Where are they now, the brave monks of Burma?

In the case of the recent crackdown of the peaceful protests in Burma, its military junta could be liable for investigation by the International Criminal Court under allegations of " attack directed against any civilian population", "extermination", "torture", "enforced disappearance" and "persecution" of the monks by the Bumese army. As of today more than 600 monks and 2,000 others are unaccounted for, mostly considered by the Asian Human Rights Commission as disappeared with serious possibilities that they are being tortured.

Buddhist monks are revered as the highest moral authority in Burma. They gave courage to Burmese people to come out in the streets again after more than a decade of silence and tolerance. Reports cite the skyrocketing cost of living as the main reason for the protests but the monks also wanted Daw Aung San Suu Kyi freed. The leader of the party overwhelmingly voted in Burma's only democratic elections in 1990 had been prevented from taking office together with elected parliamentarians from the National League for Democracy.

To put pressure on China, Burma's only supporter, to force it to end martial law and free Suu Kyi, there are calls from the west for a boycott of the 2008 Olympics. Petitions to this effect are circulating. Many believe it is now or never for Burmese democracy, with the last vestige of tolerance in protest over the military junta and therefore being exterminated themselves, who else would stand up to the junta?

But people say there is too much hardship to sustain any action, and people are starving so much that protesting with the monks meant that they had nothing left to lose but their very lives. This makes me very sad to the point of restless sleep. Surely people from around the world must help! We must stand up for them if they are crippled with hunger already. I've seen it done before, I believe it can be done again.

And so the struggle continues....

Have cause, will persevere

Quote for the day:

"It is the plan of the institution which asks (non-staff) members to partake in. It would be nice to have the members participate in the planning too"-- Manny Guzman

Martial Law 35 years ago

Manila, Philippines-Last Sept 21 as the world celebrated the International Day of Peace, human rights advocates here remembered the declaration of martial law 35 years ago by the late strongman Ferdinand Marcos. The Task Force Detainees of the Philippines (TFDP), one of the oldest human rights groups in the country commemmorated the lives of martyrs and heroes of that period by inaugurating a Martial Law Memorial Wall. It was a solemn and quiet event, but it brought together some of the human rights advocates we thought would never meet again. It really reminded me that we may have our differences and our lives could branch apart, but we will always have those memories of the dark past and our common love for those who sacrificed themselves, to bind us together.
The Martial Law Memorial Wall can be seen at 45 Saint Mary Street Cubao Quezon City, Philippines. TFDP's telephone numbers are +632 437-8054

Don't miss it again

Repeat performance of Binky Lampano

Sept 12 Wednesday, Bistro 70s

There should be an alarm of some sort for when he is here in the Philippines

Catalina Manglinong (1916-2007)

Lola Taling died in her sleep last Sunday. Her granddaughter, an ex-girlfriend of mine, said there was hardly any pain- just a little difficulty in breathing, and then she was gone. The doctors at the hospital where she was taken could hardly find any cause of death other than a mild stroke. Well, she was 90 years old. Lola Taling’s lifeless face seemed to be smiling in a contended sleep. As if she didn’t mind leaving us at all. I told my friend that I don’t want to grow that old but if I did, I’d like to go that way too. Happy, fulfilled, and well-loved.

I first met Lola Taling when I ran away from home after a particularly bad fight with my mother. Ten years would pass before I’d make up with my mother again. I sought refuge at my girlfriend’s house, where she was staying with her lola, four siblings and a dog. It was my first sojourn into life outside my parents’ house. My fascination about how different other people were brought up was equaled only by my astonishment at how they could survive in a house with no responsibilities, no rules, and no order. As a result laundry piled in one corner outside the bedrooms, dishes piled in the kitchen sink, sometimes visited by a rat, and dirt gathered all over the house. The fact that their parents were abroad trying to find enough income to sustain them aggravated the individualistic attitude in this family. My girlfriend’s sister even brought her own supplies to the bathroom, and took them when she’s finished.

The thread that kept the family together was Lola Taling, whose pension money from the Veteran’s fund provided enough for three square meals a day and paid the bills. Everything else was left to each’s creative devise. My friend’s siblings were working students but money always seemed to be short. I and my friend already had full time jobs so I shared in the marketing, groceries and cooking. Lola does the laundry, cooking, cleaning and the occasional reprimanding. Despite all the hardships Lola Taling managed to provide motherly care and concern for all of us. Whenever we were alone she’d ask me why I ran away from home or what my family was like. She never quite believed that my parents could be so harsh on us. “But then again, maybe that’s what it takes…” she’d half-whisper, looking at the dust all around her.

Lola Taling never criticized my lifestyle, and always believed one could be happy with one’s life choices. She had a sweet laugh and gentle hands. She never turned away guests, even when unexpected. She always accommodated relatives in trouble, and gave what little money she could afford to lend. She started getting depressed when one by one her own siblings or friends died. She’d go to her hometown in Santa, Ilocos Sur to recuperate, and then get right back to being our dear old Lola. Sometimes she’d play sick and ask for a box of prunes, which I’d readily buy for her at the local grocery store.

When I was able to afford my own studio room near the university I said goodbye to Lola Taling and left the house. But I’ve never forgotten the prunes Lola loved, and I always remembered her whenever I see a box at the grocery store or on a table. Somehow I thought I could always buy her a box one of these days when I wasn’t busy, until I went abroad to work for several years. There was only one Christmas party a couple of years ago when I saw Lola Taling again. That was the last time I would talk to Lola Taling. She had almost forgotten me.

Watching the video prepared by my now former girlfriend at Lola Taling’s wake I realized that Lola truly had one happy and fulfilled life. She was loved by all her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Not many people die in their own quiet glories but Lola did. And she will be missed.

For all my fab female friends!

from Corinne Bailey Rae....


Three little birds sat on my window and they told me I don’t need to worry
Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet,
Little girls double-dutch on the concrete.
Maybe sometimes, we’ve got it wrong but it’s alright,
the more things seem to change, the more they stay the same.
Oooh, don’t you hesitate
Girl put your records on, tell me your favourite song,
You go ahead let your hair down.
Sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams,
Just go ahead let your hair down
You’re going to find yourself somewhere, somehow.

Blue as the sky, sunburnt and lonely, sipping tea in a bar by the roadside…
Just relax, just relax, don’t you let those other boys fool you.
Got to love that afro hairdo
Maybe sometimes, we feel afraid but it’s alright
The more you stay the same, the more they seem to change
Don’t you think it’s strange….

…twas more than I could take,
Pity for pity’s sake, some nights kept me awake
I thought that I was stronger,
When you going to realize that you don’t even have to try any longer?
Do what you want to, girl
Just put your records on

BUTANDING is the local name for Whale shark

Pictures and signs at the tourist center run by the local government of Donsol, Sorsogon, World Wildlife Fund (WWF) and the community's NGOs refer to the marine adventure that draws thousands of tourists during summer season as "Swim with Whalesharks" experience. The "swim" part for snorkellers and divers mean the "ability to move away at a sudden change in direction or speed of the Whale Shark in order to avoid being smacked by the tail or dorsal"... and such other skills which would allow one to safely navigate the waters while seeing, because of the sheer size of the creature, only half of the Whale Shark at a time.

Not to worry, the tourist center is professionally run and provides each boat with a skipper, a spotter, and a Butanding Interaction Officer (BIO), whose job is mainly to help tourists get down into the water for a first hand look at the fish up close, steer the diver along strong currents, and, especially when one could not anticipate it, pull the diver away when the whaleshark makes a turn.

Butandings cast big shadows on the surface of the water so people can see them coming. The gentle creatures, although fully capable of overturning the boats, glide ever so quietly past them like submarines, in full view of those on the boat, as if they are so used to ogling crowds. Only the brave dare to go in and swim with them. Reminders that Butandings are wild marine creatures in their own environment, impose the sense that swimming with them is strictly an adult activity. But even adults are overwhelmed. Touching or riding Butandings are strictly prohibited although with their massiveness I cannot imagine anyone would dare.

The Lenten Holidays would be the busiest time for the Butandings as local and foreign tourists crowd the sea. Each boat allows 8 persons and each Butanding can only be followed by one boat at a time so as not to disturb them much. In peak seasons, 25 boats are allowed at sea for 3 hours at a time or shorter, to give the rest of the waiting tourists their chance. Each boat is guaranteed at least 3 sightings of Butandings-- that's how many they are during the feeding months of January to May. Taking turns diving in for that one-on-one experience with the gentle giant would be the best way to do it.

It goes without saying that Butandings are deep sea fish and therefore going out to see them means swimming in really deep waters. Fins help one to swim faster and goggles help one to see better, as plankton-rich waters of Donsol can be quite dense.

It was literally breathtaking, seeing it live. I had difficulty breathing with my equipment and I almost gave up the second and third dives because seeing one up close always shook my senses, my danger alarms keep going off, and my struggle against the "flight" instinct kept me from calmly observing the thing. Strangely, as if aware that "this one near my tail is not a fish but a human trying to swim straight and avoid my drift" the Butandings I swam with were never aggressive. When our four-year old boat-mate wanted to see what the fuss was all about, we lowered him into the water but didn't submerge him. As if curious to see what it was too, one baby Butanding, all nine meters of it, even swam by the boat, its tail showing above the water. Scared the shit out of our four-year-old of course, but we were all awed by this seeming generosity on the part of the whale.

All in all the experience was astounding. The tourist center claimed the Swim with Whalesharks as the best nature interaction adventure in the world. They even give out certificates indicating how many sightings each swimmer had. Outside the main reception office there are shops that sell shirts and souvenir items. Like the spotters, skippers and BIOs, these are local residents making a living when the fishing season is out. It's a big contribution to purchase something to help the local economy at the same time disseminate awareness about the delicate balance of life in these waters on which the existence of Whale Sharks depends.

Forum-Asia: 2000-2006

I have reached an impasse in my packing. I no longer have any idea which item should go in what box. I have thrown away unused stuff, most of which at the time I acquired them seemed to be very important. For almost the whole week I’ve flipped between CNN, Star Movies, and HBO-the only English channels on my limited cable tv- watching half of Contact, Strange Days, Assault on Precinct 13, Myth of Fingerprints, etc. while stripping my walls bare and my cabinets empty. The more precious DVD films remained unwatched.

I’ve always hated packing. I always discover I have more things than I originally thought. At some point I need to decide what sentiments attached to what possessions are worth taking home, and which ones are the goodbye things. Strange that this is not so difficult when it comes to my colleagues: Anselmo, Rashid, Pia, Miwa and Ruchi are easily goodbye things. Heidi, Ruki, Zac and Sammy would be good to keep in touch with, and Chian, Susan, Rod, Victor, and Ed the ones I’d miss most.

A young staff asked me what the hell went wrong that such a mud slide of resignations of staff should happen. I could not give any one explanation as matters have reached a level of hostility and complication which may confuse him further. Yet I urged him to stay on, and learn the most that he can from the organization: the networks and alliances, issues and advocacies, initiatives and mechanisms, limitations and strengths of NGOs. These are valuable background which he needs to establish his perspective in this kind of work, despite his own frustrations within the secretariat.

As for myself, looking back at the organization I worked with for six years, I see not much has changed within us, or outside the larger world we engage in. Especially within the organization, there was still one man in charge of all matters at work; unaccountability over funds and strategies; program staff still didn’t know what the others are doing; decision-making is still non-transparent and unilateral, and the organization’s leadership are still very much engrossed with their individual gains from their friendship with the Executive Director. It’s sadly the same dog with a different leash, as we say in the Philippines.

Iin the last last two years I realized my Executive Director is in the dirty war international NGOs wage internally and externally to gain political advantage, just like any corporate boss. Lately my colleagues took to reading Dilbert comic strips to laugh about our situation. My Executive Director demonstrated that none of the strategic plans, collective management and responsible assessments matter so long as one knows the tricks to play with funders, partners and co-workers.

It’s hard to work with people like that especially when I consider myself from a grassroots background where precision and well-planned work meant the difference between concrete gains for the people and utter loss of confidence by them. Naively perhaps, I expected civil society colleagues to be at least sincere, with a genuine will to help even when skills are lacking. But Rashid justified this reality: international NGOs are in competition for funding and respect which make any means necessary to achieve this end; that NGO funding comes from the same source that exploits and aggresses on the poor economies and support militarism worldwide; that it was necessary to play and play hard to keep ahead-- and it was “better us with the money than others”. It seemed to make sense at the time but I think only to a certain extent.

So now stopping dead in my tracks, like the impasse I've reached with my packing, I told a long-time friend “I’ve got to re-wire my brain to understand again that I am still trying to make a change.” Thus to go forward I need to go back to where it all started- with friends and family and the life choices I've made a long time ago.

Quick Get-away

Pla smelled grilled seafood shortly after choosing a spot to sit at. Aside from being a favorite picnic area, the reservoir in Mae Sot province seemed an ideal swimming place for foreigners. The water was very inviting if one won’t mind the cold mountain breeze. But being a place away from the sea, grilling seafood seemed the ultimate feast. Pla was clearly torn between ignoring the food and introducing herself to the locals for some bite.

“Hmp, it might not even be fresh…” was her self-resolution. This helped her to pretend it’s not there at all. Pla flicked her brochure open. “This waterfall is on the way to the border area. We can swim.” she started. “How much to rent a car to go to the camp?” I asked as if I didn’t care for the waterfall. “Not much. I could share.” Pla was more into the swimming so I suggested going to the waterfall after the camp, on the way back to town.

The next day was my first refugee camp visit in Thailand. The last refugees I remembered seeing were in Palawan, Southern Philippines, where so-called “boat people”- refugees reaching the Philippines by boat- used to live. But that was hardly a ‘refugee camp’. It looked more like a settlement. Back then, Vietnamese refugees in the Philippines were completely free to roam around the city, establish businesses, and integrate with the local population. Their children were even partly supported to go to school. That was more than twenty years ago. I don’t know whether they are still there or had gone back to Vietnam or moved on to the US.

This Karen camp near the border was like a fenced in WWII prison camp where bamboo huts and thatched roofs, wholly supplied by international humanitarian agencies, crowd each other behind twisted barbed wires. Food was brought in by aid groups as well. I asked if they did some planting but Pla said they needed land for that. The most they have are small patches of garden where vegetables for house consumption were grown.

Karen refugees are not allowed to work legally in Thailand. This camp alone has immobilized more than 1000 families, so that all they could put up were small stores and handicraft shops which could not be accessible to shoppers in Mae Sot unless they intentionally visited the camp. Still I observed some activity here and there. Sunday church, laundry washing and houses being built. Volleyball and basketball courts were empty, ice cream and other refreshments were being sold, but there weren’t many buyers.

The children were very small. Yellow powdered faces wore ready smiles for any English speaking visitor but they had very small voices and very small frames for their age. Pla started giving away sweets and pencils. Pla is one of the paralegals providing training to refugees on the laws of Thailand. Her country is not a party to the refugee convention but it has a lot of bilateral agreements with neighboring countries. She is learning Karen, and has to wear Karenni shirts to be able to train more effectively. She said more than 60% of her classes are male. The few women there always had to leave early to prepare for the meals of the day.

Khun Bom, our driver, is from far northern Mae Sariang, a very skilled driver who knows the various routes where refugees enter Thailand. He can get them and secure their safe delivery to the camps quickly. He doesn’t tell me any details but it was easy to see his popularity among some of the refugees. Tea is abundant where he stops.

In one of the few open snack benches in the camp, Pla didn’t eat her roti because it was too oily. She took time stirring the milk at the bottom of her tea. I didn’t take the milk tea at all. I preferred the clear tea beside it, which went well with the roti. At another table sat some Karens which Pla guessed were on security duty, and another had youths discussing the next game. Pla once mentioned that they used to beat up Burmese suspected of spying in the camps. How they are able to enter and spy in the highly guarded camp, or how they were able to distinguish Burmese from Karens, I did not ask.

Aside from the milk tea and roti, we had fried bread as well, and clear tea each. All in all it was only forty baht. “Where was the profit in that?” I asked. “They didn’t work, remember?” Khun Bom reminded that it might as well have been a friendly visit to an old friend’s house on a Sunday afternoon.

Pla was disappointed to have to swim alone in the Nam Tok Pacharoen that afternoon. Sundays were usually spent with families inside their homes so the few swimmers there were couples. Pla refused to waddle in the water with no one to talk to. I suggested climbing the falls instead. To get to the top I had to use the foot trail ala-Indiana Jones. I don’t know why I did not swim although I loved the water. I felt a depression which made me half-regret visiting the camp first before the waterfalls. Pla made up for the short swim by eating a whole half-kilo of very sweet mangoes grown right at the park grounds. They were really heavenly (next to the Philippine species of course) and she wished she brought some ice and her mother’s blender.

My weekend visit was almost finished. On the way back to town we stopped by a couple of rose gardens. Pla bought some for her house, where her mom runs a restaurant. She knew right away which my choices were because her daughter always went for the bright colors. Her mom’s cooking was the favorite in the village. Most of the houses there were rented by international humanitarian organizations in Mae Sot so they easily cornered the market. For a while, I tried my hand at waitressing, but found that the locals were more shy with foreigners serving at their tables, so that’s the end of that career option. Later that night I wanted simple
fried rice but somehow they managed to make it a special meal for us.

In the morning I said goodbye to Pla and her mom with a sincere invitation to visit me in the Philippines. It was the one time Pla’s motorcycle conked out, maybe because it didn’t want me to go… but my empty apartment and new laptop awaits in noisy and complicated Bangkok, so we persisted. Pla took her mom’s much smaller motorcycle and, balancing my pack in the front and my weight in the back seat, we reached the station and exchanged hugs. She was on her way to work so she didn’t stay long. I whispered a quick goodbye to the Karens and Khun Bom, and prepared for the eight hour-trip back with a bottle of water, my lunch coupon and cheese sticks.

Crossing borders for gourmet helpings

Tomato Salad Burmese Style

Ingredients:

Tomato (5 medium)

Onion (4 medium)

Ground Nut Powder (1/2 teacup)

Lime (1 big)

Leek (4 plants)

Vermicelli noodles (1 1/2 teacups)

Salt and sugar (to taste)

Chinese soy sauce (1 tablespoon)

Oil (4 tablespoons)

Instructions:

Take out seeds from the tomatoes and cut in any shape

Slice the onion and divide into 2 parts- one part for frying in oil

Heat ground nut and pound to make powder

Cut leeks into little rings

Fry vermicelli noodles till crispy

Mix everything together and place the crispy vermicelli on top

Makes 2 plates

Karen Pumpkin Curry

Ingredients:

Pumpkin (1/2 kilo)

Lemongrass (3 plants)

Onion (3 medium)

Garlic (1 clove-big)

Red Chili Powder ( 1 teaspoon)

Basil (2 plants)

Lime (2 pieces)

Pepper powder (1 teaspoon)

Turmeric (1/2 teaspoon)

Salt (1/2 teaspoon)

Sugar (1 teaspoon)

Oil (1/2 teacup)

Water (4 teacups)

Instructions:

Cut up pumpkin into small cubes

Pound lemongrass and twist into a knot

Pound the onion and the garlic

Put everything in a large saucepan

Add water and bring to a boil

Reduce the fire and allow to simmer until the pumpkin is soft and the oil comes to the surface

in about 15 minutes

Makes 5 servings

From "Momo and Bobo's Kitchen Cookbook", Borderline Tea Garden near Thai-Burma border; Mae Sot, Tak, Thailand. All dishes are vegetarian.

A Life of Struggle?

The stranger said “when I meet people like you—and I do meet people like you from time to time—I can’t help thinking that you are only captains and majors. Beginners on the first rung of ascension. Don’t mind it. I have been in the movement, in all movements if you prefer, for thirty years, and I see no reason why I can’t go on for another thirty. If you are on your toes all the time you can’t be caught. That’s why I think of myself as a general. Or if you think that is too boastful, a brigadier.”

Willie said “How do you spend your time?”
“Avoiding capture, of course. Apart from that I am intensely bored. But in the middle of this boredom the soul never fails to sit in judgement on the world and never fails to find it worthless. It is not an easy thing to explain to outsiders. But it keeps me going”

Willie said “How did you start?”
“In the classical way. I was at the university. I wish to see how the poor lived. There was a certain amount of excited talk about them among the students. A scout for the movement—there were dozens of them around—arranged for me to see the poor. We met at a railway station and traveled through the night in a third class coach on a very slow train. I was like a tourist, and my guide was like a travel courier. We came at last to our poor village. It was very poor. It had never occurred to me to ask why my guide had chosen this particular village or how the movement found it. There was no sanitation, of course. That seemed a big thing then. And there was very little food. My guide put questions to people and translated their replies for me. One woman said ‘There has been no fire in my house for three days.’ She meant she hadn’t cooked for three days and she and her family hadn’t eaten for three days. I was immediately excited. At the end of that first evening the villagers sat around a fire in the open and sang songs. Whether they were doing that for us or for themselves, whether they did it every evening I never thought to ask. All I knew was that I passionately wished to join the movement. The movement at the time, the movement of thirty years ago. That was arranged for me by my guide. It took time. I left the university and went to a small town……”

As soon as I saw the village I saw the house of a big landlord. It was a big house with a neat thatched roof. The poor people didn’t have neat thatched roofs. Their eaves were untrimmed. The big landlord was the man I had to kill. It was quite remarkable, on my very first day seeing the house of the man I had to kill….I wasn’t to kill him myself. I was to get some peasant to do it. That was the ideology of the time, to turn the peasants into rebels, and through them to start the revolution. And would you believe it, just after seeing the house in the darkness I saw a peasant coming back from his work, late for some reason….he invited me to his hut. When we got there he offered me his cowshed. It is the classic story of the revolution…

I talked to my host about his poverty and his debt and the hardness of his life. He seemed surprised. Then invited him to kill his landlord. I was pushing it, don’t you think? My first night and everything. My peasant simply said no. I was actually quite relieved…What my peasant said was that he depended on his landlord for food and money for three months. To kill the landlord, he said, giving me some of his own wisdom in exchange for my theories, would be like killing the goose that laid the golden egg. His speech was full of sayings like that. I ran away as soon as I could the next morning. It’s a classic revolutionary story…. But I persevered. And here you see me, thirty years later. Still going among the peasants with that philosophy of murder.”

Willie said “How do you spend the day?”
“ I am in somebody’s hut. I have spent the night there. No worries about rent and insurance and utilities. I get up early and go to the fields to do my stuff. I have got used to it now…I go back to the hut, have a little of the peasants’ food. I read for a while: Marx, Trotsky, Mao, Lenin. Afterwards I visit various people in the village, arranging a meeting for some future date… I return. My host comes from the fields. We chat. Actually we don’t. It’s hard to talk. We don’t have anything to say to one another. You can’t make yourself part of the life of the village. After another day or two I am off. I don’t want my host to get tired of me and tip me off to the police. In this way everyday flows past, and everyday is like every other day.


Excerpt: MAGIC SEEDS by V. S. Naipaul 2004

Lop Buri Sunflower Farm 2 Dec 2006

What's a girl to care
with so many flowers in her hair
and the laughter of friends in the high noon's sun
filling earth's valley of yellow and green

They said you looked like me when I was a baby...

The milky way upon the heavens,

Is twinkling just foryou

And mr. moon, he came by,

To say goodnight toyou.

I sing for you, I sing for mother,

We're praying for the world,

And for the people everywhere

Gonna show them all we care

Oh mysleeping child, the world's so wild,

But you build your own paradise

That's one reason why I cover you sleeping child.

If all the people around theworld

They had a mind like yours,

We'd have no fighting and no wars,

There's be lasting peace on earth.

If all the kings and all the leaders

Could see you here this way,

They would hold the earth in their arms

They would learn to watch you play.

Oh my sleeping child the world's so wild

But you build your own paradise,

That's one reason why I cover you sleeping child.