So many people murdered in Tuol Sleng (Cambodia)

So many photographs of people murdered in Tuol Sleng (Cambodia). So many people young and old with such vacant faces, no expressions, just resignation.
Yet out of all these I stare at this photograph oh so many times and every time I am overwhelmed by deep sense of pity and even despair.
Chan Kim Srun, that's the lady in the picture was the wife of Sek Sat, a high ranking officer in the Khmer Rouge Regime, he was the secretary of Koh Thom district. They were arrested and were brought to Tuol Sleng with their new born baby, where they were murdered after extracting their 'confessions' . At the height of the atrocities, the Khmer Rouge turned against their own comrades and countless were murdered in the most brutal and horrifying manner.
Just take a look at this mother, she knows without a doubt that her tiny baby will be killed in the most horrible manner.

Three Years, Eight Months and Eleven Days

What do you expect to see when you get to Cambodia? Angkor Wat, of course. Thousands of tourists pour into Cambodia every year to see Angkor Wat. But Cambodia is not only The Khmer Empire with its majestic temple the Angkor Wat. Cambodia nurses a deep, dark secret, which the people of Cambodia, the Khmers insist on sharing with every tourist who visits their peaceful country.
A bit of history, we leave the turbulent times of long ago and move a little closer to our times. Between 1969 and 1973, as we know the United States of America fought a war against Communism, in Vietnam. U.S. forces bombed and briefly invaded Cambodia in an effort to disrupt the Viet Cong and Khmer Rouge. Some two million Cambodians were caught in this senseless war and became refugees, not knowing where to go they fled to Phnom Penh. Estimates of the number of Cambodians killed during the bombing campaigns vary widely, as do views of the effects of the bombings. As the Vietnam War ended, as was expected Cambodia, faced famine in 1975. Most of its draft animals destroyed, the rice planting for the next harvest had to be done, by the hard labour of a seriously malnourished people. As if that was not enough, as if the Khmers had not had enough of death, suffering, starvation, the Khmer Rouge reached Phnom Penh and took power in 1975, led by Pol Pot.
If you wanted indescribable hell, Cambodia was the place to go during the Pol Pot Regime
Pol Pot changed the official name of the country to Democratic Kampuchea. He and his aides forcibly evicted entire cities, sent the people on forced marches, to work on rural projects. Pol Pot attempted to rebuild the country's agriculture on the model of the 11th century. Everything Western was discarded; this included Western medicine, destruction of temples and libraries. At least a million Cambodians, out of a total population of 8 million, died from executions, overwork, starvation and disease. Estimates as always vary but the most commonly cited figure is around 2 million.
And now we enter Tuol Sleng, ladies and gentlemen
Tuol Sleng was a high school, the Chao Ponhea Yat High School, here there was laughter, you could see children running everywhere, there was happiness as there is in any school where there are children. It was a school where mothers waited for their kids at the end of the day and asked them ‘How was your day today’ or would say to them ‘I have cooked something special for you’.
Overnight the Chao Ponhea Yat High School turned into Security Prison 21 (S-21)
Overnight the classrooms with black and yellow patterned tiles, where such happy children studied and played were turned into torture chambers, mass cells. The benches and chairs disappeared; we now have long pieces of iron bar to which prisoners were shackled. The shackles were fixed to alternating bars; or were fixed to the floor. No more teachers and students reading out their lessons, reciting poetry or memorizing tables. The prisoners slept with their heads in opposite directions, on the floor without mats, mosquito nets, or blankets.
No more light hearted banter, no more little quarrels, the shackled prisoners were forbidden to talk to each other. Life in the prison followed a routine, much like the schoolchildren followed their own routine.
The day in the prison began at 4:30 a.m. when prisoners were ordered to strip for inspection. The guards checked to see if the shackles were loose or if the prisoners had hidden objects they could use to commit suicide. Over the years, several prisoners managed to kill themselves, so the guards were very careful in checking the shackles and cells. The prisoners received four small spoonfuls of rice porridge and watery soup of leaves twice a day. Drinking water without asking the guards for permission resulted in serious beatings. The inmates were hosed down every four days. The prison had very strict regulations, and severe beatings were inflicted upon any prisoner who tried to disobey. Almost every action had to be approved by one of the prison's guards.
At Tuol Sleng ordinary objects turned killer objects, you could die anywhere…
At Tuol Sleng, the outside boundary wall were no longer simple walls, they had rows upon rows of barbed wire always electrified…
At Tuol Sleng, an iron bed could be used to shackle prisoners, after their throats had been slit with a curved knife.
At Tuol Sleng, the large yellow tiled classrooms could be converted into box sized cells, where prisoners awaiting torture could be shackled.
At Tuol Sleng, the blackboard could be used to write the roll call of the cell inmates.
At Tuol Sleng, water boarding could mean a sloping wooden piece where prisoners could be shackled and water from a blue watering can poured over their faces until they confessed.
At Tuol Sleng, the pictures of women and men you see, were not those of merit students, about to receive prizes, they were of prisoners, who have given up on hope, eyes vacant already dead. And the baby in his mother’s arms, would never know what it is to crawl on the floor chasing his cat.
Welcome to the world of Pol Pot, where ordinary everyday objects take on different meaning and functions.
Outside on a huge board, there are the rules for the inmates, written in Khmer and translated into French and English
1. You must answer accordingly to my question. Don’t turn them away.
2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts this and that; you are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dares to thwart the revolution.
4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.
5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities or the essence of the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.
8. Don’t make pretext about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your secret or traitor.
9. If you don’t follow all the above rules, you shall get many lashes of electric wire.
10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.

I read the rules, but I read and reread Rule 6
6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
I cannot stop reading this rule. My son pulls me away gently

I sit on a stone seat under a frangipani shedding its flowers gently on 14 graves. These were the graves of the prisoners found by the liberating Vietnamese Army, their throats slit. One of them a woman.
I pray, I do not know for what, Tuol Sleng, teaches you to pray without words to any God who might hear your prayer.
For Three Years, Eight Months and Eleven Days the Cambodians prayed.

Dona Flor e seus dois Maridos

I read this book as an English translation and found it exceedingly humorous. The original Portuguese version is pretty much different. I loved all those 'Brazilian Insults' how I loved Dona Rozilda and her terrible tongue. Although everyone hated her, I loved those insults.
Vadinho sums the book when he as a ghost says, "Tambem do meu amor precisas para ser feliz, desse amor de impurezas, errado e torto, devasso ardente. que faz sofrer" We all have two sides to our selves, and Dona Flor has the need for sex that her very nice husband Teodoro cannot give her the way Vadinho can! but Teodoro, loves her, is an excellent husband. Ironically both save her from depravity.
This book makes us look into our darker side, if you feel you have one! Jorge Amado, also shows us what it is to be a gambler, the hunger for the game, incidentally it is not pleasant to win all of the time as it takes away the edge of the game. Gamblers too have their code !
Amazing how colour of skin is not important in Brazil, in fact the colour black s beautiful. Amazing how this book leads us into so very many unexplored avenues, forcing us to think without prejudice

OSIBISA......whither your sounds

What was I thinking? What made me imagine that things do not change?
But I was caught in a time wrap, a bout of nostalgia for those times when we danced with gay abandon to the pulsating, mesmerizing sounds of the Osibisa.
But sadly for this band, a product of the 1960’s they too seem to be caught in their own time bubble with most of the band members dead and with Teddy Osei the band leader himself not too well. The band seems  to be stuck, dragging out the same old numbers with no verve, no feeling, just a tired old band dragging a meaningless show.
“We are happy and priviledged to celebrate our 40th anniversary in India, where we last performed in 1983 and we have reserved our very best music for the shows in India this year”
No this was not the best they played for us here in India, the only memorable numbers, Miriam Makeba’s Patapata and Raghupati Ragava Rajaram.
A lot of African sounds, particularly bongos, but mediocre keyboard playing, the guitars muted for most of the show, the lead guitarist occasionally heard but most of the times not there. The bassist, just wasn't there, when he decided to make himself heard was when he was introduced by the band leader, Teddy Osei. And the mediocre vocals, what can be said about mediocrity?
When you think of an African Band, you should be plunged into a maelstrom of magical sounds, think ‘Graceland’; oh the sheer pleasure of those guitars, they stroke you with those thrilling sounds, they drag unknown emotions out of you.
That is music Africa. You never, never expect mediocrity from Africa

SEWA cared and continues caring.......

DREU CITU, DREU CITU, screamed a lot of red banners in Kerala, my son then aged  five commented angrily ‘What’s this DREU CITU up to! What does ‘He’ WANT,!!

At that time I too was under the impression that Trade Unions were a nuisance, what  did they want, what was their agenda. And then I went to SEWA in Ahmadabad on an assignment as a Portuguese translator. 

At the SEWA Conference I learnt about a sector of people called unorganized labor, these were the people I took for granted, these were the people I barely glanced at. And these included so very many people, the roadside hawkers, the  people who rummaged the garbage , I looked at them with distaste, such dirty people, the mobile vendors with their pushcarts, and so many people selling little things on Bombay trains.

And then came SEWA a Labor Union.  SEWA tries to organize these marginalized workers  and to see that they are provided with the full benefits that regular workers enjoy. 

But the most important aspect for SEWA is that all these workers, vendors should be treated with respect and dignity. Yes I wept, when I heard how those illiterate women started their own Bank! Who would give illiterate women any loans, they have no collateral and did not even know how to sign. 

This Bank the first of its kind in India, was started by women like Chandaben who said

"We may be poor, but we are so many. Why don't we start a bank of our own? Our own women's bank, where we are treated with the respect and service that we deserve."

They started a BANK!! It is a story of grit, determination. and passion. 

My stint at SEWA was an eye opener because I now  look at people differently. I now know  how hard people work, sometimes for very small salaries,. How much even small amounts of money mean to the mobile vendors with pushcarts. And how everyone needs to be respected 

 Do you care how these women live? Are they just a bunch of illiterate women? 

But SEWA cared and continues caring.......... 

Recently I went to Cividep for a Session of interchange of Ideas, four women from Nicaragua who belonged to a Union called MEC (Maria Elena Cuadra) came to Bangalore for interchange of ideas with the Garment and Textile Workers Union which deals with Garment Workers in Bangalore, the focus was of course the Rights of Women in the workplace and different aspects of a Woman’s life. This time unlike at the SEWA Conference I had a great deal of time to interact with the Nicaraguans on a personal basis, one in particular, Teresa astounded me, her grit and determination to get out of the slums, educate herself all this when she has four small children. Their poverty appalled me, a staple diet of beans, rice and a small bit of cheese is what they can afford at the moment, food prices in Nicaragua are so high that meat of any type is a distant dream.

Nicaragua a Catholic country prohibits legalized abortion but allows Family planning by other methods. As they do not get proper education about these other Methods of Family Planning; their only recourse is Abortion which of course is prohibited. So the slums are full of young pregnant teenagers and orphans. On discussion with the Garment Workers here in Bangalore they realized how women who have the same life style as they do, the same wages as they have, (did I ever know that Garment Workers work for around 2.5$ Dollars a day around 106.00 Rupees a day?) managed to have only 2 children because they planned their families so very carefully with very rare abortions. They also realized that 61% of Garment Workers in Bangalore were single mothers bringing up their children single handed just like in Nicaragua, some of course have help from their extended families and those who did not, managed it somehow.

A concept in India called Self Help Groups (SHG) teaches Women a great deal about Finance. This is a simple process; a group of women consisting of maybe 20 or more members pool in a sum of Rs.100/- per month for each member. They then open an account in a Bank and when required give out Micro loans at a rate of interest of 2% as compared to the high interest rates at the banks. The Nicaraguans were however appalled at the concept of Dowry, they felt women were sold as objects to the highest bidder, a mere commodity

Life for Women Garment Workers is difficult, long hours of work sometimes with no overtime, abuse from the employers, sometimes sexual abuse, hardly any leave and if you do not belong to any Union you can be asked to leave at any time. In Nicaragua they battled long and hard for Equal Wages for Men and Women, in this age of Globalisation with techies earning millions and not knowing what to do with their money did we think there are women like Teresa, Connie, Yashoda and Hema who budget so hard and have to think of every penny they spend.

That should be an eye opener for us too! In this age of inflation.

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana
Author: Umberto Eco
Translator: Geoffrey Brock

It has a been a long time since I have read “The Name of the Rose’ it is one of the most fascinating books. Since then the Catholic Church and its politics have intrigued me. So when I got ‘The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana’ I was thrilled, would it be like 'The Name of the Rose’ so beautiful, so intriguing? No it isn’t, or am I missing something. The reviews that I read mention that it is deep, a profound meditation, the fog a metaphor for Yambo’s amnesia, the review by Tamara Straus that quotes
“These novels tend to be hard to read not because of their arcane subject matter but because Eco sacrifices plot and character to semiotic digressions” describes this book and my feelings about the book as well.
However, there are certain parts that are good. I loved the memorabilia, the picture books or comic book stories that run parallel to the ongoing war. Imagine Yambo’s confusion when he found that the most American comic heroes had Italian names now! This was because after January 1939, publication of foreign comics was forbidden, the Italian race was to be glorified, and Italian heroes should belong to the most superior race. Most Italian publishers found a way round this problem. They simply renamed the heroes, they all had Italian names, even Mickey mouse was Topolino ! Imagine Yambo’s surprise when one fine day Topolino was killed off. Yambo listens to songs which urge the country’s men to die with a rose between the teeth. Yambo however is surprised, nowhere is there a mention of the African colonies lost during the war.
At the close of the WW II there seems so much confusion going on, The Italian Partisans who incidentally killed Mussolini, the Black Brigades, the Badogliani, the Garibaldini. All of them changing their allegiances as fast as they could change their scarves or shirts. There is an interesting story of how Yambo’s grandfather has his revenge when he makes a Black brigade who had earlier forced him to drink a bottle of castor oil, is now forced to drink a bottle of castor oil that has his own (the grandfather’s) faeces!! Another interesting story is how Yambo with his friends learns to climb a gorge in fog; this helps him to later guide a group of Cossacks, to join the Allies before the end of the WW II.

Was a tad disappointed with this book

Where have the spices gone....

I am fascinated by Kochi.....It has an old world charm. It speaks of Vasco da Gama landing and swooning with the aroma, redolent of spices.
It speaks of the gracious Raja who not only allowed Jews to settle in his kingdom but permitted them to build a Synagogue.
The antique shops always a pleasure for a quiet afternoon of browsing.
What intrigues me however are these majestic doors, beautiful doors leading to once prosperous warehouses laden with spices of such a variety.
What stories do these doors speak off? Surely they must be narrating tales of those glorious days when the spice trade was at its peak.
On one of my walks around, I stumbled upon an open door leading into a vast courtyard, which touched a river. The courtyard had its own wharf and I could imagine, coolies staggering under heavy sacks, crossing a plank, dumping those sacks laden with precious spices bound for distant shores.
On that day however, there was hardly any activity, the air was warm, scented with the smell of drying ginger did it have the spicy tinge of cardamom, it did.
On a wooden bench slept an old man and on the arm of a chair slept a tabby cat, what a picture of contentment a picture of peace....