I remember the monastery in particular. The abbot was seated on a mat on the floor, with his legs folded in the customary way. As he spoke in a lilting voice that I didn't understand, I busied myself with my sketchbook and pencil, trying to capture each line on his face and the feeling of frailty and power that emanated from him. The young monks were clustered around us, their leather slippers scattered two by two outside the door. The slippers were so worn with steps that probably could be counted in years; the grooves of time had left deep imprints of the ball and heel of each foot.
The police had questioned the mother of a home that housed us, simply because we were foreign. One of our companions was interrogated as he left the country, simply because he was Burmese.
Internet access was unheard of in those days and one could only check one's email at the swanky hotels for a lot of American dollars; things improved in the last few years up until Sunday, when the military cut off the country's internet access.
Flash forward: 2007. After over a year of preparation, we finally organised a meeting on human rights last week in Cambodia. I had put a lot of myself into this meeting. It was, bar none, the most difficult project I've handled to date. I think it was because of the subject matter itself: freedom of expression. The freedom to think, say, paint, sing, write what one wants; and the freedom of accessing information particularly from the government--this is a fundamental right protected by international law; from which other freedoms emanate. The freedom to assemble and protest, the freedom of people to demand for the basic minimum standards that all human beings should enjoy.
And a thousand miles away, as we spoke and emailed and surfed the web and ate our hotel kitchen food, monks, nuns, students, activists, journalists, street vendors, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters were being shot at, clubbed and beaten into submission. As I write, they are probably being interrogated, tortured. Monks have reportedly been disrobed and hundreds detained. The monasteries are empty. Midnight raids of homes and abductions continue. Fear is the rhythm that beats in the hearts of the people; a threat hangs over Burma as the darkness of night spreads.
Throughout history we've seen this kind of injustice play out over and over with different faces, in different places, different times. Eternity spans and is indifferent.
Drawn in pencil on the back of a random envelope, December 2001.
He wrapped his maroon cloak around his body like a mantle from a higher power. Nearly six years later, his image presses itself to my mind's eye. I don't believe in prayer. But last week, I joined a few others in a Buddhist temple at Angkor Wat to pray for Burma and to be blessed by the water of belief... if just for the tenuous hope that my thoughts for him and his people reach the indefinable ether of collective human consciousness. For whatever that's worth.
