Displaced and smuggled

Northern Yemen – the context within which this situation, or more accurately, this crisis is unfolding is the clash between Al Houthi rebels and government forces of Yemen. With the conflict going on for about five days, the conflict has taken a serious and certain toll on the civilian population.

The effects of the ongoing battle are:

1. The city of Sa’ada is virtually isolated, cut off from the rest of the world – access by the international community and UNHCR has been impossible to achieve.
2. Markets in the city have been closed, leading to food shortages and increased food prices
3. Reports that dozens of people had been killed and wounded on Wednesday in an air raid on Al Adi in neighbouring Amran governerate
4. The conflict in the north has forced some 150,000 people to flee their homes since first flaring up in 2004
5. The sites housing internally displaced peoples (IDPs) are overcrowded
6. Some reported they lost documents as they fled, others are traumatized, and most left in a rush, leaving behind almost all personal belongings. Many are now living schools, clinics, hangars and barns.
7. IDPs are still exposed to the dangerous conditions of generalised violence, insecurity
8. While total displacement figures for the current wave of fighting are not known, some 30,000 IDPs are believed to have fled to Amran, including people from Sa’ada and the district of Harf Sufyan

As for what is being done:

UNHCR will run the camp at Khaiwan when it has been completed and distribute urgently needed aid (tents, blankets, mattresses, food and water) in cooperation with partners and the government. It is already doing this at Al Mazraq camp, which is located in the Hajjah governorate south-west of Sa’ada, Almost 500 families, or around 3,500 people, have gathered in the camp.

But most of the IDPs are living with relatives or host families. “We are coordinating with local authorities to reach out and deliver aid to the displaced in the different locations where they are scattered in Harad and the neighboring villages,” said UNHCR Protection Officer Khaled Halim.

UNHCR also managed this week to reach some of the internally displaced in Sa’ada through a local NGO partner. A distribution of UNHCR aid to more than 700 displaced people in Sa’ada was planned for today.

While non-food items are being distributed where possible, UNHCR is stockpiling aid on the Saudi Arabian side of the border with Yemen and awaiting the green light from the two sides to launch a cross-border operation to help IDPs north of Sa’ada, particularly in the Baqim area, where thousands need shelter, food and water.

UNHCR is also calling on Saudi authorities to offer safe shelter and assistance to displaced Yemenis who may seek refuge across the border as they flee the fierce fighting. UNHCR is poised to assist in these efforts.

[...] Last week UNHCR appealed to donor governments for an extra $5 million (on top of its annual $22 million budget for operations in Yemen) to cope with the escalating crisis. To bolster its ability to provide immediate help to the internally displaced people (IDPs), the refugee agency is deploying a three-member emergency team which includes protection, logistics and site planning experts.

Inside northern Yemen, the Al Anad camp in Sa’ada is off limits. The other three sites for IDPs are still open but are becoming overcrowded as civilians flee the violence. Together with the authorities, UNHCR has registered 700 families in Sa’ada city “and if security permits we plan to distribute initial aid to some 370 families tomorrow,” Mahecic said.

While the government of Yemen has refused to call a ceasefire, mirroring the position taken by the Houthi rebels, it has sought to cooperate with UNHCR in providing at least some form of temporary sanctuary for the civilians fleeing from the conflict – through registration of families. Local authorities on the ground are in close contact with UNHCR, providing the necessary channels through which aid can be delivered.

With Saudi Arabia chipping in to help IDPs, there is perhaps some room for optimism, though whether the IDPs will be relocated in conditions whereby their basic rights are not being violated is highly questionable. After all, the region is not exactly known for governmental respect and active involvement in the upholding of human rights.

While the UNHCR is doing all it possibly can in such a short time span to save the IDPs from further danger to their lives, these camps are merely temporary measures. Sooner or later, these IDPs will have to be returned if possible to their previous homes. Even relocating them in other parts of Yemen may be problematic: instead of comparing the relative conditions between the current conflict zones and the place of relocation (the latter is most likely better, but only relatively), one should focus on the absolute conditions of the place: whether it allows for the basic rights of sustenance to be observed and enforced adequately. Just because these IDPs have been somehow “used to” such dire circumstances of deprivation and violence doesn’t mean that they deserve to live in similar conditions where their rights are violated to a lesser extent. The bottom line is that their rights are being violated, and that in itself demands some action from the international community.

Smuggling is also a serious problem in the Gulf of Aden: so far this year, a total of 860 boats and 43,586 people have made the journey to Yemen from the Horn of Africa. Three separate incidents involving smuggling boats in the perilous Gulf of Aden have left 16 people dead and 49 missing and presumed dead in the past few days.

According to survivors, one person was reported to have suffocated in the engine room. Passengers said the boat departed on Thursday morning from the Somali town of Elayo, west of Bosasso. One survivor told UNHCR that passengers were repeatedly beaten and threatened by the smugglers during the journey.

In the second incident, involving a smuggling boat reportedly carrying 112 Africans, several people allegedly lost their lives at the hands of smugglers. Passengers reported that 13 people, mostly non-Somali nationals, had been accommodated in the engine room upon departure from the Somali village of Marera on Thursday night. According to one of the survivors, three people were beaten to death by the smugglers and another 10 died as a result of asphyxiation. The boat reached Yemen on Sunday off the coast of Al Hamra.

A third incident was reported by a Belgian warship, the Louise Marie, which reported sighting a small boat sinking in deep water. The ship’s crew rescued 38 people, though survivors said the boat had originally been carrying 46. Rescue helicopters launched from the European Union vessel spotted two bodies in nearby waters. Another six people are missing and presumed drowned.

The assumption that people who are smuggled are doing so voluntarily doesn’t preclude the fact that there is some moral responsibility in ensuring that their basic rights are not violated. After all, voluntary activities in everyday life – such as purchasing goods and services – are governed by certain laws that protect us as consumers from exploitation and deception. Why should refugees and migrants that employ the services of smugglers be excluded from such protection?

Furthermore, the distinction between the smuggled and the trafficked is becoming increasingly blurred. Yes, those who are trafficked are being held against their will, while those who are smuggled are usually knowingly engaging themselves in the act. Yet smugglers in this case were allegedly beating and threatening the smuggled. One may argue that smugglers would not mistreat those who employ their services because they wish to maintain their reputation so that they can be recommended by these people to their relatives and friends. Still, this is only if the smugglers involved are particularly well-organised, and that the people who employ smuggling services display some financial capability of travelling back and forth.

Otherwise, ad-hoc, small-time smugglers would not care much about reputation or quality of service – aspects of the smuggling process that highly-organised smuggling organisations would care about. If the smuggled are so poor, it is unlikely that they would have enough to employ the smugglers’ services again. Thus, there is little incentive to ensure that the smuggled get to their destination safely.

We cannot assume that all smugglers are part of highly-organised smuggling networks, and that they care equally about transporting their human cargo safely to the destination. In fact, it is ridiculous that the international community is somewhat relying on the economic sensibilities and utilitarian calculations of smugglers to protect the rights of people! While countries in the region may not be willing to protect the rights of their own nationals who have resorted to being smuggled to escape the dire conditions at home, the international community needs to bring upon them greater pressure to cooperate with each other to deal with the more fundamental problems that are precipitating migration flows – especially those of refugees and IDPs.

UNHCR struggles to help the internally displaced in northern Yemen

Yemen: UNHCR calls for safe corridors as situation turns dramatic

Latest smuggling incidents leave 65 dead or missing in the Gulf of Aden

Phuket – I: Fresher lens

Treading with light feet, shuffling about purposively in the dark, with only the moonlight filtered by the shades as our guide, we gather some last-minute items off the shelves: toothbrushes, facial wash, sunscreen.

0530 hours, standing by the pavement and attempting to flag a taxi. Our senses are too easily dulled by the meagre amount of sleep to feel any impending excitement about to flush into our systems. Conscious enough not to stumble over our luggage as we drag them across the tar-black concrete, but not conscious enough to fully embrace the anticipation of boarding a plane in two hours’ time.

I was no stranger to Phuket (usually, at this point, the writer begins to describe his story of having lived here all his life/helping to rebuild the villages as part of the humanitarian effort in the post-tsunami period – but my relations with the island are much, much humbler and inconsequential in comparison), but neither was I particularly acquainted with the island, save for five days a few years back.

That was right before I was conscripted – that’s right, no euphemisms suggesting in any way that there was an element of choice, such as “enrolled”, “enlisted” – and I had intended to eke some time out just before donning the camouflage. With my dad, I spent those days in Phuket strolling down Patong Beach, managing to avoid the incessant questions of “Tuk-tuk?” and “Only _ baht!” by enthusiastic drivers peddling their services. We visited a particular village where the tour guide had led us to a school, via narrow walkways lined with hawkers selling hand-made trinkets and the usual tourist fare that exploited conventional stereotypes of Thai “culture”, whatever they knew about it from reading Lonely Planet. Children of no more than ten years of age skipped and sprinted down those walkways, manoeuvring their way through the mass of gawking tourists.

A door swings open and a woman steps out, almost too gracefully. The guide introduces us to the “most popular transvestite” in this village; I can hear the embarrassed laughter of some men behind as they cannot help but stare and admire her physical attributes, their mind registering one truth, their eyes whispering to them another. She has a ready smile for us, clearly comfortable in her own skin. A peek into the generally tolerant social norms prevailing in Thailand – and we find it most welcome, for why should people discriminate others based on factors that are determined arbitrarily, that these individuals cannot have possibly controlled? A regime of toleration that respects all living under it as equals, in front of the law as well as each other, is desirable, and deserves our endorsement.

Sipping on steaming cups of Milo, devouring honey-drizzled pancakes, watching other bleary-eyed travellers attempting to combat morning zombification. Another flimsy piece of paper provided by Tiger Airways, a ticket (literally) out of here.

She has never been to Phuket before, but surely being there once does not qualify me as a guide of any sort. Furthermore, this time round, we have opted for a rather decent-looking resort at one of the quieter beaches along Phuket’s exquisite coastlines: Karon, sandwiched between Patong in the north and Kata in the south, has a reputation for squeaky sand, generally undisturbed scenery (due to underdevelopment), and providing a reprieve from the infestation of tourists that is so prevalent in Phuket, a destination that on first look seems to exist primarily because of foreigners, for foreigners.

Upon landing in Phuket, we are whisked into a car, and minutes later we are on the road to Karon. The ride lasts an hour, the traffic light and organised, unlike the structured chaos that was Vietnamese traffic. The lonely stretch leading to Karon speaks to me rather invitingly, through hushed tones carried in the sea breeze. It is already ten in the morning and yet the hustle of activity that we are so accustomed to in most of the places that we have travelled before is pleasantly absent. A car overtakes once every few miles; locals on the beach to the left wait lackadaisically for tourists looking for a massage with sand as a complimentary snack; stray dogs, in no hurry at all, traipse down the shore, once in a while jumping back at the shock of cold water from the incoming tide.

She seems to see the benefits of the beach, and I am secretly pleased to have chosen Karon, the corners of my mouth turning upward slightly. That sentiment, however, is tempered a few metres later: the driver turns into a rather secluded road, where there are few road lamps that are spaced far apart, and stray dogs that are currently preoccupied with sniffing the ground. Then another road that climbs steadily upwards before ending at the entrance of the resort. The walk from the entrance to the beach now seems fairly torturous and long, and our eyes meet with the shared sentiment that staying out at night is a very bad idea, given the lack of illumination and the presence of dogs (rabid?). That sentiment remains unspoken in the presence of the driver, who expertly manoeuvres the car up a short but steep incline on a slope.

The resort entrance is beautifully decorated with murals and various flora, with figures (probably derived from local traditions and folklore) carved out from wood and polished. The positioned lighting and dim interior of the entrance lend the resort a rustic charm, with a suggestion of luxury and class. Indeed, the resort is positioned metres above the beach, like a casa in the Mediterranean – that fantasy holds if you ignore the obstructed view on the first floor: more uninhabited private homes lie between the resort and the beach, their rooftop swimming pools and steel water tanks for all to see. Other than that, first impressions seem promising.

Lunch at the restaurant in the hotel proves to be authentic, even though the resident chef is a Kiwi. The green curry that she has ordered is sumptuous, and the yoghurt rice that accompanies it is soft, sticky, and sour – not to her liking, she switches it for my bowl of white rice. The yoghurt rice somehow balances the mild spiciness of the curry and the salty gravy, providing a rather pleasant gastronomical experience indeed! The chicken curry that I have ordered is also decent, though the peanut content is a little too high for my tastebuds. Effectively, we should have ordered what the other person had chosen!

“Massage!” Then as we pass by the windows lined with aromatherapy creams and wax, I notice the conspicuous slowing down of steps, a longing gaze toward the warmly-lighted interior, an incandescent glow that radiates and fades like fireflies in the night. The steps quicken slightly as we move away from the window, but inevitably we would end up in that routine path. I decide to spare ourselves the additional foot exercise and ask her whether she is up for a massage.

She gives me a look that tells me the question did not even have to be asked: it was answered long before I had thought of the question.

My only response is a partially agonised one, for I have never gone for a massage before, and so my worries are understandable: will I be in an enclosed area? Do I have to undress? Completely? Or with a shred of clothing for dignity’s sake? Would I be able to resist laughter and avoid completely ruining the tranquil mood that the staff members have painstakingly attempted to simulate using aromatherapy candles and music? Should I ask for a more painful massage to mask the ticklish-ness of the rubbing and kneading of my legs? Would I survive the ordeal without embarrassing myself in front of the masseuses?

Casting my worries aside for the moment – it does not last long – I agree to a full body massage, and she stifles a giggle or two while mustering her most convincing concerned tone, asking if I have thought through this carefully. There is no turning back – I have committed myself to a massage, and will follow through my conviction to do so, which stands strong even though that particular conviction has only existed for about two minutes. Also, it seems rather wet-blanket-ish to let her enjoy the experience alone, and so I grip her hand ever so tightly as we stride into the preparation corridor. (In case you’re wondering, the Preparation Corridor is not capitalised as such because it has connotations of any form of cultist ritual.)

I believe that few people ever emerge from the massage feeling more alert and tense: I certainly feel so, my back and shoulders feeling extremely relaxed after enduring excruciating pain, yet my senses perfectly in order and not dulled by the music or the aromatherapy. During the massage, I believe I was tensing parts of my body to preempt the ticklish kneading that was to follow. The masseuse then thought that part was tensed up due to pre-existing stress and applied ever-greater amounts of precise force. It was going to be pain or laughter, and with my reputation at stake in there, I chose the former. I clenched my teeth, dug my nails into the sides of the mattress, channelling my thoughts elsewhere, away from what was happening there in that room.

It required such sheer concentration on my part that the massage turned out to be a rather good workout, both mentally and physically. I am, however, not so sure that I was supposed to feel like that. Some would call it a violation of the principles of the art of massaging: the massaged must submit their body entirely to the magical healing hands of the masseuse. “Entirely” was out of the question: if I had done so, I’d have been reduced to tears, and I can also say with great certainty that some furniture might have been wrecked in the course of my involuntary reaction. She can vouch for it.

Her face tells a different story: sipping on ginger tea that refreshes and cleanses, she looks more relaxed, registering an expression of contentment that justifies spending a third of our baht on the very first day of our vacation, even before we have stepped out of the resort. Having survived the massage and watching her as I recount my experience in that room – with only a thin translucent layer of cloth separating me and the reception area – in vivid details. That deep belly-laugh, the involuntary flailing of limbs, the playful slapping – all of which never fail to render a smile on my face.

With the skies clearing and the sunlight emerging, the hills of verdant green and the beach of beige become more visible, enticing us to take a closer look. We decide to freshen up and head down to the beach.

Isolated, save for a few stray canines and a handful of lazy afternoon bums, Karon beach proves to be a sanctuary for the touristophobic…tourist. Shy yet persistent, hermit crabs scurry beneath our feet, in their cavernous underground, while naked soles tread lightly above their abode. Standing right in front of this wide expanse of brown, green, and blue; feeling gusts of wind soar above the Andaman Sea, ride the waves, and rustle our clothes as they reach the shore; the water rushes toward us, gulping and consuming everything in its path, silently, like Hayao Miyazaki’s creations in Ponyo. As foam washes beneath us, the tension in our bodies and minds is seduced by the tide into the sea, away from the shore, away from us.

She simply stands there, her hands in her pockets, her shoulders slightly hunched, a braced smile as the strands of her hair whip dangerously in a frenzy around her. While I allow myself to be captivated by the elements around us, I cannot help but watch as she lets out a cry of relief and pleasure; I raise my camera to capture her in this moment of peace, and she willingly obliges.

The beach, a boundary between land and sea, has always provided a source of therapy for us. It is a compromise, removing the tumultuous waxing and waning movements of the wild, tempestuous, open seas, and leaving us enough space to feel the lingering sensations carried forth to the shore, in the wake of crashing waves that have had their momentum robbed by the rocks and breakwaters nearby. The swash stretches from afar to lick at our toes timidly – she jumps at the first contact with the cold water – as if guardedly testing our response; then on subsequent tries it unhesitatingly slides over the sand and covers our feet before receding. We find ourselves walking ever closer to it, perhaps desirous of the invigorating sensation of the cold shock and the smooth flow of water as it glides above and around our naked feet.

Karon beach ends in a right bend, with a face of rocks that meets the thunderous, erosive power of the waves. Slightly greyish clouds hang ominously near, though the weather has been so dreary that we are unable to distinguish between the coming dusk and impending rain. Nevertheless, we continue following the trail towards Kata, and are rewarded with an undulating stretch of road that is flanked by numerous restaurants, bistros, pubs, and single-block shopping outlets. This beach is way more active and energetic than Karon, what with Westerners in pairs and packs walking up and down the sidewalks being a frequent occurrence.

Sambal squid, tangy and chewy; tom yum soup, seemingly monosodiumglutamate-based and rather disappointing; fried rice, with fresh ingredients, though it could well have been cooked by a zi-char stall back home; the food in Phuket is surely not representative of Thailand’s best when it comes to authenticity, even though the freshness does not disappoint. With the preponderance of tourists from Western countries – and given that their palates are less tolerant of nostril-flaring, fire-breathing spiciness and subtle balancing of sour, sweet, and salty – the standard fare in Phuket (at least from the moderately-priced eateries) is clearly tailored to suit Western tastebuds, which is such a disappointment to us Asian visitors. It seems a rather unprincipled, if pragmatic, betrayal of the authenticity of Thai food as prepared by locals for locals.

The night would be filled with an hour or two of cable-watching: being the news junkies that we are, CNN provides news of the Jakarta bombings at two high-end hotels, more developments coming out of Iran that pertain to Rafsanjani’s much-anticipated Friday prayer speech, and other stories. In between switching channels as a result of utterly monotone, uninterested reporters with Queen’s English, and numerous crime-law-enforcement dramas that start to resemble CSI-Criminal-Minds, we find much to entertain us, though an early night is certainly due as we have to rise early for the Phi Phi tour the next morning – an experience we could not have possibly prepared for.

Yet right now, tucking her under the covers, the palpitations of her heart close by, there can be no substitute imaginable for this sensation of belonging that coexists with the equally compelling sensation of longing – the first I feel with the clasping of hands, the weight of leadened feet over another pair, the ruffling of hair and covers, the odd mix of fatigue and satisfaction derived from having spent the day well despite the rather discouraging weather; the second I feel as it tugs at me, as if telling me that Phuket this time round would somehow be different, fresh, because instead of seeing it through my own eyes, there is another pair of eyes alongside mine, looking at the same picture, sharing the same sensations that course through the mind and body, enjoying the experience however it may manifest.

The Responsibility of Gatekeepers

News of Thio Li-Ann’s departure from New York University certainly raised eyebrows in some American circles – read the early article here.

Now, this woman has been receiving particular attention ever since she made that speech in Parliament in her capacity as a Nominated Member of Parliament (one of those government-sponsored institutions that seeks to bridge the gap between civil society and government, even though it has mostly resembled a testing board for the incorporation of the civil into civic society, and assimilation of the young, bright minds of Generation Y into the ranks of the complaisant). I covered it then, calling it persecution as it flagrantly was, in express terms we must choose in order to capture the essence of her intentions.

Normally, I would not recommend any site that endorses rather blatantly demagogic statements and thinks that the American government was going “fascist” under George W. Bush’s tenure as president. Daily Kos has, however, run a particular article on this issue:

A Singapore law professor and parliamentarian who called homosexuality a disorder and made homophobic statements to Singapore’s parliament which was then considering changes to its laws relating to gays will NOT teach at NYU Law School.  Thio Li-ann made her controversial anti-gay statements in October 2007 while opposing repeal of a law that criminalizes sex between men.  During the debate, according to the ABA Journal, she said homosexuality is a “gender identity disorder” and anal sex is like “shoving a straw up your nose to drink.” Repealing the law “is the first step of a radical, political agenda which will subvert social morality, the common good and undermine our liberties,” she further claimed.  Her appointment by NYU to teach, of all things, human rights law in Asia (is there such a thing?) and constitutional law has been withdrawn, according to the same source and the New York Times.

What interests me with this Daily Kos post is that the author has taken a stand with regard to the students:

Is it any wonder that the NYU students are much brighter and well-informed than their Dean and chose to vote on Thio by using their feet?  And isn’t she a bit dense if she doesn’t think her 17th century views of homosexuality would cause some hostility?

Now, I do not think that we can be as unabashedly sure as fflambeau is about the “brightness” of students at NYU; perhaps they had checked Thio Li-Ann’s past record and the infamous speech she had made then, as well as her mother’s involvement in the AWARE fiasco, which you can read about here. Thio Su Mien “is one of Singapore’s leading banking and finance lawyers, ‘highly renowned and a firmly established name in the legal community.’”

At a press conference hastily called by some members of the new executive committee (exco) of the Association of Women for Action and Research (AWARE) [back in April], the most prominent person at the head table was not even a member of the exco.

Thio Su Mien (right) had evidently decided she could no longer rely on the hachet-women she had put into AWARE’s exco to hold their own in the face of media publicity. They had done a risible job ever since the controversy broke.

Thio, who is the mother of Nominated Member of Parliament Thio Li-Ann — yes, the same one known for her tirade against gay sex in Parliament in October 2007 — was introduced to the media as the “feminist mentor” of the exco leaders. Asked about what role she had played, she effectively conceded to the media that she was the mastermind behind the putsch.

The Thio family has thus made a significant impact in the past two years, providing us with much material to discuss with regard to the progressiveness of Singaporean society, the intrinsic value of recognising equal rights for homosexuals and heterosexuals, and the important question of how secular values are to be defended from attempts to reform the legal system as to reflect a particular and particularist religious doctrine – a doctrine that has its own critics from within the religious community. If it has not found acceptance from within its own community, then we must question whether it can be valid for those who do not even share the basic tenets of that religion.

Another article calls for the need to distinguish between action and speech when attempting to draw the line to protect freedom of speech:

The trouble is that the petition in opposition to Professor Thio imagines her appointment as a violation of NYU’s “own policy of nondiscrimination.” In other words, gay students (and members of other historically disadvantaged groups) are said to suffer actual discrimination when the administration hires faculty members who argue against anti-discrimination laws.  This confusion of speech and action — of advocating for discrimination and actually engaging in it — is common in academia, where academic freedom is too often limited to the freedom to advance prevailing ideals of equality.

Does the prior action of hiring faculty members that have a record of arguing against anti-discrimination laws justify the petition? Not necessarily, since Thio might have chosen to act in her professional capacity as a professor and wisely avoid conflating her private, religious views with the academic subject that she is teaching. Now, I do not pretend that it is remotely easy to be objective in separating the two spheres (academia and private), but for the sake of objectivity, we must at least make an effort to do so. Thio, in her professional capacity as a Nominated Member of Parliament, chose to abandon some moral restraints and instead acted upon her prejudices, knowing all too well that she had been given a platform to espouse her particularist views, and that she was protected against demonstrations by the unofficial, implicit sanction of the government that appointed her.

The next question is: what if those faculty members with a record of discriminatory action continue to perpetuate their practices in their current appointment – like Thio? Wendy Kaminer, the author of the above-mentioned article, mentions that the students had somehow confused speech and action, and that advocating for discrimination is different from engaging in it. It seems as though a new line is being drawn within the sphere of discrimination. The difference between prejudice and discrimination is that one may be prejudiced in his thoughts; only when he acts on those thoughts and leaves the sphere of intentions to convert them into words and actions does the act constitute discrimination. That is the line that defines a regime of toleration: it does not demand that we reconcile all our differences – race, gender, culture, religion – but only that we tolerate them. Prejudice is inherent, and difficult to eradicate or reason with. We can only hope that prejudice is kept in the realm of thoughts and never translated into action, which would then constitute discrimination. It would be unethical to argue for the eradication of prejudice, at least in the short-term, because possibly the only way is forcible brainwashing – and that violates rights to an extreme degree.

Advocating for discrimination is in itself an act, and it has real effects in the real world. Thio’s speech in Parliament was not made independently because she had awakened one morning and decided to tell everyone about her religious views. She had made that speech to bolster the defense against repealing a particular law, Section 377A, which states that “any male person who, in public or private, commits, or abets the commission of, or procures or attempts to procure the commission by any male person of, any act of gross indecency with another male person, shall be punished with imprisonment for a term which may extend to 2 years.” By making that speech and knowing that her position had a certain influence on the outcome of the ruling (in Parliament – where else would you get a better hearing in Singapore, given that the government is impervious to civil activism?), she was practising discrimination. She has to take responsibility for advocating laws that delimit the rights of people who are no different from her – she chooses to discriminate them based on spurious reasoning that I had covered in my post then.

We should indeed be careful about the permissiveness pertaining to the definition of discrimination, a concern I share with Kaminer; however, it seems more sensible and practical to judge the value of a speech by its effects (direct or indirect) rather than the intentions of the speaker. Thio might not have intended to discriminate, but her advocacy of discrimination certainly offended many people’s sensibilities at NYU and in Singapore. To call an act potentially discriminatory raises a red flag, because we might clamp down on freedom of speech too soon and deny the speaker the opportunity and the right to express his or her views and to be heard in public. That I will admit, and so we should apply stricter criteria: eliminate ‘potentially’ and turn instead to the effects – thus, an act that seeks to bolster the defense of laws or conventions that explicitly infringe upon the basic rights of a certain group of people based on accusations regarding arbitrary factors like race, sex, and sexual orientation, is in itself discriminatory. The effects of such advocacy are real, and we who do not realise this must be blind to the social pressures that hound the persecuted.

Whose responsibility is it to uphold “academic freedom 101″ as Kaminer puts it?

She opines:

The refusal of law students even to hear opposing views, reflecting opposing moral codes, is particularly worrisome. I wouldn’t want one of these future lawyers ever advocating for me. They’re unlikely to learn how to argue effectively if they limit their law school debates to matters about which only presumptively reasonable people disagree. Uniformity of opinion breeds complacency, close-mindedness, and a tendency to mistake attitudes for arguments.

That the university did not fire her is a commendable move; the dean did not do anything wrong when he thought that “…nonetheless, I do not believe that Professor Thio’s opposition to our institutional position should have played any role in our evaluation of her.”Furthermore:

…early recognition that the practice of law has escaped the bounds of any particular jurisdiction, and that legal education must take account of the intertwined nature of legal systems. At heart, the program seeks to expose our community to legal scholars who come from and have been shaped by their experiences in different countries, regions, and cultures. Needless to say, the value of the program would be seriously diminished if the visiting scholars all thought of difficult legal issues—including issues of sexual moraility–in the same way. We can learn from these visitors, and–we hope–they can learn from us.

Daily Kos chooses instead to harangue the dean over the recruitment of Thio, which seems utterly misplaced, given that he was upholding diversity of views and giving an opportunity to NYU students to confront opposing viewpoints and worldviews. From a Millian perspective, the dual benefit of confronting such an opinion exists independently of the claim on truth: if it is true, one can gain a deeper meaning and appreciation of the truth through the collision between fallacy and truth, the corollary of which is the resolution of contradictions inherent in one’s understanding of the truth; if it is false, then one manages to defend the truth with greater conviction, rather than resorting to self-censorship, which may leave the person vulnerable to accusations of yielding to one’s passions rather than rationality.

The Dean raises a point I would like to highlight (refer to the Daily Kos article for his statement to the press):

Should an academic opposed to the recognition of certain important human rights be allowed to teach a human rights course?

An academic’s views on a substantive issue should be irrelevant to his or her suitability to teach a course in a particular area as long as the opposing views are treated fairly in the classroom: A proponent or opponent of the death penalty can be equally qualified to lead a seminar on capital punishment, for example. The contrary position would be a serious affront to academic freedom, would lead to endless political litmus tests, and would greatly impoverish academic institutions, which gain so much from the robust discussion of controversial legal issues.

Exactly, and well-spoken – the conditional phrase here is “as long as the opposing views are treated fairly in the classroom.” Thio has not truly shown a willingness to be open to ideas other than her own. If she was so interested in engaging in discourse and fierce critiques from the students, why would she shy away from it? Low class enrollment and a petition should not have stopped her – after all, she thinks of herself as much more intellectual and of a different pedigree above the rest. She dared to speak in Parliament what she dared not speak in an American university class. The lack of opposition that emboldens her to speak explicitly in bigoted fashion – is that why she was so afraid of staying at NYU?

Returning to the question of who should be held responsible for upholding academic freedom: rarely do we judge the recipients of information (or misinformation) as guilty of the lack of quality of the message transmitted. We tend to assign responsibility to the gatekeeper. The professor, in this context,  must be even more responsible than the student because of the experience accumulated during training and the career, of the position of power and authority that he/she inherits – he/she must be open to all ideas and not prejudge them, since students DO look up to their professors for guidance as to what is expected of them – their views on academic freedom are shaped partially by their mentors. It can be argued, however, that we should not expect so much of professors, for they are merely human and equally vulnerable to prejudiced views of their own.

That the students signed a petition to remove her is more problematic to judge – yes, they were making themselves heard, but does it benefit or deprive them of opposing viewpoints (implicit in this is the question: can calling homosexuality a “disorder” be morally justified?) and engagement with the devil’s advocate? Yet nobody can force the student to accept all ideas as equally valid, nor force them to accept ideas that they may reject – that is ethically presumptuous and wrong. Responsibility to uphold academic freedom lies partially with the student, but that freedom also means that the student can choose not to uphold it to the fullest extent.

The students’ refusal to have Thio teach Human Rights in Asia as well as Constitutionalism in Asia is reflective of two things: one, their recognition that freedom of speech has its limits, according to them; two, the catch that is involved when endorsing “liberal culture” – the tolerant must tolerate the intolerant, so the requirement goes, if we are to respect true freedom of speech. Certainly, we do not expect that even of ourselves: there are views in this world that we cannot accept even if we call our culture or tradition “liberal”: the systematic discrimination and degradation of human rights, even more deplorable when they are codified legally. If so, why are we setting double standards for the students? “The tolerant must tolerate the intolerant” is more prescriptive than descriptive, and involves an element of coercion, implied by the word “must”. Instead, a more acceptable maxim that takes into account our willingness to recognise and defend the imperviousness of certain, inalienable, basic rights as well as our own human failing to hold ourselves to our own standards may be “the tolerant should tolerate the intolerant…up to the point whereby the intolerant threaten the balance and seek instead domination of the discourse.”

Here the students have upheld their willingness to defend these rights, yet they have turned “intolerant” and sought to dominate the discourse at NYU – but we cannot place all the responsibility for keeping the balance in dialectics on students. The dean and the professors, part of the intellectual as well possibly the legal establishments, along with the rest of society’s representative leaders (official or unofficial) share this responsibility.

Their “intolerance” is required if we are to uphold the rights we hold dear, if we are to truly honour them as inalienable; and yet the standards we set for ourselves impel us to condemn their actions. The unjust must be called the unjust if we are to preserve justice, even if the injustice serves to reinforce it. What is required of us, the observers, is that we simply do not judge them too harshly: they are merely assuming the role of beast of burden that we, who do not want to dirty our hands, have the luxury of avoiding – for now.

Light the fires

Ever since Michael Jackson, the man of the sequined glove and moonwalk, passed from this world, the news has fixated with obsession on his life story: his debts at maintaining Neverland, his court cases for charges of paedophilia, his possible demise at the hands of drugs and addiction to Demerol. Tributes started pouring out from each and every corner: the blogs, Twitter, the same devices that have been critical to the prevalence and prominence of the Iranian people’s struggle for representative government and freedom of a greater degree than before.

I am not saying that MJ’s untimely demise deserves less attention than other news. It is never about who is more important, but why. As she says, the former speaks to us as profound regret that a man of such talent failed to avoid the path that Elvis and other greats had taken decades before – the death of a human being evokes our sympathy. Whether you consider him guilty or innocent of paedophilia, he did not deserve for his private life to be taken apart and devoured by the papparazzi – an injustice that no person should be made to endure. Hungry, thirsting to satiate their own appetites for controversy and cash, the beasts relentlessly assaulted his life, and along the way they abandoned any moral reservations by rationalising that this man deserved no dignity just because he could be guilty of paedophilia.

No dignity in life, no dignity in death. Dr. House did say that you can only live with dignity, and there is no dignity in dying. What of dignity after death? Given how the press and people have been circling like vultures over any piece of news regarding how MJ’s assets are to be distributed, what caused his death (do they want to know because of closure? Are we too naive in believing that the media seeks closure when it thrives on exactly non-closure to stir up more plausible controversies?) and so on, I am inclined to believe that no dignity is about to be accorded to MJ.

King of Pop, perhaps forever – nobody seems even close to emulating his success, his appeal, perhaps due to the sheer deluge and carbon copies of pop singers out there, or the pluralistic nature of how we get our information these days that renders it more difficult for a single artiste to capture our attention for long.

A legend who never was past his prime – but that accolade, at what price? Was he ever willing to pay it, to be immortalised and lionised like a king at the expense of all his rights to privacy as a human being? That we may never be able to answer for him, but it is wrong to assume that he had decided to pay it just because it suits our voyeuristic exploits. It is only expected of each of us to observe our distance, to respect the man that has passed by leaving him and his family to grieve alone.

That being said, the Iranian issue deserves our attention because it is important for humanity – it concerns what we hold dear to our hearts, the right of freedom of speech, of expression and representation, of making our voices heard and acknowledged against any injustice and wrongdoing committed against us. The very act of expression can be considered to be essential and constitutive of citizenship (the republican reading) or simply another right out of many rights (the liberal reading), but it is likely that we, who have tasted freedom of some degree or another, would value this highly, even count this as a basic right, a right that when enjoyed allows for the enjoyment of other secondary rights that derive their force to obligate governments and societies to uphold them.

Trying to keep the Iranians’ battle against the state is a challenge for us all, and it must be so urgent for the Iranians wearing green in Iran itself to at least get some recognition from the outside world that their struggle is being supported from overseas – some moral solidarity against the brutality of the regime. Perhaps we can begin to understand why the Baader-Meinhof group in Germany in the 1970s were so desperate in their attempt to keep their cause alive in the news – but that is for another time to ponder over.

The Iranian struggle is a demonstration of people who have chosen to fight for freedom in a precarious time, when authoritarianism and state brutality come to a head with the will to live vicariously. The people of Iran – Moussavi’s Iran – have shown that despite the crackdowns, the brutality of the Basij and police, the detentions and jailings, they much rather would risk imprisonment and death than have to return to an even more repressive government than before, one that knows that its cover – of compassionate conservatism and religious piety and devotion to the Islamic Revolution and all the ideals it once stood for – has been smashed and trod on beyond any chance of reconciliation. Knowing that it does not have to pretend any more, the conservative order will choose to rule by absolute force alone, and that is an outcome that the Iranians cannot stomach – if not now, then even more so in the future, when their appetites for freedom have been stoked.

In a previous post, I had mentioned that if force is to be applied, then let it be the Iranians’ own initiative and display of willpower to fight for themselves. The conservative establishment is splitting slowly but surely; more ministers are joining the ranks of the opposition movement; Ayatollah Khameini has squandered almost all political capital that had its roots in religious legitimacy and reputation as the voice of the Islamic Revolution, because he violated the cardinal principle of coming out to back Ahmadinejad. His role as king-maker has been compromised, and now challenging him is no longer taboo. Iranians know the face of the dictator whom they wish death upon on the rooftops of Tehran at night: it is not Ahmadinejad, who has remained silent because doing so leaves the Ayatollah to take all the heat while his coalition with the military and security establishments is free to manoeuvre and plot against not only the opposition but also the old guard.

Some intervention is necessary if the opposition movement is subjected to systematic abuse, though I would be extremely cautious about endorsing another war in this region. What is clear is that a hasty peace concluded in the name of security and stability is not acceptable – we are not going to succumb to cold, unfeeling, realist logic that seeks to exclude all opportunities for appreciation of very real, very tangible moral dilemmas in dealing with security in the region. Who is to say that regional security trumps state security, or that state security trumps individual security? Which is truly more important, more meaningful to us – that the state manages to survive by sacrificing first the property of humans, and next humans themselves to save itself; or that human security and liberty prevail against the forces seeking to prove that might means right?

Commenting on Kurt’s post:

War is hell, a beast that when unleashed may escape from the rational calculations of those holding its leash, but it is unavoidable when tyrants and dictators seek to impose their worldviews that stifle freedom, violate fundamental rights recognised by the international community and those under jus gentium and the law of peoples – the right to freedom of association, that of survival of political communities. To express our devotion and to show enough respect for them, we must be willing to defend them.

An unjust peace is as good as an unfinished war, and ethically speaking, may be far worse than an unjust war itself. What is worse, as you pointed out, is that the “peace” of the first World War was concluded in such a manner by those who consciously knew that it was unjust and insufficient, and yet proceeded to choose the easier path. There is no easier path: the defeated must be convinced of their loss, the victors of their triumph. An inconclusive peace only encourages temporising with an evil to one’s own disadvantage, because you then are held hostage by having to wage war at someone else’s convenience and not yours.

Having gone through AJP Taylor’s The Course of German History, I begin to grasp the struggle that Germans had engaged in since 1848, when they had to choose to go against the Czechs, Danes, and the Poles – a moral struggle to desire two contradictory pursuits: one, to dominate Europe and expand indefinitely the borders of Greater Germany and the Reich; two, to establish constitutional government and the rule of law domestically. Having squandered their own chances of fighting for their principles – the Socialists deluded into thinking that the conservatives would fight for the triumph of their cause through militarism and conquest; the Centre abandoning all obligations and adopting expediency as their own principle; the liberals with their principles were dependent on foreign armies to back them in their struggle against the conservatives – the Germans decided that they would impose liberty – liberty of the Reich to trample on everyone else – on Europe, a silent vengeance for the freedom that they could not enjoy for themselves – the proverbial dog in the manger.

Eventually, with the rise of Hitler and his demagogic programme that united both Little German (Drang nach Westen) and Greater German (Drang nach Osten) ambitions, the Germans decided they had to pay the price if they were to achieve their aims and not be ruined: for eternal devotion to conquest and unlimited expansion, constitutional rule was to be sacrificed. The rule of law would have to be eradicated, and force – the only currency the Germans ever responded to – would operate as the choice apparatus of the government. Justice would have no separate identity from force, not in laws, not in morality.

The Allies in Europe certainly temporised with the evil that was Hitler and the consuming fire that was his Reich, paying through their noses to ensure stability, or a false stability that they knew could not be maintained; liberty was sacrificed, nation by nation – the Czechs, the Hungarians -  with each tribute the German people became ever more convinced that the greater their submission to dictatorship and demagogy, the greater Germany would become, and by extension the greater pride they would feel. Taylor’s supposition that no German was invulnerable to the irresistable temptations of German power and hyperpuissance may not be accepted so easily, but the conclusion was evident: the German people demanded that others would pay for the denial of liberty to them.

The sacrifice of liberty at home, the sacrifice of liberty in Europe – an unjust peace led to even greater injustice, only remediable with a war of such immense proportions that while just, was clearly avoidable if the peace concluded in 1919 had been just: just to the victors, just to the losers, but above all, just to the principles and foundations of which humanity reconciles its existence with international politics: liberty and tolerance. Too often we forget what wars are fought for, and in this case, we must remember to seek justice for these tenets. Only if we defend them can we preserve their sanctity.

If the Iranians do not sense that these principles are worth fighting for, and that the world is content to let their struggle fade into oblivion, to be buried under rivers of blood and hardened corpses, then the forces within Iran may yet go the way of the Germans in 1933. A price for freedom must be paid, if not now on the streets of Tehran, then those in Baghdad, Damascus, and Beirut in the future.

Principled stand?

Trembling below, thundering above. Which will drown out which noise, which voice?

The current situation in Iran is being watched with cautionary expectation.

Middle Eastern dictators are conflicted over watching the relatively more liberal reforms in Iran weakening its conservatives inside from pushing an aggressive agenda to dominate regional politics and balance, and nurturing a small but real fear that the awakening of Iranians from under repressive rule may present too close, too comfortable an analogy for their own repressed peoples. The Sunni regime of the Saudis may be delighted that their fearsome Shi’ite neighbour has now entered a phase of political maturation whereby the people are no longer willing to allow the conservatives under Ahmadinejad and Khameini to pursue their foreign policy without any benefits to themselves.

Ayatollah Khameini has jabbed viciously in the direction of Western countries, calling the recent demonstrations a deliberate ploy and conspiracy to overthrow the government. Yet it seems that this is a genuinely domestic uprising, fomented from within. President Obama has refused to say anything too provocative for fear of discrediting the opposition movement headed by Mir Hossein Moussavi – the lesson of which to be learnt is that calling a movement a proxy of a foreign power is the first step towards easy discreditation. However, some Republicans continue to harangue Obama and his administration for not doing enough, for looking weak, for not defending the principles that their glorious country was founded upon.

Did Bush do enough, Republicans? Oh yes, he did so much good for America. Why, which war-mongering, peace-loving party could simply stand aside while the principle of liberal democracy was being stomped on in the Middle East? The people who are advocating that the US should unequivocally condemn the Iranian state and then move ahead with explicit endorsement of Moussavi will find behind their actions a hidden motive to either disparage the lessons of history because they value their own contemporary “insight” much more, or a desire to play the partisan card against the Democrats for being “weak” on foreign policy and defence.

While principles are all fine and dandy, what is to be considered here is the burden of defending that principle – who does, or should, it fall upon? On a practical note, it does nothing but weaken the opposition movement from within – it gives the government the perfect fodder to accuse Moussavi as a traitor to the Islamic Revolution and all the ideals it represents, and in a country that prides itself as a theocratic state, that is the most unpardonable form of betrayal. Heads will roll, green strips of cloth floating in rivers of red through the streets. It is simply not expedient for the US to defend the principle of democracy when the success of the movement in favour of it requires precisely that they do not need others to defend it for them.

An ethical argument against the unconditional defence of the principle can be put forth as such: is it right for the US to defend that principle for the Iranians, since the senators and politicians in America do not know exactly how much the people of Iran are willing to sacrifice for democracy, or representative government? As armchair generals and bourgeois critics in the comfort of their own homes, protected from the very real threat of being detained without trial, battered with batons and shot at with guns, are we in any position to assume that we know exactly how much they are willing to sacrifice to achieve their goals? We should not so conveniently put the Iranians forth as champions of democracy who are willing to die to prove the resilience of the principle that democracy is the best form of political system.

Who is to say they should be the ones who must die for a principle? Should they not be their own agents, their own executioners if they decide to be? They are choosing, in rebelling against the ayatollah and the conservative establishment, to live for themselves. Not for some abstract principle that needs proving – Iranians cannot simply be perceived as the means to the end that is the principle.

What would intervention by the Western powers do but prove that democracy can never succeed without force, however fallacious that accusation may be? Sure, Iraq’s case shows that democracy can actually be foisted to a certain extent, but behind the fresh smiles on those weathered, weary faces of Iraqis and their ink-stained fingers and hands lies the bloody firefights of Fallujah, Basra, Sadr City, the suicide bombings and raids, the improvised explosive devices in animal carcasses and along the roads. Iraq did not prove that democracy could emerge and flourish by the will of the people: it is proving, though this may be premature, that democracy must be sustained by the will of the people to have a shot at being institutionalised in formal structures of the state apparatus and embedded in the political culture of this Middle Eastern country – a culture that had known nothing but force and the rule of the iron fist before the American tanks rolled into Baghdad.

If anything, the invasion of Iraq and its ensuing success only years after only serves to remind the Middle East of a misconception: that democracy can only succeed with overwhelming force. Is such a principle that allows the legitimation of all the prerogatives of power to achieve it morally defensible? If democracy can only succeed with force, and not sustained by the will of the people alone – the will to protect and defend democracy without relying only on force – then the principle of democracy is a dangerous Trojan horse. That is how the Middle East has perceived the Bush administration’s policies since Iraq, and that is why if we continue to insist on intervention on our part, this misconception will continue to ossify deep into the psyche of not only the dictators and their power circles, but the people as well.

The supporters of Moussavi, like the man himself, have set themselves on course on a path of revolution – they will not yield to the government and its abuse of power, and they are willing to risk incarceration to topple the government. One unidentified source quoted Moussavi as saying that if he is arrested or assassinated, the people should by any means necessary strive to overthrow the regime. Moussavi himself has adopted the rhetoric of the martyr. Force works its appeal in many ways, and the Iranians on both sides are testing each other in a treacherous game of “chicken” to see which side blinks first, clashing swords and exchanging blows, parading their battle scars as proof of martyrdom – while the state continues to escalate ever so cautiously the crackdown on protesters, the latter continue to fend off the thrusts and bravely storm forth.

If force is to be applied, then let the source of it be the will and initiative of the people, as it has been. On humanitarian grounds, we may find it objectionable enough that state repression has reached unbearable limits, but where those limits are is subject to arbitration, and we may do well not to impose our level of toleration on others. There is greater moral weight on the side of the Iranians who believe in having their voices heard in using force in the form of demonstrations, protests, boycotts, and strikes to pressure the regime to compromise and concede. There is certainly less justification for foreign intervention, since it violates sovereignty on the basis of questionable, qualitative criteria of toleration.

Are we then limited to supporting principles only when a positive cost-benefit outcome is present? Some critics will point to what has been written above and accuse me of hypocrisy, of trying to preserve democracy without expressing the desire to defend it. As the protagonist in Coetzee’s Waiting for the Barbarians reasons, he is the lie that the Empire tells itself in times of peace, when men who are secure in their lives and possessions can renounce violence and war; his torturer, the ruthless, cold military general, is the truth that the Empire needs in times of war, when everything is at stake and annihilation is the only alternative to the beast. Yet is the case for democracy truly endangered if at the end of this episode in Iran, the state crushes the protesters mercilessly into the ground? The question is, even without external, explicit support from the US, would the blame for the hypothetical failure of the budding revolution be laid on the Western democratic powers?

Ironically, the Palestinians may provide the answer. Despite the incursions and shellings, ceaseless ceasefires and shattered peace/piece deals, suicide bombings and rocket launches, the Palestinians managed somehow to vote democratically for their own government, Hamas. Despite the fact that the US has supported the case of Israel unequivocally until Bush’s exit, and that it has supplied innumerable quantities of funding and arms to the Israeli Army to deal with the Palestinians, the latter now nurture something akin to a democracy, however fragile.

Here there may be an argument made for the Palestinians: why is their struggle ignored repeatedly and effortlessly by the international community while that of the Iranians is of such importance? If we want to talk purely in geopolitical terms, then look at the geography: the prospective Palestine is away from the center of the Middle East, while Iran is the regional heavyweight. What happens in Iran is sure to create more reverberations than what goes on in Palestinian territory. If we talk in terms of who is more justified in their struggle, then it becomes a little more contentious.

Iranians are fighting to have their voices heard, to have their say about how they should be allowed to live their lives more freely and under less oppression from the authoritarian rulers of their country, who have shown that they, having bankrupted their credibility by vote-rigging and inconclusive verification processes, are not averse to using crude force to assert their hold on power.

Palestinians are fighting, but not to create state apparatus or institutions, not to work towards peace and settlement with the Israelis even when the latter have given them territory to play with. They support the very people who oppress them because to them, the destruction of Israel matters more to them than freedom or the sanctity of their lives.

The case is clear to one who holds that the individual must want to live for oneself – not for the survival of the state, which is but a mere construct that is adopted once there is a desire to perpetuate life beyond the temporal, by means of leaving legacies in institutions; not for the survival of a grand utopian vision of an Islamic Caliphate of the Muslim brotherhood; and certainly not live for the hope of martyring oneself. The Iranians of Moussavi’s Iran want to be heard, their clarion call for humanity to be respected even in the darkest of hours – they wish to live for themselves through democratic means. And there is no reason why they do not deserve our support, if they respect themselves enough not to live with the humiliation and repression, if they respect themselves enough to know that they deserve better, that their lives are worth living because they simply are, not because they can be put into the service of the state, to benefit some supreme ayatollah’s egotistical grasp on power, to further some reckless authoritarian ruler’s dreams of aggrandisement, to feed the myth of national unity and piety to the Islamic Revolution while its leaders desecrate its founding values every single moment they are in power.

No. The Iranians of Moussavi’s Iran will not be pawns of a greater strategic geopolitical game, and neither will they be sacrificed to reinvigorate the decaying, creaking facade of a regime that has almost run its course. They will not be forced to prove a principle that they might not be ready to defend, but we will see if they truly want it. They cannot be means to an end, whatever that end may be, even if it is deliverance into democracy.

Le devourers du Viêt Nam – V: Rhythm of a city

Morning arrives with little fanfare, and the streets are already bustling with the usual level of activity by the time we sit ourselves down for breakfast – thick but crispy baguette slices, butter, pate, sausages, ham, pasta stir-fried with garlic. She sips on her cup of Vietnamese coffee – bitter and potent – glancing at the poster-covered walls of the dining room, no doubt thinking of plans to return to Hanoi for Sapa trekking and more of Halong Bay’s other islands, perhaps even set foot on some of those Jurassic-esque ones.

Walking through the cramped, crowded streets again evokes in me a greater desire to capture everything I see, in all of its visual clarity, to pick up the sounds of crying babies and gossiping housewives; the grunts and heaving of gaunt men labouring under the sun, their faces weathered by years of honest toil. My guess is that the fact of our departure tonight from Hanoi has compelled me to repress those fears of earning the ire of the Vietnamese if I should dare take photographs of them, natural and in the swing of their daily chores.

Cuisine in Hanoi should not be a problem for seafood lovers: multi-coloured baskets filled to the brim with clams are lined against giant tubs of water. Peering over, I spot catfish of considerable size, their sleek, greyish backs gliding and sliding over one another’s, whiskers trailing behind. A woman carefully scrutinises the batch of cockles while immobile crabs – tied up, literally, at the moment – scrutinise her with beady, black eyes. Eels slither in a nearby tub with a tyre-like circumference at its top, their reddish-brown bodies writhing, knotting, under and above, through and around, like a cold-blooded, soulless orgy devoid of passion.

While motorcycles tap their horns as they attempt to squeeze through an already congested path that resembles something like a pavement, road, and drain at the same time, we emerge on the other side of the wet market and stroll along the circumference of Hoan Kiem Lake. The reason or justification that we conjure up for ourselves in order to buy pastries from the bakery at the corner is inconsequential: perhaps we feel a need to pay a silent tribute to the French, who have brought with them the undeniably amazing croissant – soft, crispy, crinkly, fragrant – we share one, taking care not to get crumbs all over our clothing; perhaps we are easily hungry from all that exercise in the Old Quarter, dodging, weaving, accelerating, slowing down.

Looking on as men and women with impeccable sartorial knowledge and timeless styles hustle past in the cool morning, biting into the flaky crust, the aroma wafting upwards and sideways, like the ends of the scarves that are whipped up in the winds as they are tugged along behind their owners.

A Parisian breakfast, incomplete without croissants.

Neatly folded flaps of dough lying on the metallic tray, sliding into the oven, from the hearth to the furnace; it is only minutes before the familiar scent floods the kitchen and then the living room, and the dog skips across the floor, barking incessantly at the promise of a snack before dinner. Rose serves two delightfully croissants on a porcelain plate, the golden-brown exterior too inviting not to press gently on it and watch the folds separate, revealing the soft inside.

Faraway from home, in Los Angeles, a meal to remind us of our own families, incomplete without croissants.

She spots an arrow leading to a cafe that requires that we walk through the shop, and we emerge in a small courtyard, shaded by the architecture that lies above it – a small bridge leading to a second-level pavillion, perfect for an afternoon tea-and-scones snack, or some Chinese tea. A woman gestures to us that we should select from the menu before proceeding up the long flight of stairs to the seating area. A mango smoothie seems appropriate in this humid weather, while she picks cacoa milk coffee.

At the top of the stairs, we find ourselves at a balcony that overlooks the lake, and the view is perfect. A hidden loft, embedded inconspicuously amongst the multitude of patchy, rustic houses of Hanoi.

From our vantage point, we observe as a young girl with neatly parted hair and a frilly dress carries around her fan. Earlier, we noticed that she had been fanning tourists, hoping that they would give her some money. She is being teased by a young man who pats her head, as if praising her for her persistence, then she trundles away, possibly to find another customer. The muted but incessant honking is dependably comforting – the low blare, the high-pitched squeak, the rhythmic. Metallic water tanks glare in the vicinity, on blackened, rusty roofs and beside uninspired, unpainted, bare, discoloured facades that make up the sides of buildings that have not been linked up with new structures. They do not paint if they are going to build over it; it is a matter of convenience and practicality, not aesthetics.

“It’s potent enough, that’s for sure!”

In between what seems like deliberately measured sips from the milk glass, she exclaims with unabashed delight at the dark brown concoction that is the cacoa milk coffee, the condensed milk still mostly undisturbed as it lies on the bottom. I gulp down the mango smoothie – because there is no way I can sip it since it is so thick and viscous, chockful with blended mango as it is – thinking of the next beverage to order.

Then I happen to glance at the plate of spring rolls that is on the menu. Pretty soon, we are on our third beverage – supposedly apple-based but tasting undoubtedly like soursop – and spring rolls dipped into fish sauce and chilli padi.

The brown, translucent skin of each spring roll cracks under the pressure as we sink into them, the sweetness of the sauce and the tanginess of chilli padi saturating our senses; it even brings us to tears, literally, when the seeds get in the way. Images of Cambodia, of temples and monks, Angkor Wat’s silhouette in the foreground of a sunset, dark and forbidding, sacred and imposing, jump from the pages of the guide that we had purchased earlier for our friend; she browses through the pages, and I can tell she is intrigued by the place. Yet she is also apprehensive.

“What if I can’t take it, can’t bear it?”

The sight of children begging in the streets, their coarse palms – that have known labour that they should not have needed to know till later – outstretched, pleading for a morsel of food, a penny or a note from the heavy, jangling purses and pockets of tourists that throng the towns and villages of this backward, developing country – a country that would have easily been forgotten if not for the monument of Angkor Wat. Once subjected to horrendous massacres under a murderous, barbaric dictator by the name of Pol Pot, this country has been trying to emerge from the shadow of the Khmer Rouge. Now it is mired in abject poverty.

Poverty is an evil, that we should be able to admit first and foremost. I do not think it is presumptuous to claim that all cultures and civilisations think of starvation and hunger as undesirable conditions that should be mitigated and avoided. Poverty may be caused by natural disasters such as droughts and earthquakes, but endemic poverty as seen in Cambodia is less the result of such disasters and more to do with the human factors: the government, the attitudes of the locals, external observers. If we accept that poverty is an evil that can be remedied by human action, should there not be an obligation to mitigate the extent of suffering?

The word “poverty”, etched on books preaching humanitarian action, is only one of many other words that have not succeeded in truly speaking to the human conscience. One has to see it to believe it, to understand how devastating poverty’s effects can have on man, how it reduces the body to a living corpse, wracked by illness and subject to the depredations of disease, until there is no humanity left, save for a soulless shell. Multiply that by ten for every street, hundred for every village, thousand for every town, and you will start to truly appreciate the horrifying scale of poverty.

Just as our visits to Sachsenhausen had rendered us more sensitive and acutely aware of the terror of the German concentration camps, travelling to Cambodia might actually force us to come face to face with how serious these crises are. We tend to be too desensitised, too pampered and protected in this cocoon of material abundance, contented with the delivery of news of humanitarian crises to our television sets. It is not a question of the severity of the evil that is prevalent; it is a question of how much we let it affect us.

On our way out of the cafe, she decides to do a little more exploring and discovers yet another floor above the cafe – the view here is even better! We stand there for a moment, taking in the light afternoon breeze that is a tad warm but otherwise welcome; breathing in Hanoi and all it has had to offer for the past few days to travellers like us. While I pay for our drinks, she finds herself amused by a cat sprawled lazily on the cool tiles in a spreadeagle position. While two Vietnamese women in biker helmets scratch her soft belly and ruffle her orange coat, she nonchalantly remains in that pose, as if modelling for the ladies who have already begun snapping photographs of this lazy feline.

The people at Duc Thai are accommodating enough to allow us to have access to a room whereby we can rest and shower before heading off to the airport in the evening. As the sky darkens to a blue-black hue and the sun retreats into quiet slumber, Hanoians begin making their way home just as our car speeds away from all the hubbub. Both of us sit in the back, looking outside at the passing crowds, the farmers guiding long lines of cattle back to their homes, the children and wives holding onto their fathers and husbands on motorcycles while other women and men navigate their way around the traffic by themselves, perhaps returning to a hearty dinner and a family they feed by their work.

As Hanoi’s lights slowly blink and dim below us, I can only feel a little fatigue in my bones, for my mind and heart are preoccupied with the events of the few precious days in Hanoi that lie before us. More than that, to know that she has walked through those same streets with me, tasted those same delicacies and delectable desserts with me – as she squeezes my hand ever so gently, stirring from a nap as she is clearly tired, a smile creeps up on her face that registers a feeling inside her that has found its mirror in mine. In Hanoi, at home, in the air.

That is all I need to know as I brush the strands of her hair aside, and she snuggles back to sleep. Content to let the silence of the flight lull us into a dreamscape that we had glimpsed at before while suspended in between atmospheric strata, I close my eyes, hoping to share in the sanctuary for just a few more hours before the plane descends.

In the dim glow of the sidelights in the cabin, amidst the symphony of deep snores and pitchy wheezes, something begins to stir – the embryo of a flame, satiated but feeling the hunger return, seeks out new material to feed on. Tremulous, brimming with anticipation, it rifles through the contents of suitcases and luggages, bags and purses, pockets and pouches. Strangely enough, it leaves no trace, no seared path. Our imaginations follow it in the dreamscape, and the flame leads with such purpose that we are led to trust it implicitly.

It stops, gently laying down its incandescent body – if you could call it a body that is so amorphous that it defies any solid shape – on a book. For a moment, we are uncertain of what to do, in the distance observing its quivering figure, as though an entity of fire could ever feel the coldness seeping through the ventilation system in the cabin and shiver. Then the book begins to glow, illuminating the cover. The flame dissipates into the book osmotically, and the word on the cover burns itself a distinct signature in the enveloping darkness of the night.

“Kampuchea.”

Le devourers du Viêt Nam – IV: A primitive calling

The horns that do not sit in obedient silence, for they only know how to shout, to blare, over the heads of others; the horns are bared like a bull’s as vehicles plow through the crowds and traffic. The narrow alleys and streets do not concede much space to walk, to drive, to move; rivulets of movement coalesce and move in the path of least resistance from opposing currents and waves of people, bicycles, motorcycles, cyclos, cars – indistinguishable in all this is any indication of a “general direction”. Following or going against the “flow of traffic” ceases to hold any meaning. Everyone is going everywhere at once, not in a hurry yet honking ever so incessantly that you suspect underlying impatience within them.

Our guide, a lean Vietnamese man who calls himself David, cheerfully quips that the drive to Halong Bay will take approximately three and a half hours, taking pains to preempt any complaints by listing the designated speed limits on the local roads and highways such that those on board will not accuse the driver of slacking off. Glancing at the list of passengers that he is to pick up before heading for the Bay, we realise that her surname has been wrongly written: instead of what it should be, there is the word “Cheers” – since we usually sign off on emails with a “Cheers, (insert first name)”, he apparently thought that her surname was Cheers!

While David tells us a little about the history of Vietnam in bite-sized bits, covering the time of the emperors to French colonialism, the other passengers seem to be less than truly interested in what he is saying. I begin to get that familiar feeling – it stirs and leads me to even more consciously notice how everyone else is reacting to what he wants to say, or should I say, what he is expected to say. Behind that ready smile and gleaming, jet-black eyes, does he feel as though he is going through the motions; that he is wasting his time trying to add that touch of authenticity to an otherwise foreign adventure for tourists, for these outsiders are only here for Halong Bay and its sights, not another lecture on how Vietnam developed, rose from the shackles of colonialism, fought a revolutionary war, and eventually embarked on the road to development to the very state of affairs that exists now. The tourists come and go, their attention captivated rather superficially by sights and sounds that are encapsulated by the phenomenon of “culture shock”; they are content with knowing the present, curbing their curiosity for the past, the process that has created what they see before them now.

Surely David knows? He knows that there are some who come here with honest curiosity, and I can understand why he would feel proud of his country: bringing people who are not locals around your country somehow evokes in me some sense of pride of being an inhabitant of this community that otherwise I cannot seem to unearth in daily living in this concrete jungle: the inter-racial, multi-ethnic regime of toleration; the fact that temples, churches, and mosques can exist on the same street; these are lost in the everyday ranting and railing against the deficit of freedom, the dreariness and monotony of urban life.

Yet he must also sense in his line of work that historical monuments and natural scenery have lost considerable significance in the eyes of foreigners, if they are to squeeze the “Top Ten Must-See Spots” in a day or two. As tourism usually constitutes a large proportion of the national income, governments are incentivised to encourage commercialisation – gone are the days when one can explore the country with a local guide on foot, because it does not make economic sense; the boat cannot make a detour just for one passenger, because that would be unproductive and there is a tight schedule to be observed. Does he feel that people do not understand enough? Frustrated that people do not want to understand?

If he is jaded by his job, I do not see it – he betrays no emotion of fatigue, save for a stubble that may be evident of his long hours of work. Every word and sentence he chirps out is enunciated with earnestness, and that obligates me to listen to his rehearsed bites of information, to give a nod of acknowledgement once in a while. Should I be ashamed by my presumption of a cynicism that he does not possess? Why, indeed, must David be so cynical as I have assumed him to be, when he possibly is contented with giving these outsiders a glimpse of another culture, another world, given the limited time and resources that they can afford (to pull themselves away from work, from their reality)?

I soon realise that it would be best if I shake off this feeling: to each his own – if the desire to learn more, to experience more, is there, then one will make the extra effort to read up before the trip, to ask locals questions with answers that cannot be found in travel guides. With that, I leave it to David to keep us entertained for the rest of the journey to Halong. It is simpler to believe that David is enthusiastic, that he believes that we are all here to have a good time – cynicism must be tempered if we are to believe that it is possible to be proud of one’s country.

We step onto a small boat that will take us to the larger junk on which we will be spending the night. The scenery of Halong Bay, even before we exit the makeshift push-off point, is promising: the familiar emerald waters that now are uncontained, stretching into the horizon, the surface so calm that we can hardly detect the rocking of junks stationed throughout the harbour. Rocky outcrops extend from the sides, their surface spread over with thick vegetation; some lie a distance off the coast, like tips of giant, mossy icebergs.To imagine that all of these separate, gigantic structures were once one solid land mass, we could only marvel at the unquestionably powerful forces of erosion by wind and water.

Indeed, there is this primitiveness about how these majestic creations came into being that makes us ponder about all the fuss that has been made due to the idea of human civilisation and progress. The sheer scale and size of Halong Bay and the treasures that it harbours do not render themselves clear enough until you are there in that expanse of green and blue. Magnificent, all the more so, or precisely so, because nature played a dominant hand in creating it. Nature, whom we envision to have unrivalled powers to create, mold, deconstruct and destroy, may have had no deliberate plan to create this scenery as though a blueprint was being followed during its execution, unlike man’s engineering feats. Nature wields its force wherever it wishes, most of the time indifferent, but always imposing its will. Man, on the other hand, who believes in his own powers of imagination, creativity and rationality, wields his expertise with deliberate calculation. Every bent, curve, and line is thought through, every detail a reminder of man’s ingenuity.

Yet man could never create something of this magnitude, of such randomness – and surprisingly enough, this randomness gives the scenery a touch of authentic perfection, however it may have been conceived. To what extent would calculations have to go – to the thousandth, millionth, billionth decimal point or significant figure – to forge something that is much more than just a picture, a scenery: the fragile equilibrium that exists between humans and their surroundings?

Nature sears its indelible signature of an undisguised sophistication on every rock, every layer of soil, every inch of the crust of this earth. It stands right up there with man, there can be no doubt. How can we judge that man has progressed when it is possible that nature has already attained the unreachable? Primitiveness and progress are not easily separable after all. The arbitrary power of nature can trump the deliberate intentions of man – Benjamin Disraeli, British PM, once quipped: “What wonderful things are events! The least are of greater importance than the most sublime and comprehensive speculations.”

Peering over the junk is a British couple, and we follow their gaze to a woman in a traditional straw hat below, balancing herself with a long steering pole in one hand. Her tiny boat is loaded with snacks and drinks, all arranged extremely meticulously in rows. She gestures for us to buy something from her, but we leave for the upper deck of the junk for lunch while the British continue to feed their fascination with the boat-person. Entire fishing communities live out here all their lives on floating villages – there is even a floating school which the children can attend! It reminds me of Bodø, Norway, above the Arctic Circle – there, people hop onto ferries that would carry them to their workplaces, schools and supermarkets on separate islands.

Purple and green hues illuminate the sides of the cavernous interior of the limestone cave, unnatural yet aiding the naked eye to see the beauty of the natural. David smiles a little too quickly and widely when he coaxes the girls in the group to gather at a point before explaining the story behind the caves, seeking to avoid sounding impatient, hoping that tourists will implicitly understand without the need for verbal reminders the time constraint and the schedule that has to be followed – nobody likes a confrontation that would cause unpleasantness later on. Fortunately, our group is cooperative.

The enormous limestone caves remind us of some subterranean world that has been hidden away from civilisation for eons, slowly forming and taking shape, a metamorphosis in progress. Every second, this view transforms ever so slightly, imperceptibly; a drop here freezes before it can fall, another falls and creates the birth of a pool. We spot a giant, bulbuous sac crafted out of stone, hanging in its own hole in the ceiling of the cave – it looks more than just subterranean, more like from Aliens.

We head back to the junk to prepare for swimming and kayaking. Since she is not so confident of her swimming capabilities, and both of us have no prior experience in kayaking, we opt for taking the boat to Titop Island and spending some time swimming near its sandy coast. Good call – two girls from the junk are left stranded in the wake of the junk as they helplessly try to paddle towards the island, their oars flailing in the air, gliding past the water surface.

Swimming at Titop Island brings to mind Thailand’s beaches, especially those in Phuket. In exchange for muddier, opaque waters in Halong, one is literally swimming in the middle of the gigantic bay – the rocky outcrops and islands are everywhere around you, separated by green waters. It is akin to wading in a giant lagoon without any visible boundaries. Taking her hand in mine, I guide her to swim a little further from the shore: she panics, letting out a nervous giggle and a soft yelp, grasping at my outstretched fingers ever so tightly, finds her footing on my feet, retains her composure and allows that silly, innocent smile creep up on her face again, an expression of quiet exuberance and delight. She feels it, I feel it.

Some local Vietnamese wield their kayaking oars rather dangerously, paddling too closely to where some of us are wading – one of them cheekily grins, his face registering mischief, as I pull her close to myself. The front of the kayak narrowly misses her head. We decide to head out of the beach and return to the junk. By then, the girls have found the right junk to climb back up on – since all the junks in Halong Bay look very much alike.

On wooden sun-deck chairs, she and I sit, at the back of the junk admiring the scenery before us as dusk approaches. The heat from the afternoon sun remains trapped in the wood, and we can feel it dissipating into the cool evening as the sky above us begins to fade from a dominant hue of blue to that of a peachy orange, then black and grey slowly sink into the canvas. Junks float like lanterns on the surface of the water, their lights reflected like luminous green and orange swords, flaming and pointing downwards, refusing to be extinguished in the darkness that envelops them. A small hut’s silhouette caps a hilltop, looking rather out-of-place and yet exuding a certain mystique about it.

Dinner is served, and the six of us feast on seafood, meat, and vegetables. We realise that the four of them are Australians, and two of them are mother and daughter, while the other two girls are colleagues at work. For the next one and a half hours, we would trade stories: how the girls contracted food poisoning from a cafe right beside the French restaurant that we were eating at on the same night; the mother sharing some basic hygiene tips on what not to eat in developing countries, having lived in Indonesia for four years before; the daughter on exchange at my university this semester, talking about modules and lecturers that we both happened to know; the Australians finding out that they knew a girl that was shot in the Mumbai bombings; future travel plans – to China in the heat of the summer, to remain in Vietnam for Sapa trekking; the task of disabusing foreigners once again of the facade of propriety that our country has managed to put up – it does not take long for them to both marvel at the devious ingenuity and express their disapproval of it.

Morning arrives almost too quickly, but sleep is surprisingly good – the waters are truly still at night. Bleary-eyed, we stumble onto the smaller boat that takes us through a cave, and we emerge on the other side in a lagoon, surrounded by outcrops that make up its circumference. The buzzing of insects and teeming wildlife envelops the air around us as we drift idly in the waters. We spend the early part of the morning in front of the junk, our slippers off, sitting on the wooden forecastle.

That peaceful look that she has; her loosened, relaxed arms by her side; her hands resting on her lap as she sits cross-legged; undisturbed tranquility registers on her face, reflective of the Zen-esque atmosphere. Paradise, enveloping us in its green, verdant glory – the cushioned sky, forested outcrops, tranquil waters, all in a single canvas, and us, part of the tapestry that nature has generously woven for us to admire. She breathes nary a word, yet she manages to teach me a thing or two: to stop capturing and starting breathing in the moment, to take it all in.

Everything slowly melts away, as if a yoke is being lifted, relieving us from the stress accumulated for so long.The skies peel away the clouds; the lush slopes of the hills slant away from the path ahead of us; the junk glides on the surface effortlessly, taking its time, without hurry, without purpose.

We move across the surreal landscape that is reminiscent of Jurassic Park; we half-expect prehistoric beasts to emerge from the foliage and bare their fearsome fangs, unleash their bestial roars that thunderously resonate throughout the bay, scrutinise us from their vantage point on the hills like sentinels, guardians of an ancient age, protecting a secret that is forever lost underneath the blindingly beautiful yet deceptive veneer of Halong Bay.

Pausing for a moment, a long moment, the realisation of what this is – a need so primitive yet so grossly underfulfilled -  gradually manifests itself.

Our senses, our touch, tells each other that this is what we have been craving for: undisturbed, uninterrupted, unhurried peace.