elephant." How was I supposed to climb up? I had no ladder. Before I could think of an alternative, two men rushed over and worked in tandem to give me a boost. One of them squatted and the other patted his shoulder while pointing at my foot. "Come, jump," he said. I placed one foot, then the other, on my makeshift ladder. What happened afterwards was nothing short of a calamity. I wobbled while two guys attempted to push me up high enough so that I could get on board Elvis. I probably outweighed both of my helpers. The whole production resembled a circus act; I am surprised that nobody got hurt. As I slid onto Elvis's back of the great beast, the ride was finally ready to commence.<br />
<br />
"WHACK!" Down came the guide's bamboo stick on the elephant, who responded slowly. He stopped and started, not appearing keen to being taken out for a test ride in the heat. My guide used his feet to direct the elephant and tapped plants and trees as he told Elvis to stay on the walking track. Every few metres, Elvis would stop to eat leaves as a means of keeping up his energy, something my guide did not like. I did not mind how much Elvis ate; he was carrying two individuals weighing a total of about 140kg. This is slightly less than what Elvis Presley weighed when he died in 1977. One thing that both the king of rock and roll and the elephant had in common was calorie consumption. It is said that an adult Asian elephant consumes around 96,000 calories per day, reportedly the same amount that Elvis Presley consumed daily in the last 18 months of his life.<br />
<br />
I marveled at Elvis's agility to weave between low-hanging branches and trek through mud. For me, this was definitely something special. Like every animal in captivity, he longed to be with his own kind and other endangered species in a promised land of dense forest, far from this tourist zoo. The last time I got anywhere this close to an elephant was in 1999 while touring the Kruger National Park in South Africa, along with 11 other backpackers and a veteran of the Zimbabwean Civil War in an all-terrain vehicle. This time, I was riding bareback, where one false move could have resulted in a fall from seemingly dizzying heights.<br />
<br />
When the time came to return to the original departure spot, I patted Elvis on the back, thanking him for returning me safely. This time, I was able to use a makeshift platform to hop off the elephant so that I would not break anybody's bones in using a human stepladder. Before my time with Elvis was over, I wanted to get a look at his face and stroke his trunk. Working up the courage, I approached from the side and attempted to reach my hand over to pat him. But I was unsuccessful; Elvis pulled away - he was not keen on getting too friendly with me.<br />
<br />
In my desperation, I sang the opening lines to "Love Me Tender" in a low voice, enough to ensure that it did not attract too much attention. But anything invoking Elvis by name is never going to be a low-key affair. Huang, the Mnong guide and anybody else in the vicinity looked on bemusement, for they must have thought I was crazy for singing a love song to an elephant. By my reckoning, "Hound Dog", accompanied by some dodgy hip-wiggling, may have caused a catastrophe.<br />
<br />
It has been nearly three years since my ride with Elvis. He may have never caught a rabbit, but he is definitely a friend of mine.<br />
<br />
Long live The King of Yok Don National Park.David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-76605094014898988372010-12-22T17:50:00.000-08:002010-12-22T17:50:02.710-08:00Let's talk about Sox, baby<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td><h2 style="margin-top: 0px;">Let’s talk about Sox, baby</h2></td><td><img height="10" src="http://travelmag.co.uk/space.gif" width="1" /></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"> <div class="byline" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">By David Calleja<br />
22 Dec, 2010</div><div class="byline" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the Holy Grail for Boston's baseball fanatics.</td></tr>
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<tr><td colspan="2"> In the front office of Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox, Barney (not his real name) is standing in front of me. He is a large, oafish man in his early fifties who possesses a hearty laugh and friendly smile, not too dissimilar to the late John Candy’s lovable character Uncle Buck in the 1989 film of the same name. I would learn that Barney’s first marriage ended in divorce after 15 years, one which he says interfered with his lifelong love, the Boston Red Sox.<br />
<br />
“It’s hard to be married and not cheat by seeing a sweetheart who has stuck by me throughout all these years without asking for anything more than my company,” referring to his number one team. Being forced to choose between favourite team and domestic bliss presents an awkward dilemma for male sports lovers, and some habits are hard to break.<br />
<br />
“My Dad arranged my marriage with the Red Sox. He took me to my first game when I was a kid. One of the first pieces of advice he gave to me was, ‘Be faithful to this lot no matter what you go through in life.’ Over the years, it has taken a lot out of me, but when you love something or someone so much, money becomes no object.”<br />
<br />
I asked him what led to the end of his first marriage.<br />
<br />
“That’s easy,” Barney said to me. “The 1986 World Series, Game 6.”<br />
<br />
Raising my eyebrow, I let him elaborate further.<br />
<br />
<br />
“When I got married the first time, my wife told me that she supported the New York Mets. I didn’t particularly like it, but for me it was the lesser of two evils because at least it was not the New York Yankees. However, when the ball went through Bill Buckner’s legs at first (base), which led to the Mets scoring the winning run, she changed. For her, the Mets winning was like a rite of passage to mock every single thing that I did. From that moment, our marriage started to fall apart.”<br />
<br />
After the stock market crash of 1987 hit Wall Street, Barney lost thousands of dollars in investments, as well as his job. One of the first decisions he made was to sacrifice his baseball attendance for the sake of saving money, instead watching games on television. He missed the atmosphere and magic associated with being in the stands.<br />
<br />
“Eventually, she confessed that she was not a Mets fan, but a New York Yankees fan. Considering everything else I had been through, hearing this was like having a final pile of horse manure being dumped on my head. I didn’t care about Game 6, about the name-calling, and even her admission about having a fling on the side when our marriage was on the rocks. But gees, a Yankees fan going undercover just to get under my skin was too much. She said I was cursed with bad luck, like my baseball team. Eventually she decided that the only way she could fix everything was to leave. So we parted company.”<br />
Barney admitted that it upset him for a while and it put him off finding Miss Right. “I promised myself that I would only marry again when Boston won another World Series. Back in the 1990s, it was a safe bet that I would remain a bachelor forever.” Then in 2002, he went on a double date with a work colleague who fixed him up. “My first question to her was, ‘Are you a Boston Red Sox member or fan?’ When she said yes, I said, ‘prove it.’ She did, and we got married in 2005.”<br />
<br />
Unconditional love and passion are traits readily associated with the Boston Red Sox fans. They have even been the subject of a reality television dating show, Sox Appeal, where devotees step up to the plate for a chance to increase their average and find true love, like speed dating at the ball park. Boston’s global legion of fans, known as Red Sox Nation, extends to countries as diverse as Brazil, South Africa, Australia, Israel, China and Albania.<br />
<br />
It is said that a true supporter sticks by their team through thick and thin, and in Boston’s case, for too many years, patience was more of a curse rather than a virtue; an 86-year old drought between World Series victories known as The Curse of the Bambino (second to the Chicago Cubs current winless streak of 102 years). The curse, allegedly placed on Boston following the decision of Red Sox owner Harry Frazee to sell Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees. Following his debut in 1920, Ruth would be part of a line-up that won the World Series 4 times. In that same period, Boston won nothing. For decades thereafter, whenever Boston failed, the curse seemed to come to life. Exact details of the curse’s origins and legitimacy have been covered by a number of baseball analysts and are prevalent in popular culture, with Leigh Montville writing about it in his 2006 book The Big Bam: The Life and Times of Babe Ruth.<br />
<br />
There is an attraction to supporting the underdog, whether in fiction or real life. Neutrals love an unfashionable winner; witness Rocky Balboa overcoming insurmountable odds to defeat Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, or the ‘Crazy Gang’ of Wimbledon, led by Vinnie Jones, beating the all-conquering Liverpool in the 1988 English F.A. Cup thanks to goalkeeper Dave Beasant saving a late penalty from John Aldridge. There is something addictive about the sweet taste of success, but to fully enjoy this euphoria, you need to be a loyal fan, and devotion is a quality in abundance amongst the Fenway Park faithful. This probably explains how I found myself in Boston, eager to view this piece of sporting legend, standing behind Barney in the queue.<br />
Suddenly his mobile phone rang. In an attempt to take the phone out of his pocket, Barney dropped his membership renewal bill. It landed by his feet. I bent down and grabbed it as quickly as I could, hoping that it would reap rewards in the form of a free ticket.<br />
<br />
“Excuse me, mate,” I said. “You dropped this.”<br />
He nodded at me appreciatively without losing track of his phone conversation, looked at the bill and clutched it tightly in his spare hand along with his credit card.<br />
<br />
After he terminated his call and put the phone back in his pocket, he turned around.<br />
<br />
“Do I detect an accent?” he added.<br />
<br />
I told him that I was from Australia, visiting the city for a few days.<br />
<br />
“Well, I’ll be – a kangaroo shagger. Sorry to say, but you picked the wrong time to visit us here in Boston. The weather is lousy and it’s off-season. We also failed to beat Tampa Bay and get the pennant. In the last 12 months, we went from being World Series winners to nothing. I paid $31,000 a season to see the Red Sox lose the American League to a bunch of cow-bell ringers.”<br />
<br />
‘<em>Did he just say $31,000? That’s insane</em>,’ I thought.<br />
<br />
“Are your seats covered in gold?”<br />
<br />
Barney gave me a hefty laugh. “Not quite. What brings you to Boston anyway? If you’re a Yankees supporter, this is the last place you should be.”<br />
<br />
I explained to Barney with a child-like innocence that I had spent only a day in New York City and had to take the bus from there to get to Boston for a five-day visit. I also mentioned about seeing Washington D.C.<br />
<br />
He accepted my answer.<br />
<br />
“What do you think of our nation’s capital? It’s an exciting place, right?”<br />
<br />
“A bit bland,” I replied.<br />
<br />
“A boring place for boring people – that’s Washington for you.”<br />
<br />
“You mentioned something about a $31,000 membership bill,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Oh yeah. I have 6 seats which I share amongst 15 friends during the season. Since my job involves travelling across the country, I find myself giving tickets away a few times during the season. Everybody chips in a few dollars for the membership, like a syndicate. I have three really good seats and three next to the Green Monster. You will learn about the Monster when you see the place."<br />
<br />
“How do you decide who gets tickets to the play-offs? Do you have a competition amongst your friends, like in Survivor?” I asked.<br />
<br />
He laughed heartily. “I might start doing that, but usually it’s first come, first served. Of course, they don’t get them for free. Sometimes they do favours for me.”<br />
<br />
“Re-tiling your roof?” I chimed in.<br />
<br />
“Nope, usually stuff that is done throughout the year. Of course, big favours do help,” he said with a grin.<br />
I immediately jotted down my first idea, ‘get Australian visa’. That should earn me some good seats.<br />
When I mentioned <em>The Curse of the Bambino</em>, Barney laughed it off and told me what he said was a more accurate description of what the Red Sox meant to him.<br />
<br />
“Before 2004, generations of families in Boston had become used to the Red Sox missing out on so many occasions. It got to the point where we did not want to make it to the World Series.”<br />
<br />
Barney went into considerable detail about just how deep baseball ran in his family. Every October when he was young, he said, his father would call the family around the dinner table and tell everyone to get supplies and enact their survival strategy; that is, head for the basement.<br />
<br />
“Dad would say for a joke, ‘The Red Sox are going for the pennant – let’s go down to the attic, and don’t come out until a week after Boston has been beaten.’”<br />
<br />
Did he follow these same instructions in 2004, the year that the Red Sox famously broke their drought?<br />
“No, I watched the whole thing with my missus, our kids and Dad. He is in his eighties now. We talked about the drill and nowadays it seems funny, but we used to get a lot of stick from New York Yankees fans and we honestly thought we were cursed forever. Then the day we beat St. Louis, it was unbelievable.”<br />
<br />
Pausing for a moment, he went on. “For us, waking up the following day and reading that we had won the World Series, just did not seem real.” If the world had ended the following day, Barney said, he would have left the planet a happy man seeing the Red Sox win a World Series in his lifetime.<br />
<br />
“There were parties in the streets. Families flocked to cemeteries and visited their grandparents’ tombstones and just spent time talking about what happened to their grandfathers or grandmas,” Barney said. “Sons and grandsons gave thanks to giving birth to them and re-lived the thrill of watching Boston winning the World Series. All I can remember saying is, ‘We did it, the curse is gone. I wish you were here to see it with me, Pops.’”<br />
<br />
“What happened if Fenway Park had been closed down and relocated?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“The owners tried a few years ago, but a petition went up to save Fenway Park. For us this is a sacred spot. It’s our home. You can’t just build a new Green Monster or a new Fenway Park somewhere else in Boston.” Putting his index finger on the amount owing, he continued, waving his bill. “Well, you see this? This $31,000 bill is my ticket to attend this site where we stand right now. This ground is where I attended games as a kid with my Dad, it is where I bring my kids, and it is where they will continue to bring their children for as long as the Boston Red Sox exist.”<br />
<br />
With that, we said our goodbyes. One hour later, I commenced my tour of Fenway Park. Our guide promised us “the ride of their lives.” The thing is, however, I had already learnt so much from one devoted member.<br />
<br />
“Forget everything you know about New York Yankees and all of their success; history starts at Fenway Park,” our guide began. “By 1918, we had won 5 World Series championships and that obscure team to the south still had not opened their account. From now on, I will refer to the New York Yankees as The Evil Empire. D’yall understand?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” everybody said in unison.<br />
<br />
“I can’t hear you!”<br />
<br />
“YES!” we shouted back emphatically like a drilled army unit.<br />
<br />
“What’s that other team we hate called?”<br />
<br />
“THE EVIL EMPIRE!” we all shouted in unison, which the guide decided was good enough, so the show could commence.<br />
<br />
“Here’s a brief history. In 1918, the Boston Red Sox decided that due to being so awesome, we would take an 86 year break from winning and let The Evil Empire (queue imitation of a spit denoting disgust at mentioning the Yankees’ name) win a few, just so they could stop whinging about everything that they do,” she continued. “Y’know what they talk about – bad traffic, overcrowded subways and streets, bad kawfee (sic), and anything else worth complaining about. But then we woke up and pulled off the greatest comeback in baseball history.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGKdZiVDK_SNGyMsFDrsGK2X0kuIqsV-CooRWRvo2ABF_SvpnqAHDyNU22dmqQCPDC0qalExJtkA07tr0q86kWiP7Z7IIyGPNrJ03y2-X7wQY4ckcguKIxxyD6pZze2OxLPQTaSfJ_fk/s1600/Fenway+Park+image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGKdZiVDK_SNGyMsFDrsGK2X0kuIqsV-CooRWRvo2ABF_SvpnqAHDyNU22dmqQCPDC0qalExJtkA07tr0q86kWiP7Z7IIyGPNrJ03y2-X7wQY4ckcguKIxxyD6pZze2OxLPQTaSfJ_fk/s320/Fenway+Park+image+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's been a long time between drinks, but the sweet taste of success was worth it, say Red Sox fans.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
With a single click, highlights of the 2004 American League Championship League (ALCS) started playing. Our guide acted like a narrator, taking us through the emotions of what it was like to be a Red Sox fan 3 games down to the Evil Empire and facing immediate and inglorious elimination. With each subsequent victory, however, her husky voice changed, reflecting the elation of pulling off the near-impossible. By the time the last play of Game 7 had been called, I thought we were all expected to jump out of the glass window to celebrate. Nobody needed reminding of the results of the subsequent World Series in 2004, which Boston ultimately won; just a sentence from our guide saying that “Boston were back and loved the feeling of success so much, they repeated the achievement in 2007.”<br />
<br />
When it came to the subject of dealing with the Bambino’s Curse, the explanation was simple. “Have you ever heard of a Broadway show called No, No, Nanette?” When none of us answered, she said, “Good. That is how much attention it deserves.” The speech then mentioned a few things about the owners’ commitment that Fenway Park would remain in its current location, but was in the midst of a facelift to enhance the experience for fans and guarantee that the rich traditions built over nearly 100 years would not be lost. Laughing off <em>The Curse of the Bambino</em> is a part of this tradition.<br />
<br />
My visit was not discovering about facts, statistics and fixtures; it was about meeting the Barneys who epitomise the spirit of a true sports fan. Any team can put together an impressive run of victories and claim bragging rights, but it takes an eternity to craft a legion of fans whose faith will never waiver in the face of adversity.<br />
<br />
In this city, Fenway Park is the temple, and the Boston Red Sox are the knights of Camelot that will soon deliver the Holy Grail known as the World Series once again.<br />
<br />
<div id="copyright">Copyright © 2010 David Calleja</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-8254534810490230022010-12-04T04:12:00.000-08:002010-12-04T04:12:33.047-08:00Challenges facing Burma with the release of Aung San Suu Kyi<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Challenges facing </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> with the release of Aung San Suu Kyi </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><date day="4" month="12" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">4 December 2010</span></date></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-AU;"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2010/12/04/challenges-facing-burma-with-the-release-of-aung-san-suu-kyi/" target="_blank">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2010/12/04/challenges-facing-burma-with-the-release-of-aung-san-suu-kyi/</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In Charlie Chaplin’s satirical look at World War 2, <em>The Great Dictator</em>, the comic genius lampoons Adolf Hitler in his memorable role as Adenoid Hynkel, leader of the Double Cross. More touching, however, is his character of a Jewish barber fleeing a German concentration camp for the Austrian border and getting mistaken as Hynkel. Refusing the title of emperor, all he wants is peace and an end to unnecessary fighting. His impassioned plea of asking everybody to stop fighting is not only a cinematic masterstroke for its time, but is still relevant today. Chaplin’s final call for everybody to lay down their arms for the true meaning of democracy is moving.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wouldn’t it be great if such a storyline could be replicated so that a country like </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> could be rid of its tyrants and dictators? Imagine the country’s military leaders and armed forces agreeing to lay down their arms for the sake of peace, and begin talking openly with monks, civilians, and political opponents — particularly the recently freed Aung San Suu Kyi — about developing a real framework for democracy; one acceptable to all Burmese, where the constitution would allow for the military to serve Burma in the spirit intended by the nation’s founding father of independence, General Aung San, rather than have the national army fighting several wars at once with its own people. If Senior-General Than Shwe would take the time to watch <em>The Great Dictator</em>, he may just learn something about the consequences of his vanity and obsession with ruling with an iron fist.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> is a land with resolute, friendly residents who can do little more than watch as their once bountiful lands are stripped bare of its natural resources. Its ‘new’ parliament will be dominated by the pro-military Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP) after their emphatic victory in farcical circumstances, claiming more than 75 per cent of the votes.[1] The few parties representing ethnic minorities will not be able to forge an effective alliance, although the possibility of the USDP courting an ethnic party for token representation may yet still arise. A quarter of the seats in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s parliament are reserved for the military, where a minimum of 75 per cent parliamentary majority must be secured for any changes to the constitution must be made. Yet there is one voice of hope that gives us all something to savor – the release of Aung San Suu Kyi on November 12.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We are all likely to have seen images beamed live around the world showing her supporters flocking to the gates of her residence in </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, ready to hear the address of a woman they had been denied for so long. But at the same time she is aware of the threat posed by the military, with spies </span><span id="IL_AD4"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">watching</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> her every move. One guarantee is that Aung San Suu Kyi does not get fazed easily; she has </span><span id="IL_AD3"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">a job</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> to do and she will complete it. Her message for the </span><span id="IL_AD1"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">crowd</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> was to be brave and work together to achieve positive change, for she could not do it alone. The atmosphere surrounding her arrival, coupled with the massive weight of expectation, was a sight not seen since Nelson Mandela’s inaugural speech in </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cape Town</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> in 1990 following his release after 26 years imprisonment jail sentence. Like Nelson Mandela, Aung San Suu Kyi is a wonderful orator, eloquent, brave and inspiring.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As much as we would like to think, Aung San Suu Kyi’s release from detention is not a “Mandela moment.” Firstly, the path to a true democracy in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> has not been established. The military leadership’s “discipline-flourishing democracy” is little more than a smokescreen for their plans to remain in power. Individuals who have borne the brunt of poverty and suffering for enough years can easily tell the difference between window dressing and genuine reform. In </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">South Africa</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, President F.W. De Klerk accepted the reality that black majority rule would eventuate, and negotiated for changes that went beyond window dressing. Secondly, the apartheid policy discrimination in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">South Africa</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> had clearly segregated individuals along the clear lines of race, making it more obvious as to what laws needed redressing. Aung San Suu Kyi herself noted, “it is Burmese discriminating and oppressing Burmese.”[2]</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In declaring her number </span><metricconverter productid="75 in"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">75 in</span></metricconverter><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> their annual </span><span id="IL_AD6"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">Top 100</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> Global Thinkers List, <em>Foreign Policy</em> noted that following her release, “(Aung San Suu Kyi) made a remarkably levelheaded call for long-term reform of the sort that comes from within: <em>“<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/24/world/asia/24myanmar.html" target="_blank" title="Myanmar’s Leading Dissident Reunites With Youngest Son | New York Times, Nov. 24, 2010"><span style="color: blue;">value change</span></a>,”</em> as she put it, “not regime change.”[3] This reflects the need for </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and the rest of the world to take a deep breath, consult, and then get on with </span><span id="IL_AD2"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">the job</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> without resting on laurels. Like her father General Aung San, she is a leader who speaks of political unity and who speaks of </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s people like a large family, while recognizing the sensitivities facing ethnic minorities who have suffered immensely as a result of the junta’s war against them. The world’s longest ongoing civil war, between the junta and the Karen National Union (KNU) shows no sign of stopping, human rights abuses against the Shan people continue to occur at an alarming rate, and the Rohingya people in </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Arakan</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">State</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> are discriminated against as a consequence of not being allowed citizenship rights. Most of the estimated 200,000 Rohingya population in neighboring Bangladeshi camps such as Chittagong and Cox’s Bazaar Plaza are undocumented[4] and would only consider returning if Aung San Suu Kyi were leader of Burma, for they chances of more equitable treatment would be higher than compared </span><span id="IL_AD8"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">to living</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> under the military junta.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In an era where the fast dissemination of news and exiled communities transport details quickly, Aung San Suu Kyi finds herself speaking for the voiceless and stateless. She has lost none of her poise, eloquence and charm to inspire ordinary Burmese civilians and leaders worldwide. Her release comes at a time where multimedia and Internet technology is as its peak and will only continue to grow. This is an opportunity to spread her message calling for cooperation from all sides even further; to the Pentagon, </span><street><address><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">10 Downing Street</span></address></street><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, and to the United Nations Security Council. What defines Aung San Suu Kyi as a visionary is her willingness to embrace new ideas from those who have known freedom during her incarceration, new ways to reach out to the younger generation, all </span><span id="IL_AD7"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">the while</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> keeping to her core message of working together for a common goal – achieving democracy without violence.[5] With the simple message of working together, she brings the international community into focus reminds to be part of a force for democracy, peace, reconciliation and genuine change; and it needs a peaceful army of millions, for one person cannot be so influential. She has extended this message of friendship to the military regime who kept her in house detention for 16 of the last 21 years. In an exclusive speech to the </span><span id="IL_AD5"><span class="ilad1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><u><span style="color: #000066;">Washington</span></u></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> D.C.-based periodical <em>Foreign Policy</em>, Aung San Suu Kyi added that her idea was not a new one but rather one as old as humanity itself – “working together to improve any situation”[6]. This will mean re-registering the National League for Democracy and having the right to investigate concerns about the electoral process. This is where the political will of the new administration will be tested. When asked what question she would pose to Senior-General Than Shwe, </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s reclusive military leader, Aung San Suu Kyi simply replied, “<em>it would be good if we could talk to each other</em>.”[7]</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So how will the new administration respond? Will they play mind games or accept the invitation? In the days leading up to her release, USDP secretary-general U Htay Oo reportedly said that the military wants ”to co-operate (with the NLD and Aung San Suu Kyi) for the betterment of our country,”[8]. These words, while not a direct endorsement of for an all-inclusive roundtable discussion, at first glance appear to be the most positive statement delivered in some time. However, nothing has been heard from Senior-General Than Shwe on the matter, a man who seethes at the mention of Aung San Suu Kyi’s name and has never fully explained why. It is not clear whether his feelings are shared by the USDP or indeed other members of the military. Regardless of their personal feelings towards Aung San Suu Kyi, it will not stop officials from harassing civilians, in particular the most at risk, as typified by the recent targeting of HIV/AIDS patients at a clinic on </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s outskirts.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Just one day after Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to a health clinic highlighting the need to give greater attention to the issue of HIV/AIDS in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, authorities ordered the facilities to close and threatened residents and staff with eviction. Upon the surfacing of details that the clinic’s owner, Phyu Phyu Tin, was a colleague of Aung San Suu Kyi’s in the National League for Democracy, came calls of “political” motivation for the center’s closure. After international exposure, authorities relented, saying that the residents could stay on. This incident has become a source of embarrassment, for it demonstrates just how out of touch authorities are. The World Health Organization (WHO) have named Burma as one of 11 countries deemed “worst-affected” by HIV/AIDS, where 0.5 per cent of government spending is allocated for health care.[9] What does this say about the authorities’ attitude towards vulnerable people? More importantly, what will become of the patients once they have moved? They will be added to the growing list of </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s forgotten people, whose lives will slip through the cracks of ill-equipped and understaffed government-run hospitals.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Despite all of this, the junta has failed to dampen her willingness and enthusiasm, and the joy of watching Aung San Suu Kyi undertake the role she undoubtedly misses the most; as a mother. One of the more wonderful moments since Aung San Suu Kyi’s freedom is the time she has spent catching up with her youngest son, Kim Aris. Mizzima Television showed footage of mother and son taking a stroll through Bogyoke (General) Aung San Market in downtown </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> last Monday, with hundreds or thousands of onlookers cheering her every step. In one poignant moment, a woman greeting Aung San Suu Kyi to fulfil a lifelong dream of meeting her idol, could not be spoiled even with the presence of the sign “Government Registered Jewelry Shop”, a sign that the presence of government is unshakable in Rangoon.[10] But this cannot take the gloss off the 5 minute visit that traders and customers alike, living in fear for so long, will treasure forever. In a world of political scandals, public relations stunts and seemingly pre-scripted interest by politicians worldwide, this one bit of footage is a reminder of what politics should really be about; connecting with the people.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Aung San Suu Kyi is regarded in a light that most leaders in western countries dare dream of. This is because she cares genuinely for the people who have stayed loyal to her, without casting aside anybody who has made life difficult. Her vision is simple; a peaceful, democratic and fair </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> where restoring the country’s past does not involve the use of force. The time has come to end this ongoing bickering, which innocent residents pay the ultimate price for. The ban on the National League for Democracy must be lifted so that representatives of Burma’s diverse community can hear what each other has to say without bias or fear. Aung San Suu Kyi needs to be present simply because she will always be the voice of hope, one that adds weight to the drive for national reconciliation and peace. And if the new administration really wants to, they can become part of a force of good and not evil by adhering to the words mentioned in <em>The Great Dictator’s </em>closing<em> </em>speech.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><strong><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Notes</span></strong><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[1] Democratic Voice of </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <em>Final election results announced</em>, </span><date day="18" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">18 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <a href="http://www.dvb.no/elections/final-election-results-announced/12942"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.dvb.no/elections/final-election-results-announced/12942</span></a> Viewed on </span><date day="21" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">21 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[2] Doherty, B. (2010), <em>Change to come from the people</em>, The Age, </span><date day="20" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Saturday 20 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/world/change-to--come-from-the-people-20101119-18131.html"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.theage.com.au/world/change-to–come-from-the-people-20101119-18131.html</span></a> Accessed </span><date day="22" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">22 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[3] Ibid</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[4] Thai Burma Border Consortium, <em>Burmese border refugee sites with population figures: September 2010</em> – <a href="http://www.tbbc.org/camps/2010-09-sep-map-tbbc-unhcr.pdf"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.tbbc.org/camps/2010-09-sep-map-tbbc-unhcr.pdf</span></a>, Viewed on </span><date day="20" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">20 November 2010</span></date><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[5] Foreign Policy Top 100 Global Thinkers, December 2010, <a href="http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2010/11/29/the_fp_top_100_global_thinkers?page=0,42">http://www.foreignpolicy.com/articles/2010/11/29/the_fp_top_100_global_thinkers?page=0,42</a> Viewed on </span><date day="1" month="12" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">1 December 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[6] Ibid</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[7] Interview with Zoe Daniel, <em>Aung San Suu Kyi thanks Australia</em>, ABC Radio – A.M. WITH TONY EASTLEY, Monday 15 November 2010, 8.03am AEST, <a href="http://www.abc.net.au/am/content/2010/s3066062.htm"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.abc.net.au/am/content/2010/s3066062.htm</span></a> Viewed on 28 November 2010.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[8] Davies, J., <em>Uneasy </em></span><country-region><place><em><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></em></place></country-region><em><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> awaits Suu Kyi</span></em><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, The Age, </span><date day="9" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">9 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <a href="http://www.theage.com.au/world/uneasy-burma-awaits-suu-kyi-20101108-17kgr.html"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.theage.com.au/world/uneasy-burma-awaits-suu-kyi-20101108-17kgr.html</span></a> Viewed on </span><date day="18" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">18 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[9] Kaew, Nang Khem and Wade, F., <em>Children ‘most at risk’ from HIV/AIDS</em>, Democratic Voice of Burma, </span><date day="1" month="12" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">1 December 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <a href="http://www.dvb.no/news/children-%e2%80%98most-at-threat%e2%80%99-from-hivaids/13161">http://www.dvb.no/news/children-%e2%80%98most-at-threat%e2%80%99-from-hivaids/13161</a> Viewed on </span><date day="1" month="12" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">1 December 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">[10] Mizzima Television, <em>Aung San Suu Kyi and her son take a stroll through Bogyoke Market</em>, </span><date day="30" month="11" year="2010"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">30 November 2010</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juFKtLSLrgg">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juFKtLSLrgg</a>, Accessed 1 December 2010.</span>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-4550731809814374202010-11-24T06:54:00.000-08:002010-11-24T06:54:17.966-08:00From soldier to motorcycle guide in modern Vietnam<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial;">From soldier to motorcycle guide in modern </span></b><country-region><place><b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></b></place></country-region><b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">By David Calleja, </span><date day="21" month="12" year="2008"><span style="font-family: Arial;">21 Dec, 2008</span></date></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2008/12/21/former-vietnamese-soldier-shares-his-war-stories-for-friendship/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2008/12/21/former-vietnamese-soldier-shares-his-war-stories-for-friendship/</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">From the roadside on a hilltop overlooking a cornfield and a disused bridge with a large gap in the middle that once linked the two ends, Van's face grew serious as he transformed from being a professional motorcycle guide and historian to a soldier recreating a bloody battlefield in the 1970s, following the withdrawal of American forces from </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">. He was a young man fighting for the U.S. backed Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN), defending against the National Liberation Forces of South Vietnam, or the Viet Cong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"The bridge you see over there," he started, simultaneously pointing to my left and gesturing to the structure approximately </span><metricconverter productid="300 metres"><span style="font-family: Arial;">300 metres</span></metricconverter><span style="font-family: Arial;"> away, "is </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Phu</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Yao</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Bridge</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">. It was destroyed by </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">North Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> bomb during the war. I was in a battle here once, a very big fight that went for 3 days. Sometimes I still hear the shelling at night when I am sleeping and I wake up thinking I am still in combat."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"What did the fields look like back then?" I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"You see the corn fields ahead," Van continued, "no crops existed back when I fought here. It was all bare earth and surrounded by landmines, and we were caught in the middle of a Viet Cong ambush."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I quizzed Van as to whether he was caught on the same grounds when the attack started, he elaborated further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"I was platoon leader. Initially I was stationed in the bunker with my troops </span><metricconverter productid="200 metres"><span style="font-family: Arial;">200 metres</span></metricconverter><span style="font-family: Arial;"> from the bridge, but when the fighting started, my job was to get to the tower, take cover and fire my bazooka at the enemy. I simply wanted to kill as many of them as possible." Van averted my eyes to a bullet riddled brick structure that was partially destroyed, but like many relics from the Vietnam War era, is still standing. The government, in its attempt to provide a living history lesson as well as attract the tourist dollars from visitors flocking to the country, sees the benefits from cashing in on the legacy of the country's bloody civil conflict that killed millions of Vietnamese, as well as instilling national pride and simultaneously reminding the world of Vietnam's resilience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"The enemy were approaching from the Cambodian jungle where they had sought refuge. Most of my soldiers were stranded following a siege as part of the Phu Yao insurgence, so my job was to rescue as many ARVN guys as possible, and drive the Viet Cong away." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Did it work? How many enemy soldiers did you kill?" I chimed in. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
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</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrZh-1ETbiIVw5jwX6_AbR8NUtroDNuJH85JAALQ6C8SxzeZzzUCOHeSvrq1PoYPQKlYKVn-mIea4EtKSPzoRSj2kHQ_1U7GXBIQ8BeE7ItdP2b5-OwLCNs_yDTDFgXxh5ffOwQQBZmQ/s1600/phuyaobridge.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrZh-1ETbiIVw5jwX6_AbR8NUtroDNuJH85JAALQ6C8SxzeZzzUCOHeSvrq1PoYPQKlYKVn-mIea4EtKSPzoRSj2kHQ_1U7GXBIQ8BeE7ItdP2b5-OwLCNs_yDTDFgXxh5ffOwQQBZmQ/s1600/phuyaobridge.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phu Ya Bridge (Photo: David Calleja)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"Yes it worked, and I did shoot enemy fighters during battle. But when you are in a life-or-death situation and you want to avoid being hit, numbers and logic do not matter. You just want to survive." Van told me. Around 200 men were killed in the battle. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While I stopped to take some pictures of the original bridge, Van told me about his life as a soldier and the aftermath of war in his shoes. After finishing school at 17, he enlisted with the South Vietnamese or Republican Forces, and backed by the Americans, served a number of years as a soldier and marine in the Central and South Central highlands. He was also stationed on </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">'s central coast, stretching all the way up to the former Demilitarised Zone (DMZ). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Once the war ended in 1975 after </span><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Saigon</span></place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> fell, Van was arrested and served time inside a concentration camp, toiling for long hours on the farm during the day. For 3 years, Van was surrounded by barbed wire and along with other Prisoners of War (POWs) attended nightly re-education classes designed to remove any existing prejudice Van had previously held about the reunification of a socialist </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Van admits to frequently being tortured during his term of imprisonment but chose to remain silent when it came to diverging specific details, stating that it was standard for everybody to undergo some form of punishment before reconciliation. Upon completing his full sentence, he continued to farm under the close eye of Communist Party officials for a further 5 years, but in 1992, </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> re-integrated with the international community. Employment prospects were limited, so Van decided to ride motorcycles and earn an income by transporting residents within and around Dalat. However, he was banned from contacting and maintaining friendships with foreigners for many years. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Along with a handful of other war veterans, Van became one of the founding members of Easy Riders in 1998. Free Riders are a group of freelance motorcyclists offering a personalised method of viewing, interacting with and breathing in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">, its language, culture and people. Van sees his war legacy experience as a positive attribute, and uses his knowledge to take tourists and give them a first-hand account of life in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"There are many people who claim to be an Easy Rider member but I know who the fakes are." Van says. "They don't have uniforms, registered identity cards or the memories and nightmares of what we endured. We are a brotherhood. Some of the pretenders are either scammers or new recruits in the police force. The young officers are actively encouraged to join in by their superiors, and younger officers do not disobey orders if they wish to advance their career and get a higher ranking in the force." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"Is it because they can also get a second income?" I asked. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"Yes, but it means that any individual looking suspicious can be watched closely." added Van. This is especially applicable in the northern part of the country where some suspicion of outsiders is still apparent years after the war reached its completion. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Later in the day, after riding through the South Central Highlands for several hours and passing vast lands of rice fields and tea plantations, we stopped at a war memorial honouring fallen Vietnamese soldiers who had died defending their land and beliefs by fighting the French, </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">America</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> and their allies, and each other between 1954 and 1975. Fifteen million Vietnamese soldiers died in this 21 year period. "The government got all of the bodies that they found after the war and dumped them in one grave site,'' Van told me after I had returned from climbing the hill, passing the graves and taking some time to pause at a giant silver coloured lotus flower statue and reflect on the legacy of numerous battles played out on Vietnamese soil. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Speaking with Van gave me a deeper appreciation of the experiences of Vietnamese people who lived through an environment and whose vision centred around getting through battlefields and being appreciative of surviving each day, let alone dreaming of their futures in a post-war scenario that seemed distant. His manner of re-telling war stories was calm, measured and rarely animated, and the way he would conclude his lessons with emphasising how everyone learnt to forget about hatred of ideological differences for the sake of the country, seemed to reflect thoughts I held about the pride Vietnamese felt in overcoming adversity and getting on with life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">But Van also shared the darker side of the military life, and pointed out that intense rivalries between allied soldiers fighting on the same side in territory safe from incoming raids and gunfire could be as damaging as being in the line of fire during combat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“I was in a bar one time drinking with my platoon. There were American and South Korean soldiers present too.” Van told me. “They were belittling us Vietnamese, saying that we were poorer soldiers because we did not get paid as much money as them. In the beginning, I stayed calm and just ignored them, but then the </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">U.S.</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> soldiers started pointing me out. I wanted to go after them because they were saying demeaning things about Vietnamese people." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">For the first time, I noticed an increase in his voice's intensity and he closed his eyes, flashing back to the exact moment. "One guy started bragging that our women were dirty whores. Some of his platoon joined in, and then it became a competition about how many women they could have sex with in one night. Then four or five Americans came over and wanted to fight me." I was beginning to sense a climax but what happened took me completely by surprise. Van cleared his throat, and raised the tone in his voice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"Suddenly I had enough. I could not hold myself back any longer. From my weapons stock, I pulled out a hand grenade and took out the pin. All the American and Korean soldiers started screaming and ran out of the bar when I started counting. Four of my own men held me down and then frantically worked to put the pin back in the grenade before the 7 seconds were up. Otherwise, it would have exploded.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Van admitted that he remained mad for a long time after the incident and it took him a long time to finally resolve his personal issues related to fighting in the war. </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> lost many fine men, but he lost many friends. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">His final admission about life during conflict stuck with me long after I left </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">. "War reduces the humanity in us, and it is even worse when you are fighting against your own countrymen because they see things a little differently than you do. Back then I was an angry young man and truly believed that these people I was fighting against were not like me, they were evil." I asked him about his modern day perspective. "Now the same people that once wore a different uniform, saluted to a separate flag have only one interest, love, an allegiance that we all subscribe to. Peace and friendship in <i>my </i></span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">." </span></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-17817408177917421092010-11-24T06:50:00.000-08:002010-11-24T06:50:10.128-08:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Coaching the Loi Tailang Tigers </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">by David Calleja, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">12 January 2009</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/01/12/coaching-the-loi-tailang-tigers/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/01/12/coaching-the-loi-tailang-tigers/</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNetoBz4znJCNRtfOW9yhTlwKNMW7ryl8prax-F6NGuReVcwI6Ah4ulb7_KC2R0G6X6PJA1B-sq-I4qe4QYiz2kc_rzkHmZIg0W9oQVkWaUkpJVb-ud6HkmOVkVPWE_MfZrURRmlYwtlo/s1600/loi_tailang_tigers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="height: 211px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 298px;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNetoBz4znJCNRtfOW9yhTlwKNMW7ryl8prax-F6NGuReVcwI6Ah4ulb7_KC2R0G6X6PJA1B-sq-I4qe4QYiz2kc_rzkHmZIg0W9oQVkWaUkpJVb-ud6HkmOVkVPWE_MfZrURRmlYwtlo/s320/loi_tailang_tigers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team training at the IDP camp in Loi Tailang, Shan State. Image: David Calleja</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Football is war minus the guns,” declared George Orwell in reflecting upon his lack of sporting prowess while attending </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Eton</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">College</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> in the early part of the 20th century.<b> <br />
</b>For the hundreds of orphans residing within the male dormitories at Loi Tailang Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp in </span><place><city><span style="font-family: Arial;">Shan State</span></city><span style="font-family: Arial;">, </span><country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">Burma</span></country-region></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">, football is the fantasy escape from the memories of conflict and forced removal from their family homes which has seen boys removed from the care of their parents.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Encouraged to get an education as an alternative to joining the Shan State Army, the only lethal shooting performed by boys aged between 10 and 25 years would be achieved courtesy of their deadly accurate feet and an imitation leather ball on the makeshift dusty football pitch overlooking the dense forest. While each student has more than likely experienced the loss of relatives as a result of the frequent incursions into their village homes by the Burmese military junta, not every person is an orphan in the strictest sense. Some have lost their mothers and fathers, some one parent and others have lost whole families. There are students that have simply been away from home for so long, their own relatives may no longer recognize them. The fate of some parents is unknown and some have gone years without knowing whether their mother or father may have been murdered or remain alive.<br />
<br />
Parents shift from one village to the next in search of food and work in relative safety, trying to remain out of sight from the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) troops ruling </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> with an iron fist. The diverse ethnic minority residents of </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Shan</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">State</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> attending either the primary or high schools located on the Burma-Thai border three kilometers away have bonded together because without family support, all they have is each other.<br />
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The other attribute they have in common is a love of the world game, football. Every day after attending classes, studying for upcoming exams, and well as completing all required domestic chores, up to 30 students gather to play football on the large pothole-filled dusty track that leads up the mountain. If the ball happens to go out of play, there is race on amongst the players to prevent the ball from rolling down the steep hill and dropping approximately </span><metricconverter productid="200 meters"><span style="font-family: Arial;">200 meters</span></metricconverter><span style="font-family: Arial;"> down the cliff face where only one walking trail exists.<br />
<br />
To the right-hand side, younger children have their own smaller pitch to undertake their games. And squeal with delight as they chase a ball around a pit 20 approximately meters long and </span><metricconverter productid="10 meters"><span style="font-family: Arial;">10 meters</span></metricconverter><span style="font-family: Arial;"> wide.<br />
<br />
With all kindergarten classes finished for 2 months, and having recently moved into the teacher's quarters of the male dormitories, several older students approached me with a special request, one that took me by complete surprise.<br />
<br />
“Teacher David, every night our school team plays here, but we do not have anyone to train us. Please be our coach.”<br />
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Before I had a chance to even consider the request, I was immediately surrounded by 20 students of all sizes aged between 10 and 23 years old. The decision was practically pre-determined prior to me being asked, so I considered this as an honour, in spite of my lack of ability with the ball. However, my responsibilities now extended to being the most confident person anywhere near the ball, and this had to rub off on anybody interested in playing. Otherwise, there would be no interest.</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"><br />
In Loi Tailing, several males in their late teens and early 20s are still at school completing their basic education. Back in their homelands, attending school was considered impossible because of constantly being on the run from the military junta, or taking on the task of looking after the family farm, tending to the crops and buffaloes, or simply being disallowed from turning up at all by the SPDC. Shan language is banned from being taught at all schools in </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">Shan</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">State</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"> by the military authorities, but every student can safely learn their native Shan tongue. Each grade contains a great disparity in ages amongst students. Students can take advantage of the chance to go to school rather than move from their villages into towns, on the run from persecution and being captured by the SPDC to become porters and worked until exhaustion and death.<br />
<br />
In the squad of players standing before me, a handful of students never went to school until their 16th birthday just so the family could continue to live. One squad member commented that his mother, if still alive, would not recognize him because he left his homeland so long ago and to risk a return would heighten the possibility of arrest and torture for being associated with the Shan State Army, or SSA.<br />
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Motivating a team that really does want to improve is not difficult. Football is a game that brings people of all walks of life together even in the most adverse circumstances. The challenge is to find effective strategies that assist with improving ball skills and fitness in isolation and gradually incorporate them into a fully fledged match. Also, exercises have to be fun. The life for students here is difficult and considering the hardships faced in living, attending classes, affording school materials and keeping abreast of all other tasks, recreational pursuits should involve learning and laughing. Nobody was expecting me to be a supercoach. The students wanted somebody they could enjoy their favorite pastime with. While teaching in the classroom requires measurements such as testing to demonstrate effectiveness of communication and teaching capabilities, sporting activities involve predominately listening and watching. However, in both cases, keeping and maintaining their attention is the key to a successful session. That means simple explanations, less non-essential talking, and short drills that constantly change before boredom sets in.<br />
<br />
In a 60 minute session, the squad and I would open up with a warm-up lap around the perimeter of the orphan dormitories. I viewed my participation as a means of encouraging everybody to do their best, although I deliberately stayed behind the pack. We were all being watched by interested on-lookers, curious as to why a farang (foreigner) was barking out instructions in a fun nature like an army general. One group of students played rakktan with a bamboo ball and string for a net on a small makeshift court next to one dormitory; another group played a form of bocce with disused and leaking batteries, and men and women trudged up the mountain and cut through the open path, weary from their day in the forest hunting wild animals, and collecting vegetables, firewood and bamboo tree leaves.<br />
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Setting a maximum number of six exercises, each between five and ten minutes in length, I improvised for a lack of equipment that I would normally have access to. Any tasks involving running were shorter than ball control exercises because of the impact of the hard surface on players' legs. Everybody played without shoes, which to me represented resilience and aversion to pain. Also, there was no tackling. Firstly, the risk of injury was simply too great (although anybody who did fall and graze themselves or sustain a slight knock simply got up again); secondly, it went against the spirit of the game; but most importantly, for students to instigate confrontation and fight would make life in the dormitories exceedingly difficult and result in a loss of face.<br />
<br />
In the open-aired environment, I felt no pressure to achieve miracles, as one would normally be expected when teaching English in a classroom. Whatever materials were available in the yard would become my coaching tools. To compensate for a whiteboard and marker, I would draw simple diagrams in the dirt with a stick, using x to represent a player, o for their opponent and a line to represent the direction of the ball or player in drills. This simple yet effective method provided the background for instructions such as “I want everyone in two lines”, or to highlight positioning. I picked out team members that I observed were confident with English speaking to take my simple instructions and translate them in Shan language for the benefit of everybody else, and demonstrated key terms in English such as pass, cross, shoot, 5 yards, man-on and one-two. Logs of firewood substituted for orange witches hats to practice ball dribbling skills and older students voluntarily offered their shirts to be used as goalposts. Players were even encouraged to choose their own nicknames in English so I could call them out and remember their faces. Consequently, the team contained three members named Rambo, whom I labeled Rambo I, Rambo II and Rambo III.<br />
<br />
This makeshift football pitch on a mountainside located in a village barely recognizable on the map was my de facto open-aired classroom, and the team of orphans were my students. A few months before, I had been working in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">South Korea</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;"> as an English teacher, using my laptop to design lesson plans, play DVDs and prepare Powerpoint presentations for multimedia displays. I could not have picked two differing scenarios.<br />
<br />
Although my textbook drills were not always working out the way I had originally planned, one of the best exercises I came up with to reinforce agility and quick movement of the feet also ended up being one of the funniest.<br />
<br />
Laying eight logs vertically one after the other approximately half a meter apart, players ran through one by one and returned to their original starting point, starting with a slow jog and then gradually increasing their speed. Then I changed the nature of the exercise by slowing narrowing the gaps and reducing the time in which everyone had to pass through. “If I see anybody move any of the logs, the entire team stops and the offender has to sing 'I Believe I Can Fly,'” I instructed, followed by an example where I deliberately tripped on one of the logs and proceeded to sing. Roars of laughter appeared from the squad, who were keen to see a foreigner embarrass himself and not feel so awkward in case they were caught out. Only three players made the same mistake as me.<br />
<br />
Changing the emphasis to teamwork, everybody linked up in a circle and ran through the obstacle. Whenever somebody tripped up, squad members would quickly point out who broke the chain and subsequently call the guilty parties to the front to sing good-naturedly. This exercise created a bond between the players and myself, but in addition broke what I thought was a major barrier by overcoming hesitation to perform in public, a skill that is necessary for them to one day to speak out about the plight of the people living in the IDP camp.<br />
<br />
The final 20 minutes before sundown would be devoted to a fully fledged game as a way of letting everybody play their natural game and serve as a reminder for everyone to feel comfortable, enjoy the experience and play their natural style. At the end of the game, I called everyone together for a group huddle.<br />
<br />
I asked, “What do you want to call your team?”<br />
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Several suggestions came up, and finally everybody agreed upon Loi Tailang Tigers.<br />
<br />
When I queried the choice of animal, 'Rambo I', who was 22 years old and completing high school, explained with the aide of a translator, “The Shan animal is the tiger. In life, we are tigers fighting the Burmese army. They have caged us, but we can still roar. One day, when we are free, they will run scared.”<br />
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Another player added, “Tonight we all study for Shan language exams, so we feel proud to learn our language and history, and practice our culture here.” I came to realize that everybody is making the best of their allotment in this less than forgiving environment that few people outside of their own village are aware of. Being part of this football team and partaking in drills and having somebody guide them, even if only temporarily, creates an identity that results in belonging to an association, much like the SSA band together for a common cause.<br />
<br />
With a final shout of “One, two, three, TIGERS ROAR!” led by me and followed instinctively by the team, we all clapped to congratulate each other for finishing training, ran a lap together and then, with the sun fading behind the distant hills, the Loi Tailang Tigers transformed back into students, eating and washing dishes collectively, before settling down to study for the following day's exam by candlelight in their dormitories.<br />
<br />
In an ideal world, football would be their beacon of peace in a land seemingly hidden from the eyes of the international community, where far too many young people have been exposed to a lifetime of war and the trail of physical and psychological damage left in its wake. For these young men, returning home to find peace, loved ones, and freedom is the cup of life.</span>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-68842262447295444042010-11-24T06:46:00.000-08:002010-11-24T06:46:16.568-08:00Experiencing Health Care in Rural Laos<h3 style="margin: 12pt 0cm 3pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Experiencing Health Care in Rural </span><country-region><place><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></h3><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">By David Calleja, </span></div><div class="ecsubtitle" style="margin: auto 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><u><span style="color: purple;"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/01/experiencing-health-care-in-rural-laos/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/01/experiencing-health-care-in-rural-laos/</a></span></u><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/20/appeasing-the-monk-and-cultivating-the-cynic/"></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Bolevan Plateau in southern </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> is reknowned for its vast plantations of tea and coffee. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In the </span><place><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">village</span></placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;"> of </span><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Kok Phong Tai</span></placename></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">, a short, softly spoken 40 year old man with leathery skin appears from behind an upright bamboo pole which is used to hold buffaloes earmarked as a sacrifice for village weddings. He slowly slinks up to me and begins tugging at my arm with a hint of urgency and desperation. Pointing to a window in a hut on stilts in the background, he places his palms together, raises his fingertips to the heavens and whispers, "Please help my wife." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Following the completion of these words, a stocky woman painfully climbs down the stairs of her hut and moved towards me. Each step seems to be a struggle. I stand perfectly still and smile nervously, unsure what to expect and how I should react. When she reaches within </span><metricconverter productid="10 metres"><span style="font-family: Arial;">10 metres</span></metricconverter><span style="font-family: Arial;"> sight of me, any doubts as to why she looks apprehensive are immediately dispelled. A large lump the size of a tennis ball appears inside her mouth and upon closer examination, it is obvious that she has had difficulty in obtaining treatment because of her location and psychological state of mind. This is her venture outdoors in over a month. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My guide and translator for the afternoon, Phu Khaen, is sitting down and listening carefully to the scenario, and slowly begins to feed news back to me so that I can inform everybody else travelling with me that afternoon, four other Dutch nationals, of the situation's seriousness. Throughout the conversation, the husband relayed the details in Lao, and his wife made inaudible grunting noises because it was the only way she could communicate without grimacing in pain. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">About three months ago, she developed a minor irritation on the upper part of her gum. Instead of seeking treatment to prevent the infection from growing larger, the woman picked at the sore with her fingers and used sticky rice as a remedy to treat the infection and accompanying itchiness. For some months nothing happened and it appeared that nothing more would become of the incident. However, the growth returned with a vengeance and not only grew on her gums, but also spread to the back of her head and neck. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Upon the completion of the story, Phu Khaen and myself were surrounded by members of the woman's family. Several children had bloated stomachs. In </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">, malnourishment is a serious problem amongst children, and according to the World Food Programme, 40 per cent of child in the country have stunted growth due to malnourishment as a result of not having enough to eat. Seventy per cent of </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">' population survive on less than 40 cents per day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">"Has the lady seen a doctor about the infection?" I asked. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Phu Khaen shook his head solemnly. "No, they cannot afford the cost of transportation and treatment, and the next round of free basic village check-ups will not be for another year." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> is a country of 5.1 million people, 80 per cent of whom reside in the rural area. Life expectancy is 59 years of age, one of the lowest in </span><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Asia</span></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">. There is a strong belief in the use of traditional medicines and it is now being incorporated into the public health system and newly emerging private practice. The first private hospital is due to open in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> some time in 2009. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">An investigation into the use of traditional medicine in the </span><place><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">province</span></placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;"> of </span><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Champassack</span></placename></place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> by Sydara et al (2005) reveals that faith and practice in traditional medicine is quite common due to the lack of affordability and accessibility to pharmaceutical products. In 2007, the World Health Report indicated that total health expenditure in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> reached $USD19 per capita per person. Households contribute 80 per cent of this figure, 10 per cent comes from donors and 10 per cent is provided by the government. Lack of household affordability for treatment seems to be a long standing phenomenon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Back in 1997-98, total drug expenditure amounted to $USD6 per capita per person in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">, with the government allocating $USD1 million in the budget for drugs, or 20 cents per capita per person. Nowadays, hospitalisation and drug costs are still too expensive for the average working family in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">. The result is that serious ailments go untreated. Although the public health system covers fees of the poorest families, individuals with seriously ill conditions such as the woman in Kok Phong Tai must also overcome psychological factors in getting to hospital, far from their families in the village. Nor does it give an accurate representation of the struggles faced by families working on farming plantations such as tea and coffee. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The cost of hiring a tuk-tuk to make the two hour journey from Kok Phong Tai to the nearest town of </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pakse</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial;"> takes 2 hours and costs the equivalent of a week's salary. The woman in this instance had not worked on the family coffee farm for 3 months since the emergence of this growth inside her mouth. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">With the cost of pharmaceutical medicines high for regular families, increasing numbers of people have instilled their faith in traditional medicines such as herbs and plant roots, which are administered by a village healer. Field studies conducted by Sydara et al involved a survey of 460 residents throughout </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Champasak</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Province</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> and centered around the use of traditional medicines to treat illnesses and conditions. Nearly 50 per cent of participants stated that they used traditional medicine only to treat fever, gastritis, diarrhoea and malaria. A similar number of people surveyed used a combination of both traditional and modern medicine to treat such illnesses (Sydara et al, 2005.) The findings suggest that residents profess some belief in the work undertaken by traditional healers substituting for health professionals in the absence of trained medical personnel. In 2005, the ratio of professional health workers employed by the government to the population was number at 3.21 employees per 1,000 residents. in 2005, the average annual salary of a health worker in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> was $USD405, or under $USD8 per week. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">For this woman to have any chance of improving her quality of life, and at least finding out about her condition, the four Dutch nationals that accompanied me to Kok Phong Tai village developed a plan to have treatment organized in the nearest large town of Pakse. This meant dealing with an ethical dilemma and the real possibility that a terminal illness may be confirmed, and the task of informing the woman's family would not fall upon a group of strangers that could walk away and deal with a guilty conscience, but upon the woman or her husband that had to actually deliver the news in Lao. As a team, we attempted to justify our action plan by arguing that early intervention and action is better than living with a potentially deadly medical secret. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The second issue of taking the woman from her village into a major town for an examination without immediate treatment and permission also weighed heavily on the minds of everyone. The compromised solution was to request a photo of the offending visible symptom. This image would be taken to a private pharmacy or the hospital in the hope that all five of us (The four Dutchmen and myself) could return to the village the following day with some medicine to commence treatment. If we could somehow obtain the necessary medicine, it would eliminate all associated fears in taking a petrified woman from her home village into a large town, away from the security offered from the darkness of the family home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">At this stage, nobody had in fact figured about how to return to Kok Phong Tai the following day, or if any tuk-tuk would indeed be available. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The greatest obstacle was legal responsibility in the case of any unforseen consequences arising. With nobody having a medical background, a list of clauses was drawn up, similar to a contract and signed by the 5 foreigners taking part (4 Dutch nationals and myself.) These points set the conditions for providing any assistance, and included the following: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">1) The five foreigners involved will pay for petrol spent for 2 return trips between Pakse and Kok Phong Tai and for the cost of one X-ray to be taken at </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pakse</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hospital</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">2) In the event of an operation being deemed necessary by a medical authority, the foreigners would not be held responsible for any medical malpractice or for any accident occurring during the transportation between Kok Phong Tai and Pakse and; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">3) The parties will not be responsible for any raised expectations on behalf of the patient or her family as a result of any errors in translation between the English and Lao languages or vice versa. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Even the best of intentions require some form of legal agreement. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Upon returning to Pakse that same evening, the Dutch team and myself walked around the town of </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pakse</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial;">, raising money by requesting as many donations from all foreigners in the city centre. The ultimate aim was to pay for not only the x-ray, but for all medication and hospital after care. Initially we budgeted for an overnight stay following the operation, although we were prepared to accept the possibility of a much longer stay if doctors requested time to monitor the recuperation process. Within three hours, a total amount of $USD195 was raised. The vast majority of donors expressing sympathy for the plight of the woman, but not everybody believed in the necessity of donating aid, with some criticisms being directed over the provisions of a band-aid solution that would not actually benefit the family in the long run and encourage a cycle of dependency. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">As expected, coaxing the lady to attend a hospital in a major town required extra assistance. Covering our bases, we were accompanied the following day by two uniformed police officers, invited to help transport the patient and provide "protection for the foreigners." Later in the day, I learned of why the officers insisted upon coming along; to place psychological pressure on the woman and her family to accept any assistance being offered to her through gentle persuasion, and prevent her from having a change of heart by refusing to come along to seek treatment. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Eventually, the lady did agree to accompany us with her husband in tow. He carried several blankets and clothing items, and it seems that he was prepared for a lengthy stay, as well as providing moral support. As the tuk-tuk made its way along the bumpy roads, he sought to smother his wife's nose with a rag containing methylated spirits for short lengths of time. This helped to contain her painful screams as a result of the growth inside her mouth. For that afternoon, the discomfort showed on everybody's faces showed; the husband spent much of his time praying to Buddha as he tried to comfort his wife. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Inside </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pakse</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hospital</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">, the doctor confirmed with us that the woman had an infection with her cheek muscle. He immediately announced that there would be no need for an x-ray and set to work at the operating table, making an incision where an operation would take place. Following the operation, and most probably against the husband's wishes, the lady was ordered to have a 10 day resting period, firstly in the traumatology unit alongside victims of motorcycle accidents, amputees and patients waiting for skin grafts, then intensive care, and finally in a private ward. Just having located a bed within the hospital proved to be an achievement. In 2005, the World Health Organization reported that just over 5,000 beds were available throughout </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;">, with the country in the grip of a bed shortage, and it seems that the situation had changed little over the time that I was in the country, something most evident in </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pakse</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hospital</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial;">. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The resulting breakdown of costs is as follows, with the exchange rate at the time being 8,800 Lao Kip to $1 U.S. Dollar. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Transport - 550,000 Kip </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hospital surgery after care and initial 1 night stay - 260,000 Kip </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Extra 10 days hospital accommodation - 500,000 Kip </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">TOTAL COST - 1,310,000 Kip ($USD150) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The remaining $45 was donated to a local village school for minority groups in Kok Phong Tai. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Since the operation, news has filtered through that the woman has since returned to the family tea and coffee plantations near her home village. Giving the gift of renewed hope towards recommencing a livelihood needs never hold any boundaries.</span></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-1644722493536748882010-11-24T06:42:00.001-08:002010-11-24T06:42:51.072-08:00Appeasing The Monk and Cultivating The Cynic<h2 style="margin: auto 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Appeasing The Monk and Cultivating The Cynic</span></h2><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><date day="20" month="2" year="2009"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">February 20, 2009</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> <br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">by David Calleja</span></strong> </span></div><div class="ecsubtitle" style="margin: auto 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> <a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/20/appeasing-the-monk-and-cultivating-the-cynic/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/02/20/appeasing-the-monk-and-cultivating-the-cynic/</a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the least talked about topics in rural</span> </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> in the company of strangers is politics. An exception to this rule is when the discussion focuses on history and whether </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s sovereignty is threatened by a traditional neighboring enemy, </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> or </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. This is where everybody has an opinion deemed worthy of declaring in public, and even the figures least likely to speak out become vocal. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, monks are afforded a level of respect that most publicly elected officials with all of the relative power and wealth at their disposal can only dream of. It is not uncommon for males of elementary school age to commence a period of time as a novice monk, learning the importance of discipline in daily life, before deciding whether to devote a portion of their adulthood adhering to Buddhist teachings; or in some cases, cultivating the inner political cynic within. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A popular ground for young monks to congregate is Phnom Chisor in </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sla</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> village, 30 minutes from the town of </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Takeo</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. It contains an ancient Khmer temple built in the 11th century by the Khmer king Suryavarman I, which overlooks all surrounding villages. At the base of the mountain, one monk slowly approached me, hoping to engage in a conversation. He looked about 20 years of age and wore robes covered in dirt and dust. The local police chief passing by on his motorbike slowed to literally a crawl and lowered his gold-rimmed sunglasses, feigning some interest in the ensuing dialogue, before speeding off. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The monk, who later introduced himself as Soporm, asked me if I was interested in climbing the numerous steps to the summit, which I declined by saying that I was waiting for a moto. He then proceeded to give me something of a short history of the temple and the mountain’s importance in the region. Locals say that it is older than Angkor Wat, </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s symbol of pride that appears on the national flag. However, Phnom Chisor is in the shadows of its globally famous counterpart, and is not mentioned in the news as often as Preah Vihear, the temple on </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s northern borders that is the subject of a border dispute with </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In between several nervous smiles, I asked, “How long have you been a monk?” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Since I was 18 years old. I am 21 now. I still have the same robes,” he replied as he directed my eyes to the fraying edges dragging along the dusty road. “I have never had enough money to buy more clothes. My family is very poor and lives in Pursat. I live inside a monastery on the main road.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I quizzed him as to how often he visited Phnom Chisor. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Only on special occasions such as Pchum Ben (Ancestors Day, when Cambodians pay respects to the ghosts of their deceased relatives by throwing rice near the temples and offering cooked meals to monks). Some monks come here every day, but I am too lazy,” he replied. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With a grin, I added “I cannot imagine any monk being lazy. You are up daily before the sun rises to commence your chores and chanting.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Soporm went on, adding, “Other men, including my friends the same age as me, have the good life with their friends, going to </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, attending university. Their parents did not pressure them to enter the monastery. I want this free lifestyle too, but my family thinks that being a monk is more important because to them, I will live a cleaner life.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Like every young man, he wanted to explore life, and seeing the relative freedom that I possessed in being able to travel to </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> probably only fuelled his ambitions. Was becoming a monk a step in the natural progression towards manhood in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, or was this more of an appeasement for elders? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Is this something that you really want to do?” I asked. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Soporm shook his head. “No. I have other dreams.” He went on further and outlined his vision. “I want to be a politician when I am older.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Never had I encountered anybody who openly talked about politics, let alone declare their willingness to enter this profession. It was even more remarkable coming from a monk, the same person whom even public officials such as politicians and mayors were keen to remain onside with, for the sake of gaining the support of residents. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Surprised by his forthright declaration, I asked, “Why do you want to enter politics?” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Because people would then have to come begging to me.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“But they already do. With this robe, you are granted more respect than most people in this country,” I interrupted. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Maybe, but I cannot cash in that respect and get some money for myself and do much more with my life. If I were a politician, I would not have to beg for money, food or clothing. It would be much easier to ask for things without having to justify my reasons. You look like you have never been poor, David, so maybe it is difficult for you to understand.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With the closure of the previous sentence, he had me cornered, but I did not give up hope. “Then you would have to make a choice between sticking with principles or being more interested in personal gain,” I added. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Yes, I know it would be difficult,” Soporm began to say. “But there are monks my age that have tattoos on their bodies and smoke cigarettes.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The last thing I would have wanted is sow the seeds of frustration. Turning attention to the election due to be held in the same month (July 2008), I asked Soporm, “What do you think of the battle between </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> over the </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Preah</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vihear</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Temple</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">?” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“There is no issue over Preah Vihear. The people that run this country make it an issue because they do not want people to blame them for so much poverty. Sometimes the government forgets that there are Cambodians that live outside of </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">,” declared Soporm. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This attitude was in stark contrast with the vast majority of young men I had encountered in my time in Tropang Sdok village. Upon my departure in late 2008, I recall that English teachers and students that I came into contact with regularly spoke openly of their happiness for </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> to go to war against </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and prove its ground forces superiority, as well as reinforce rightful ownership of </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Preah</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vihear</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Temple</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. <strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></strong>Whether they would volunteer to go to onto the frontline themselves is something I never discovered, because conversation would then suddenly shift towards safer topics or change to Khmer language, freezing me out of the conversational loop altogether.<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></strong>But it seems that I had encountered an individual not afraid to speak his mind.<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></strong> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“So do you think Prime Minister Hun Sen is hiding other problems?” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Yes, of course,” Soporm shot back. “If you think </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> has many poor people living on the streets, you go to the countryside and see how many beggars ask for help.” He then pulled out a mobile phone and showed me a minute of video footage depicting an old woman talking in a raspy voice. ”Yesterday this lady came crying to me because she had not eaten in 3 days. Her husband died last year but she goes out to the fields every day to plant rice. She has no money to buy rice because her son takes the money that should be used for food and buys wine for himself.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“What did you do?” I asked. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I gave her some of my rice that I had collected back at the monastery,” continued Soporm. “No politician will feed her because they do not want to know of her existence. She is a survivor, but not a soldier. I do not understand why ex-Khmer Rouge members who are responsible for so many deaths in the past can suddenly become heroes if they say they are prepared to fight and die for </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> by defending Preah Vihear.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With a hopeful smile, I added, “This lady can vote for another party this election. </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> is a democracy, isn’t it?” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Judging by Soporm’s reaction, I must have sounded ridiculous because he chuckled and stated, “No we are not. This is still a dictatorship. Many parties are just to show countries like yours that we can have elections too.” With a sigh signifying defeat, he concluded, ”Maybe we should have only one party. People here already know who will win.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hearing stories like this is what cut deeply into my soul while living in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Multiple numbers of four wheel drives with logos representing international aid agencies and electoral observers from the European Union frequently travelled on the national road connecting </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and the town of </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Takeo</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Countless numbers of open trucks representing numerous political movements used their megaphones to court residents with mottos and promises, and hand out leaflets. How many of them stopped to listen to experiences like Soporm was exposing me to? How many of these officials actually knew of such conditions that residents endured? And what was the extent of my responsibility now that I had spoken with somebody who in public remains impartial, yet was secretly telling me about his own political aspirations? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Suddenly he turned and felt the sleeve of my shirt with his thumb and forefinger. My initial thought was that I should give him the shirt off my back. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“David,” he began, “Please help me. I need money for clothes.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At that moment, my eyes darted around in earnest, desperately looking for signs of a passing moto driver and an excuse to leave the scene at this awkward moment. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Well,” I began, remembering that I had only 1,000 Cambodian riel and $USD20, “I don’t have much riel.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“U.S. dollars are okay for me,” responded Soporm. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And here was my moral dilemma. Without the US dollars, I had no way of travelling to </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. I glanced over to the coconut vendor across the road, but even though he probably had local currency, he would need to sell 40 coconuts to obtain 80,000 riel just for me to get some change. Giving the monk the solitary 1,000 riel note would seem like an insult considering how much he had shared with me. <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">I may as well give him nothing and be prepared to accept any bad karma as just desserts</span></em>, I thought. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And that is exactly what I did. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’m sorry, but I have only enough to get me to reach </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.” It was obvious that I was lying severely to protect my own interests and I could tell that the monk could see right through my intentions. However, he chose to smile and say that it was alright. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After excusing ourselves by saying that we had other destinations to reach, my sojourn with the young monk ended meekly. This is only appropriate considering the scant amount of attention I paid to a simple request. Indeed Soporm was right; I do not know what it is like to be poor, and like so many, I ignored the plight of one in need and demonstrated how much extra study I still needed to master the art of respect.</span></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-9077092302008357772010-11-24T06:40:00.000-08:002010-11-24T06:40:45.742-08:00Amongst the Bahnars in Kom Tum<h2 style="margin: auto 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Amongst the Bahnars in Kom Tum</span></h2><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><date day="1" month="3" year="2009"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">March 1, 2009</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> <br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial;">by David Calleja</span></strong> </span></div><div class="ecsubtitle" style="margin: auto 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>“</strong>The ethnic minority people, the Bahnar, Jolong, Rongao and Sirang, are kind and hard working, but we have very little to show,” says Kruh, my Bahnar guide for the day. He is dark skinned and tells me that he spent most of his life growing up on a farm. He lost part of his thumb and a toe working in the fields slicing crops at the age of 15.</span> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For the past two years, Kruh has been studying electronics in school the central Vietnamese city of </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Kom Tum</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, and his plan is to graduate in 2010. Although he speaks a high level of English and can converse fluently, we discuss not the rapid changing of Vietnamese society, but how the process of “Vietnamization” is having a detrimental effect on his Bahnar people. He alludes to the process of his culture gradually fading away. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I inquire further as he takes me from village to village and instructs me to survey the contrasting styles of houses as we pass through the villages. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“You see the housing in the villages? They are not traditional huts. Many of them are made of bricks nowadays. We are being encouraged by the authorities to modernize, yet the authorities still claim they care about our heritage. But they think only of the needs of tourists, not us.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Taking a look around the villages where the Bahnar people live, as well as other minorities who converse in a tribal language and not Vietnamese, only rongs or communal houses that have high ceilings retain a distinguishable traditional form. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“We say the higher the roof, the stronger the village,” Kruh tells me. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Inside the rongs are coal fireplaces and photos of important ceremonies. In one village I saw, a rong that had been gutted by fire. After rebuilding, some of the wood still bears the scars of the day it went up in flames. Keen to show concern for keeping alive the traditions of ethnic minorities as well as maintaining a presence in the community, Vietnamese authorities gave approval for villages to make their own choice about designs of new rongs. The communal building in Kruh’s own village was falling apart so a new one was constructed in 2006. Wood from the forest was used to construct churches, a time consuming process when men would stay away for days to chop down trees, sleeping in the forests, and then bring back trunks by buffalo and cart. These days, trucks carry back the necessary materials. However, this has led to large areas of deforestation. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Other buildings that are booming in construction include Catholic churches. Thanks to French missionaries, wooden churches are being erected in villages everywhere. The most famous wooden church in Kon Tum is in Nguyen Hue, and contains an orphanage at the back, which is simply called Vinh Son 1. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Bahnar people take their religious worshipping seriously and attend </span><time hour="6" minute="0"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">6:00 am</span></time><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> Sunday mass without fail. The church is one place where children also learn their native Bahnar language because they are forbidden to learn their mother tongue in Vietnamese schools. Practice in Catholicism is strong, a legacy from the days when the French colonial authorities administered daily affairs for everybody in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. In Kom Tum, the church has effectively served as a springboard for keeping alive indigenous traditions. There are plenty of photos at the rong depicting ceremonies and showing the efforts made to keep these traditions flowing. Very few, if any, ethnic minority people here are Buddhists, and a few are animist. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Kruh takes me on his motorcycle into the low lying mountain areas. We pass fields growing rice, corn and sugar cane. These are crops Kruh used to farm when he was younger. The Bahnar people have tended to these crops for many years, cultivating the soil and sending crops for consumption in the larger cities. Yet the fruits of labor seem to avoid the workers of the land and benefit the landlords and business owning neighbors who set up corner shops. Kruh instructs that we hop off the bike so he can show me an example. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Within one or two years, the business owners are making relatively sizable profits that people Kruh living in a poor village can only dream about. I asked him if the Bahnars want to get involved in selling goods in shops like these. “We lack the experience and capital required to make enterprises like this work for us,” explains Kruh, with a slight voice of discontent. “We see others making money and doing well for their families and I want that opportunity as well, but it is beyond many ethnic people. Sometimes I feel as if we are looked down upon because we only work the land. There is no money to be made in laboring in the fields, which is why I decided not to farm anymore.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We continued to walk through the village, passing a construction site which has pillars up. This will soon become the site of a new Catholic Church. Men and women worked feverishly to complete the job as soon as possible. I surveyed the housing styles, and very few of them are built like traditional huts. In the past 10 years, more homes have been built with bricks. They can be built in half of the time and with less money if laborers work seven days a week. A bamboo hut costs $2,000 to assemble whereas a brick home costs about $1,000. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At the same time, convoys of Vietnamese youths on motorcycles ride past flashing the victory symbol and saying “Hell<em><span style="font-family: Arial;">oooooo</span></em>” to me as they head towards the </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Daklar</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">River</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, a popular drinking spot. These are young men and women who travel from cities as part of tour groups to find this quiet spot for lunch and photo opportunities. The dry season has shortened the width of the </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Daklar</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">River</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> by two-thirds and water levels have dropped. The river is dirty as years of forest degradation and unseasonal rainfall wash away the hillsides. Once the rainy season starts, it will be impossible to walk down here at all because the water levels will rise, and it will be visible only from the higher hills. Kruh recalls when, as a boy, the water was so clear he could drink from it. Nowadays, he says, you have to travel further up the mountain to get a more reliable source of clean water. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Our afternoon was specifically reserved for visiting Vinh Son 2, another Catholic orphanage. This is the largest of the orphanages in town and houses 200 children between the ages of sex months to 19 years. The definition of an orphan, explains the manager of the orphanage, Sister Jane, does not just refer to children who have lost a mother and/or father. It is anyone who has been displaced from their home due to economic hardships. Where parents and households have found it so difficult to cope with the costs of living, they have made the difficult decision of placing their offspring in an orphanage to be looked after. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The orphanage doubles as a permanent daycare for children who attend school during the semester and return home for holidays. They attend school in the morning and have the afternoon to themselves. Upon reaching 15, teenagers spend time working in the fields adjoining the school throughout the day and attend night school to complete their education. The price of feeding all the children for one day is 400,000 Vietnamese Dong ($USD25), and although the cost of rice is subsidized, the greatest concern is for those who cannot be fed, especially the infants. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I ventured into the children’s quarters for 10 minutes. Against the wall were four children aged five or six years old sleeping in cots with steel cages designed for children half their age. Their growth was stunted. One girl lay there with open sores on her leg, flies buzzing around her. A solitary elderly woman adopted the dual role of nanny and nurse and tended to a newborn child, watching over five other children younger than three years of age. Since the heat prevented her from being more active around the premises, she entrusted four girls aged between eight and twelve to look after the children who were in a more serious condition. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With the number of children in orphanages, one of the English teachers at Vinh Son 1 Orphanage explained, the authorities were clamping down on foreigners travelling to </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> wishing to adopt village-born children and Vietnamese couples unable to conceive. Children without parents would now be permitted to live with extended family members such as aunties and uncles in the absence of direct family members. Upon reaching the age of 19, when they would be expected to leave the orphanage, these young adults would receive a plot of land in their original village to farm. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I thanked Sister Jane for her time at the orphanage, made a financial donation and left for the day. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Before my day had finished, Kruh told me, “The ethnic minorities are good people, kind people that want the same success as the Vietnamese have. I spent time in the army during the war, I served my country and I am proud to be Vietnamese. But I also have my Bahnar roots and I commit myself to upholding my traditions as much as I commit myself to the country I live in.” The next time I visited, he promised, we would go to the more obscure mountains and see the plight of those in greater desperation. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Wouldn’t that be dangerous for you?” I asked. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“No, because I want you to see how we live so that you can bring more people here so I can show them our story,” he responded. “I am not afraid to take risks. But the decision to stay silent and not aim to have the same rights and privileges as other groups living in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> presents a risk that will be too late to redress if no action is taken now.”</span></div><br />
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</div><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/03/01/amongst-the-bahnars-in-kom-tum/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/03/01/amongst-the-bahnars-in-kom-tum/</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Zj5OLy2XoMRJuc90Z0mjjWfkbA5eb6tFL6Tv5_IvgQSYlt8TgFAnvu8RVtaWzJZQl3mA0MAFG403jewMwiC0BW7gDREkppIOyYz0AwsTYVgFS3-Z4d2JbJpf8XTzuRrdYUzwh6WI3Ms/s1600/bahnarhut.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Zj5OLy2XoMRJuc90Z0mjjWfkbA5eb6tFL6Tv5_IvgQSYlt8TgFAnvu8RVtaWzJZQl3mA0MAFG403jewMwiC0BW7gDREkppIOyYz0AwsTYVgFS3-Z4d2JbJpf8XTzuRrdYUzwh6WI3Ms/s320/bahnarhut.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-90930656789731237082010-11-24T06:36:00.000-08:002010-11-24T06:36:45.784-08:00Martial Arts Odyssey: a voyage of discovery of national heritage<h2 style="margin: auto 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Martial Arts Odyssey: a voyage of discovery of national heritage</span></h2><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><date day="3" month="4" year="2009"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">April 3, 2009</span></date><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> <br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><strong>by David Calleja</strong></span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/04/03/martial-arts-odyssey-a-voyage-of-discovery-of-national-heritage/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/04/03/martial-arts-odyssey-a-voyage-of-discovery-of-national-heritage/</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>“</strong>The martial art is a cultural asset. I look at myself as a martial arts anthropologist, and if we lose it, we’re losing one more aspect of the culture,” declares New York-born author and creator of the web TV show <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em>, Antonio Graceffo.</span> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Graceffo looks confident when appearing on camera and packs a punch in delivering his message. Graceffo’s list of achievements includes a career in the U.S. Military, investment banking on Wall Street, journalism, linguistics (he is fluent in nine languages) and motivational speaking. Graceffo also reached the semi-finals of the Toastmasters International World Championships of Public Speaking, and served as an Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) with an ambulance crew in </span><place><city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Manila</span></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Philippines</span></country-region></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">An experienced travel writer who is the author of five books, Graceffo has also entered </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> to document human rights abuses in the ongoing genocide, and stepped into the frontlines with the Shan State Army to teach hand-to-hand combat to the rebel soldiers. Graceffo is even a target of the army of the ruling Burmese junta, who created a “Wanted” poster of him and issued it to a number of rebel armies. In 41 years, Graceffo has experienced more than most people would manage to in their lifetimes. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the one activity that really makes Graceffo tick is combat fighting and martial arts, and he has three decades of experience. For the man known as the Brooklyn Monk, who once studied at the famous </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shaolin</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Temple</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, stepping inside boxing and wrestling rings or gymnasiums and using any apparatus to learn and demonstrate various forms of fighting is equivalent to entering the grounds of a royal castle. It seemed only a matter of time before Graceffo’s dual passions of journalism and martial arts would coalesce. This combination led to a documentary about Muay Thai Sangha, and eventually in </span><metricconverter productid="2006 in"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">2006 in</span></metricconverter><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> the </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Philippines</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, the creation of the web TV show, <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em>. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Rather than solely teaching new methods of kicking, elbowing, punching and grappling, <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em> identifies how fighting and performing styles connect with the history, culture and identity of the people who founded and practice them. The show uncovers a component central to the existence of a nation or tribe and elevates it to the same levels of appreciation and status of other cultural practices such as poetry, music and literature. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The original concept of the show was to take the knowledge and skills that Graceffo had obtained throughout several years of living with a number of martial arts masters and teachers. “I wanted it to be about culture and language, and use that as a vehicle to show to people,” Graceffo says. “But how can you do that in 10 minutes?” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For the past two years, <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em> has devoted plenty of attention towards the culture and history associated with the arts. Sadly, as Graceffo has discovered through research and shooting the show, authoritarian regimes have not taken to some forms of martial arts with as much enthusiasm. Two martial arts, in particular, nearly succumbed to genocides, with ruling authorities in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> showing a healthy distaste for anything defined as being counter-culture to the status quo. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">While embedded with the Shan State Army in the Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp in </span><place><city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Tailang</span></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></country-region></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, Graceffo documented a series of interviews with Shan refugees who suffered from rape, torture and war trauma at the hands of the SPDC. He also met Kawn Wan, a former monk in </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shan</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">State</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> whose entire family had been murdered by the Burmese military. “Kawn Wan is the one of the only remaining teachers of Shan Lai Tai after all of his teachers were killed in the genocide,” Graceffo relates. “My films may be the only recorded footage of this art, and if the people in </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shan</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">State</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> cannot get out of </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and end up being murdered, the art will be lost forever.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The military base of the Shan State Army in Loi Tailang is the only place where Shan people pushed off their land can freely practice their distinct language and culture without being at risk of execution. Lai Tai is a distinct feature of Shan culture. Graceffo describes the martial art as being a literal translation of Shan fighting techniques. Migrating with the Shan people from southern </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">China</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> nearly 2,000 years ago, it is one of the oldest forms of Kung Fu. Unlike the more combative art of kickboxing practiced by the Burmese, Thais and Khmers, Lai Tai is more of a demonstrative form. The Shan people, he explains, “were not war-like by nature, but are a peace loving people pushed by a repressive regime, to the point that war is the only way out.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The other art of national pride that <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em> re-discovered was Bokator, thought to have become extinct under the Khmer Rouge regime during the Cambodian genocide of the 1970s. Graceffo researched and found the only remaining teacher, Master San Kim Saen, who is now teaching the next generation in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">’s capital city, </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Phnom Penh</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Once deemed counter-revolutionary under the communist Pol Pot regime, a documentary and several print and online articles written by or in consultation with Graceffo might just help spark a revival with young and middle-aged Cambodians, as well as foreigners, ensuring the future of a nearly lost national treasure. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">While the presentation of Lai Tai and Bokator represent the proudest achievements of the show to date, featuring lesser known arts and raising their profile presents an additional challenge. Kuntaw, the ancient Filipino art of hand and foot fighting that uses weapons such as knives, swords and short and long sticks, has a solid following in countries such as the U.S., but there are concerns that it lurks in the shadows of imported fighting arts in its home nation, the Philippines. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Graceffo’s Kuntaw instructor, Grandmaster Frank Aycocho, resides in </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Manila</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Previously, Ayococho taught martial arts, Arnis (Filipino knife fighting), and first aid at the University of Manila School of Arnis Professionals. He laments the fact that Filipino martial arts are more famous outside of his native </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Philippines</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. “The Department of Education has declared that only Taekwondo can be taught in academy schools,” he explains. “What about our ancient Filipino martial arts? They forget about this.” The Grandmaster remarks that a colonial mentality has allowed imported martial arts, such as taekwondo, to become more popular than kuntaw. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Elements of one martial art are often incorporated into other forms. Grandmaster Aycocho notes that the art of Kali is becoming more influential in Taekwondo, but doesn’t believe that this will negatively affect the number of people taking up Filipino martial arts at home or abroad. “The popularity of Kali and Arnis in particular has weakened Taekwondo, in the sense that we keep introducing Arnis classes to some high school and college students nationwide.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Grandmaster elaborates further that Kali and Arnis practitioners are more easily identifiable based on their traditional uniforms. “Our uniforms represent different tribes and culture of native Filipinos,” he says. The ancient writing on the uniforms of another traditional martial art, Yaw Yan, the “Dance of Death”, is known as <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">alibata</span></em>. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Another unique aspect of Filipino martial arts is their creativity in using weapons. Graceffo has spoken at length with Grandmaster Frank Aycocho. There is a long-standing tradition going back to colonial times when the Filipinos fashioned sticks into lethal fighting tools to defend against their Spanish colonizers. The creativity and resourcefulness of Filipinos to fashion weapons from simple objects is popular with foreigners travelling to the </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Philippines</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> to learn arts such as Arnis for self-defense. Traditional Filipino martial arts, it seems, are finally becoming more appreciated for their cultural value in shaping pride and identity. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One of the key points stressed in <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em> is that not all arts are actually fighting arts. With regard to Kung-Fu students, Graceffo explains, “They never claim to be fighters. Kung-fu is beautiful and it demonstrates a deeper commitment to the art than fighting.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Variations of martial arts occur, exemplified in the cross-border movements from </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">China</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> into </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> , resulting in modification of Kung-Fu into a localized art, Thieu Lam. “It is interesting that the Vietnamese have chosen to keep certain elements of kung-fu and abandon others,” Graceffo says. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">However, there are some variations or differences linked to identity and national pride, leading to disputes. The Khmer art of Bokator is regarded by Cambodia as being the forerunner to Muay Thai, yet there is a sense of anger that it does not get nearly enough credit and spotlight that its Thai counterpart has. This is a cause of resentment amongst Khmers in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cambodia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> towards their neighbor to the west. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In travelling to </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Taiwan</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Laos</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Vietnam</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, the </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Philippines</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, and </span><place><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shan</span></placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">State</span></placetype></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em> also highlights the importance of religious faith. One expression of faith is the donning of amulets, believed to be fundamental to the effectiveness of martial arts and the longevity of each practitioner. Ajarn Sok Chai, a resident in </span><place><city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Surin Province</span></city><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Thailand</span></country-region></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, is martial art film star Tony Jaa’s first Muay Boran teacher. He owns and wears amulets for protection, and practices Brahamism. Ajarn Sok Chai has attained the high status of a holy man who conducts rituals to assist the sick in his village. His home is also adorned with shrines and murals depicting his devotion to animal gods such as Ganesh, the Elephant God. Amulets are also popular in the </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Philippines</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Grandmaster Frank Ayococho relates that amulets and Latin scriptures on clothes worn in battle by Muslim fighters in the southern Philippine </span><place><placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">province</span></placetype><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> of </span><placename><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mindanao</span></placename></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> lend them a feeling of invincibility. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The future looks bright for <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em>. To date, the show has focused on Asian countries, but plans are underway to take the show elsewhere. Graceffo is tentatively planning to shoot in </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Australia</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> some time in 2009, and </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Central Asia</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">, </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Africa</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> and the </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Caribbean</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> may follow. He is even optimistic about filming segments back in his native </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Brooklyn</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">. Rather than constantly reminding himself about the life he used to experience working on Wall Street, he uses the people “back home” as a source of inspiration. Returning to his roots is never far from Graceffo’s mind. “I think about the people that are still commuting on the </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Jersey</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> turnpike, putting in their 50-60 hours a week in their office. This show might just be the only glimpse that they’re going to have of </span><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Asia</span></place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> . That’s who I am doing the show for.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There is a second group of people that occupy Graceffo’s thoughts. At the end of every episode, he issues a passionate reminder that while keeping up training and weight work is essential, finding a moment to say a prayer for the people of </span><country-region><place><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> as they face genocide, is even more important. The lesson here reads that if greater publicity of martial arts can be saved from extinction and flourish as a wonderful cultural asset, perhaps one day greater awareness will also be afforded to people living in danger of their lives. <em><span style="font-family: Arial;">Martial Arts Odyssey</span></em> is all about discovery of strength within the body, heart and soul.</span></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3855979511219911747.post-61362551898395002952010-11-24T06:20:00.000-08:002010-11-24T06:20:04.600-08:00The Bodyguard of Aung San Suu Kyi<div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">The Bodyguard of Aung San Suu Kyi</span></strong><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">by David Calleja, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">17 April 2009</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"><a href="http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/04/17/the-bodyguard-of-aung-san-suu-kyi/">http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2009/04/17/the-bodyguard-of-aung-san-suu-kyi/</a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">lan Clements’ book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1583228454?ie=UTF8&tag=forepolijour-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1583228454" target="_blank"><em><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Aung San Suu Kyi: The Voice Of Hope</span></em></a><span style="color: black;"><shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"> <stroke joinstyle="miter"></stroke><formulas><f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"></f><f eqn="sum @0 1 0"></f><f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"></f><f eqn="prod @2 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></f><f eqn="prod @6 1 2"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"></f><f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"></f><f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"></f><f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"></f></formulas><path gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect" o:extrusionok="f"></path><lock aspectratio="t" v:ext="edit"></lock></shapetype><shape alt="" id="_x0000_i1025" style="height: 0.75pt; width: 0.75pt;" type="#_x0000_t75"><imagedata o:href="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=forepolijour-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1583228454" src="file:///C:\Users\Dave\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.gif"></imagedata></shape>,</span> documents a series of conversations between Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi and the American author. The National League for Democracy (NLD) leader was asked by Clements how </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> could achieve a democratic revolution through non-violence and overcome a brutal military dictatorship with an army of 400,000 people.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Her answer was simple: “Courage.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">This singular trait, in the eyes of “The Lady”, as Aung San Suu Kyi is affectionately known, is what her supporters and the civilians possess and demonstrate in abundance. Any individual that campaigns for freedom and democracy in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> will be arrested, interrogated, tortured and locked away. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">One man who can account for such horrors is Iqbal, a 39 year old man from </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> now living in </span><place><city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Melbourne</span></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, </span><country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Australia</span></country-region></place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. He has three sisters living in refugee camps in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, and was a survivor himself of imprisonment and torture before fleeing </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> and reaching </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">’s largest refugee camp, Mae La, on the Thai-Burma border. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Iqbal’s story is living testimony of the Orwellian nightmare that is carried out daily in modern day </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. But one characteristic particularly enables him to stand out. Iqbal is a former bodyguard of Aung San Suu Kyi. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Iqbal and I speak through the assistance of a translator and in between sips of green tea he re-traces the path that began prior to the military coup of 1988. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">“When I started working for the Mining Ministry, I won two gold medals, in 1985 and 1986, for hurdles in athletics. Each government department held their own sporting competitions every year,” he begins. Iqbal’s salary ranged between 130-170 Burma Kyat ($USD 19-27 today) a month, higher than the regular government worker’s salary. But a lack of government funding forced him to quit, as his salary was not enough to allow for a basic standard of living. Iqbal was also a keen kickboxer, occasionally training at a facility owned by a family member. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">In 1988, the death of a student at Rangoon Institute of Technology, as well as civilian protests against the devaluation of the Burmese Kyat led to the 8888 Uprising (named after the day of the uprising’s commencement, </span><date day="8" month="8" year="1988"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">August 8, 1988</span></date><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">). After weeks of protests, Burmese army soldiers opened fire on crowds around the country and massacred 3,000 people. Thousands more were arrested or fled into the jungles. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">As the world saw images of the mass slaughter unfold, Iqbal turned to political activism. He provided security for Botataung township and formed the Tri Colours Flag Students and Youth Organisation. “We guarded Aung San Suu Kyi and the NLD Party between 1988 and 1990, meeting with her and (NLD) officials daily,” he adds. In addition, Iqbal helped take care of administrative duties and management of the NLD. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> The Tri Colours Flag Group worked with other opposition groups and, as chief organizer, Iqbal wrote letters and designed pamphlets speaking out against the military regime. “Between 40 and 50 (people) operated in and around </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. We had to move quickly to avoid being detected and arrested by government officials. The Burmese junta attempted to intimidate us and regularly carried out beatings and harassed us all the time,” he explains. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">The constant surveillance eventually led to Iqbal being arrested in the lead-up to the 1990 election. He was detained for causing unrest and organizing student demonstrations during and after the poll, which the NLD won but the military junta refused to honor. Iqbal was apprehended by two members of the junta and arrested on </span><date day="11" month="11" year="1990"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">November 11, 1990</span></date><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> after attending a demonstration. He resisted his arresters and punched a Burmese Army Major, but was beaten unconscious by between 20 and 30 government military intelligence officers who joined in the attack. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> “They had been waiting inside a tea shop and moved in to attack me,” he continues. “The officers knew that I was a kickboxer and that my uncle had run a club for members for the NLD, Tri Colours Flag and other opposition groups.” Two of Iqbal’s friends, a member of the All Burma Democratic Students Federation and another from the All Burma Youth Organization, were also apprehended. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Iqbal was interrogated and beaten by members of both Military Intelligence (MI-3) and the Navy, as he lived close to the port attached to the Rangoon Rover before being subjected to beatings. This began his two and a half year sentence, commencing with a month’s incarceration at the notorious Insein Prison without charge. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYMHo2ZarOSy4yedHAZVPlkvaQ1KjS54TWbqtDhuOc4g1xCap0lcc6vKsk5XTjlafZfioLA2_xLmCr15azhxOHUBlhL6Ott0az8gaOw89ZYEby4dUUUp6JhpEsd5Wu9bhyMnLk2ivk9Y/s1600/assk_iqbal+and+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYMHo2ZarOSy4yedHAZVPlkvaQ1KjS54TWbqtDhuOc4g1xCap0lcc6vKsk5XTjlafZfioLA2_xLmCr15azhxOHUBlhL6Ott0az8gaOw89ZYEby4dUUUp6JhpEsd5Wu9bhyMnLk2ivk9Y/s320/assk_iqbal+and+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictured: Iqbal, third from right, standing next to Daw Aung San Suu Kyi.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> “For four days, I was laid on my side and handcuffed behind my back. The navy officers placed a hood over my head so I could not recognize anybody,” Iqbal elaborates. For a moment, I considered getting up from my chair so he could show me exactly what position he was forced into, but I decided against this. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Officers rotated every two hours and on several occasions, Iqbal was beaten by multiple navy officers. “I was deprived of food, water, sleep or medicine. My psychological and mental state was so bad as a result of the pain, I started banging my head on the table incessantly so that I split my head open and (would) receive treatment and hopefully get a reprieve from all of the torture,” he says without pausing. After four days, Iqbal was given one slice of bread, a cup of water and some medicine to treat the head wound. The beatings, however, continued. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">In January 1991, Iqbal was found guilty of causing unrest and sentenced to three years hard labour. He shared a prison cell with 200 people, both common criminals as well as political prisoners. Family members and friends were able to visit him once a fortnight for 15 minutes at a time, but prison authorities made them wait in for numerous hours before being given access. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Following his release in 1993, Iqbal’s story became keenly sought after, and he was interviewed by an Australian journalist in </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> about his experiences of torture in jail. This material appeared alongside interviews with Aung San Suu Kyi and U Tin U (co-leader of the NLD) for a documentary that appeared on </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Australia</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">’s ABC TV network in April 1996. The Burmese Embassy in </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Canberra</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> recorded a copy of this program on videotape and sent it to the military junta in </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">With a sustained media focus about the documentary’s contents, Iqbal was arrested for a second time in June 1996, again after leaving Aung San Suu Kyi’s residence in Hle Den Junction, near </span><place><placename><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Rangoon</span></placename><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><placetype><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">University</span></placetype></place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. He was sentenced to seven years jail. The junta also planned to sue Suu Kyi and Iqbal for subversion and for spreading misinformation about the political and social situation in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">“I escaped torture after being arrested because Aung San Suu Kyi personally intervened by meeting with the junta leadership and filing a missing person’s report on my behalf,” Iqbal tells me. While in Tharyarwaddy prison, he met with Professor Paulo Sergio Pinheiro, the United Nation’s Special Rapporteur for Human Rights Violations in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, and gave evidence regarding torture within </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">’s prisons. This resulted in interrogation from intelligence officials by Pegu Division over comments he made about the allegations. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Upon being set free in November 2002, two years after Suu Kyi had been re-arrested by the junta and placed under house arrest, Iqbal became politically active again. He was assigned to Suu Kyi’s Social Standing Committee for the NLD, and at time the same time, collected data on the state of </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">’s prisons and assisted former and current political prisoners attain better access to health and education. In mid-July 2004, he was seriously advised to stop everything for his own good by intelligence officials, and at this point made the decision to leave the country. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">After gaining financial assistance for food and clothing, Iqbal took a bus from </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Rangoon</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> to Myawaddy, where a local guide helped him get across the river to Mae Sot, </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. Eventually he entered the Mae La refugee camp, where he remained for four years. The camp houses more than 40,000 refugees from </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, mainly ethnic Karen people. The Thai army runs the camp, but it is administered by the Karen National Union (KNU). </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Since arriving in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Australia</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> in 2008, Iqbal now works closely with supporters of the NLD Party living in the country, but does not have an official role. He is a representative of the Assistance Association of Political Prisoners Burma, providing support for political prisoners and their families. But he is concerned about possible repercussions against his sisters who are in refugee camps in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Thailand</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Surviving torture as a political prisoner leaves Iqbal convinced that everybody has the right to stand up to their aggressors and attackers when meeting outside of their comfortable environment. This brings everyone onto a level playing field. “Following my release from prison in 1993, I spoke to the generals who ran the prison where I was incarcerated. I met them inside a tea shop,” Iqbal says, then looks me in the eye. When I query him as to whether he was frightened to approach them, he shakes his head. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">“I declared, ‘We do what we believe in. You did terrible things to us. If we want to get revenge, we can do it easily. But we do not want to do that. The bruises you inflicted are not there anymore, but the scars will remain with us forever.’” It is this defiance that is nurtured by survival from an environment of war and its aftermath, and Iqbal explains to me that when authority members in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> stick together in numbers, they feel invincible. But as individuals on the street, they are frightened. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Our conversation inevitably focuses on Aung San Suu Kyi, the politician he protected for many years. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">“There is one incident that will always remind me of how special she is,” Iqbal relates. “It was Thingyan (Burma New Year) celebrations in 2006 at Daw Aung San Suu Kyi’s residence. The military junta had blocked off the house and street to prevent everybody from leaving the (NLD) compound. Many soldiers were in front of the residence, including the divisional commander. We were all about to leave the front gate. The military commander, along with his soldiers ordered us not to attempt to leave the residence. But Aung San Suu Kyi simply walked out the gate, ignored the soldiers, and continued to walk on without looking back. I was amazed at this show of resilience.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">It is this act of defiance that is written about in books and recorded in documentaries, but very few individuals have the distinct honor of witnessing it in person. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Iqbal continues, “Later that evening, I asked her, ‘Auntie (a term of respect), why didn’t you look back when they were out to stop you?’” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Her response was, “When they call out your name, you don’t look back. You do what you have to do. A soldier might shoot at you, but looking back will make you feel something. That feeling may cause you to lose sight of your ultimate goal.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Aung San Suu Kyi’s endless courage provides Iqbal with the inspiration to spend his life working to see </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> achieve a genuine democracy that its civilians have prayed and paid the ultimate sacrifice for. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> “Since I know injustice takes place in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> every day, I know that I am safe in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Australia</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">, but I cannot forget what has happened to me. The pre-condition of having all political prisoners released before any democratic election taking place in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> in 2010 is very important. No votes in </span><country-region><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">Burma</span></place></country-region><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"> can be cast freely and fairly before then. Until that day arrives, I can never be at peace.” </span></div>David Callejahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03295201180872222901noreply@blogger.com0