A shabby man wanders, scavenging for whatever he can find from a pile of rubbish. Still, he shares leftover food with a stray cat, caressing the creature with a warm smile, the only positive expression on his nondescript face, in a capital city that betrays no sign of any human existence.
For several decades, cracked ground in Isan or the Northeast of the country captured the public's imagination. In the 1970s, readers submitted their poems to Satri Sarn, the country's first women's magazine, recounting tales of drought, crop failure and hardship. Some were forced to eat leaves and grasshoppers, not rice, while others who fled their villages in search of jobs in Bangkok were duped or exploited by agents.
Under authoritarian rule, truths are silenced, censored and mutilated. Yet, many people find ways to tell their stories. It is an irony, though, that a repressive regime is a precondition of creative resistance.
The van took such a steep, winding road that I felt nauseous and closed my eyes from the lush view of the Phu Hin Rong Kla National Park out the window. After an indefinite period of time, I breathed a sigh of relief upon arrival at a village. I did not expect that my first trip to Phitsanulok would take me to such new heights.