By DAVID PAQUETTE
This week the barber interviews pro-democracy icon John William Yettaw.
Question: Lee Harvey Oswald. John Wilkes Booth. Mark David Chapman. John William Yettaw. Why do all nut-jobs have middle names?
Answer: Not sure. Maybe it’s a Facebook thing. This week, my cousin John Yettaw changed his Hi-5 name to John Paul Yettaw. I don’t know why. I’m just glad somebody has finally taken notice of me.
Q: Talking of Facebook, does Suu Kyi ever email you?
A: Of course she does. We have been in touch for years. She invited me to be her friend AND she invited me to join her cause. Of course she has to use a different name online, but I know it’s her.
Q: Did she invite you to swim across Inya Lake to her house for the weekend?
A: No, I just did that to surprise her. And boy, was she surprised!
Q: I hear you took some nice photos while you were at her house—one of yourself looking in the mirror and one of your flippers. Did you show them to Suu Kyi?
A: I did!
Q: What did she say?
A: She shouted at me to get the hell out of her bedroom. Then she threw one of her slippers at me. Then her maid came running into the room. Then they both started shouting at me. It was a bit of an anti-climax really.
Q: Then what happened?
A: They said they were going to call the police. Then they changed their minds, because they thought they police might arrest them instead, you know, for failing to inform the authorities that they had an overnight guest. I offered them both $100 to let me stay. I even promised to do some of the housework.
Q: So what did you do all weekend?
A: The maid and I played scrabble while Suu played the piano. It was great.
Q: Did you really?
A: No. Sorry. That was a lie. They locked me in a cupboard. But I heard her playing piano.
Q: There was a report that when police caught you they found a pair of pliers and a five-liter plastic jug. Let me guess—you used the plastic bottle as a floating device and the pliers were for cutting through the fence.
A: Not exactly. It was a jug of Chardonnay. Suu Kyi told me online that she loves a glass of white wine on a Saturday night. So I swam across the lake with the jug strapped to my back.
Q: And the pliers?
A: Dentistry.
Q: Okey-cokey. So what about the future? Where do you go from here?
A: After I get back to the States I’ve got a full agenda. I’ve been invited onto some talk shows, I’ve signed a deal to write an autobiography and I’m doing a nationwide tour as an after-dinner speaker.
Q: Any thoughts of returning to Burma?
A: Of course. I’m hoping the UN send me back as an envoy.
Q: Thanks John. Do you want me to cut your hair now?
A: Yes please. And would you mind scratching my nose? I can’t do anything in this straitjacket.
Showing posts with label The Barber’s Chair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Barber’s Chair. Show all posts
May 13, 2009
April 21, 2009
Color Conscious
By JIM ANDREWS
The barber smiled and raised his neatly trimmed eyebrows as he settled his youthful customer in the chair.
“That’s a nice shirt you’ve got on,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm.
“It’s my team’s new strip,” said the young man. “We’re putting together a side for the planned new league. I’ve come straight from training.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said the barber. “I thought that perhaps you were making a political statement.”
“Me? How?” was the perplexed reply.
“It’s a nice shade of red,” said the barber. “A provocative red, I’d say, if this were Bangkok. Perhaps if I were a Thai barber, I’d refuse to cut your hair. Or perhaps cut something else…”
“Now I’m with you,” said the customer. “We’re calling ourselves the Reds, but it’s no political statement. You want to see my underpants? They’re yellow. Hey, and I’m wearing blue socks. I’m the very picture of political compromise.”
“You’re a disgrace, that’s what,” said the barber.
“Why’s that?”
The barber stepped back and looked with mock severity at the young man. “In Thailand, they make it easy to determine political allegiance. It’s all color-coded. A brilliant idea. It could be copied here. But chaps like you are messing up the system. You’re red on the outside, yellow where it really matters—and you hop around in blue socks. How are we to tell where you belong politically?”
“But this isn’t Thailand,” the young man protested. “It’s Burma. You can’t color-code the political scene here.”
“My dear boy,” said the barber. “It’s color-coded already.”
“That’s news to me,” replied the young man. “How?”
“Let me ask you a question first,” said the barber. “What primary color is missing from the political scene in Thailand?”
His customer pondered a while, as the barber snipped nonchalantly away. “Just a minute, I’ll get there. Let’s see—red, blue, yellow. I’ve got it! Green’s the answer.”
“You’ve got it, indeed,” beamed the barber. “Green is the answer. Well done!”
But the barber’s customer was still puzzled. “So how is green an important color in the Burmese political spectrum? Where’s the Green Party? A fat chance such a movement would have, anyway, against a government that has turned the country into a waste land.”
“Now there you’re wrong,” said the barber. “Green is a very important color on the Burmese political stage.”
“Explain, please,” demanded his customer.
“What color does Than Shwe and the rest of his mob wear? What color do their troops wear? Green, dear boy, green.”
“But…” his young customer was about to interject.
“No buts about it,” said the barber firmly. “Green identifies our common enemy. It’s Than Shwe’s very own color code.”
The barber smiled and raised his neatly trimmed eyebrows as he settled his youthful customer in the chair.
“That’s a nice shirt you’ve got on,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm.
“It’s my team’s new strip,” said the young man. “We’re putting together a side for the planned new league. I’ve come straight from training.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said the barber. “I thought that perhaps you were making a political statement.”
“Me? How?” was the perplexed reply.
“It’s a nice shade of red,” said the barber. “A provocative red, I’d say, if this were Bangkok. Perhaps if I were a Thai barber, I’d refuse to cut your hair. Or perhaps cut something else…”
“Now I’m with you,” said the customer. “We’re calling ourselves the Reds, but it’s no political statement. You want to see my underpants? They’re yellow. Hey, and I’m wearing blue socks. I’m the very picture of political compromise.”
“You’re a disgrace, that’s what,” said the barber.
“Why’s that?”
The barber stepped back and looked with mock severity at the young man. “In Thailand, they make it easy to determine political allegiance. It’s all color-coded. A brilliant idea. It could be copied here. But chaps like you are messing up the system. You’re red on the outside, yellow where it really matters—and you hop around in blue socks. How are we to tell where you belong politically?”
“But this isn’t Thailand,” the young man protested. “It’s Burma. You can’t color-code the political scene here.”
“My dear boy,” said the barber. “It’s color-coded already.”
“That’s news to me,” replied the young man. “How?”
“Let me ask you a question first,” said the barber. “What primary color is missing from the political scene in Thailand?”
His customer pondered a while, as the barber snipped nonchalantly away. “Just a minute, I’ll get there. Let’s see—red, blue, yellow. I’ve got it! Green’s the answer.”
“You’ve got it, indeed,” beamed the barber. “Green is the answer. Well done!”
But the barber’s customer was still puzzled. “So how is green an important color in the Burmese political spectrum? Where’s the Green Party? A fat chance such a movement would have, anyway, against a government that has turned the country into a waste land.”
“Now there you’re wrong,” said the barber. “Green is a very important color on the Burmese political stage.”
“Explain, please,” demanded his customer.
“What color does Than Shwe and the rest of his mob wear? What color do their troops wear? Green, dear boy, green.”
“But…” his young customer was about to interject.
“No buts about it,” said the barber firmly. “Green identifies our common enemy. It’s Than Shwe’s very own color code.”
January 29, 2009
Beware of the Burmese Dream!
By SHWE YOE
“A skinhead?” said the barber with his eyebrow raised. He looked skeptically at his young customer.
"Yes, just like Obama!" replied the young man confidently, his innocent face looking back at the barber in the mirror.
The barber plugged in the shaver and began unwrapping No 4 clippers from a packet. This was the fourth time in a week that he had been asked to cut a youngster’s hair so short.
“So, you’re an Obama fan?” the barber smiled.
The boy in the barber's chair smiled back. "I'm not alone,” he said. “My grandfather is also impressed with him after watching his inauguration live on TV. We are now addicted to watching Obama on the news. Did you watch it?”
"Of course. It was a historic movement,” the barber said softly. "This was the day in Martin Luther King’s dream.”
The teenager looked puzzled. He obviously had no idea who Martin Luther King was.
The barber continued: “Many years ago, Dr King spoke about the day when a man would be judged by the content of his character and not the color of his skin. Obama's rise is the stuff of the Great American Dream."
"I would like to be like him!" the boy exclaimed.
"What?" the barber asked. "Do you want to be the president of the United States? You are not American, my boy."
"I know. I am Burmese. But if any poor American kid can grow up to be president, why can't we?" the boy asked.
"Slow down, my boy," said the barber. "The Burmese dream is much riskier than the American dream. Sometimes, young Burmese dreamers end up behind bars. Their dreams turn into nightmares.”
The young man was silent as the barber began shaving the back of his head. He looked troubled.
"I think you know about the 88 Generation Students group?” said the barber quietly. “They were handed down 65-year prison sentences. Then there was Bo Min Yu Ko. That young man was given 104 years in the can. See where his dreams took him?”
“My uncle wants to be president,” the boy muttered. “He’s planning to run in the 2010 election. He said it would be his first step toward becoming the Burmese Obama.”
“Ah!” nodded the barber. “Your uncle is indeed a dreamer too. As for me, I also have a dream. I just dream that the election takes place.”
They were both silent.
“But I wouldn’t bet on it,” the barber sighed.
The teenager watched the barber shaving his head. Now his ears were sticking out. It didn’t feel such a good idea any longer.
“So, you don’t really recommend that I follow this Obama dream, do you, sir?” he asked sullenly.
“Well," said the barber. "What I want you to know is that the reality of the Burmese dream is notoriously tough. But I do know that since Barack Obama has become president, more kids around the world will make up their minds about what they want to do with their lives and stop trying to be gangsters and thugs.
“What I suggest is that you keep the fire burning until the sun rises,” concluded the barber poetically as he whipped the white bib off the teenager’s shoulders, scattering his black locks of hair all over the floor.
The young man looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. The barber thought he looked more like a new recruit for the army than Barack Obama.
But the lad looked happy anyway. “So?” he asked the barber. “Do you think I look presidential?”
“Keep dreaming, my boy!” laughed the barber. “Keep dreaming.”
“A skinhead?” said the barber with his eyebrow raised. He looked skeptically at his young customer.
"Yes, just like Obama!" replied the young man confidently, his innocent face looking back at the barber in the mirror.
The barber plugged in the shaver and began unwrapping No 4 clippers from a packet. This was the fourth time in a week that he had been asked to cut a youngster’s hair so short.
“So, you’re an Obama fan?” the barber smiled.
The boy in the barber's chair smiled back. "I'm not alone,” he said. “My grandfather is also impressed with him after watching his inauguration live on TV. We are now addicted to watching Obama on the news. Did you watch it?”
"Of course. It was a historic movement,” the barber said softly. "This was the day in Martin Luther King’s dream.”
The teenager looked puzzled. He obviously had no idea who Martin Luther King was.
The barber continued: “Many years ago, Dr King spoke about the day when a man would be judged by the content of his character and not the color of his skin. Obama's rise is the stuff of the Great American Dream."
"I would like to be like him!" the boy exclaimed.
"What?" the barber asked. "Do you want to be the president of the United States? You are not American, my boy."
"I know. I am Burmese. But if any poor American kid can grow up to be president, why can't we?" the boy asked.
"Slow down, my boy," said the barber. "The Burmese dream is much riskier than the American dream. Sometimes, young Burmese dreamers end up behind bars. Their dreams turn into nightmares.”
The young man was silent as the barber began shaving the back of his head. He looked troubled.
"I think you know about the 88 Generation Students group?” said the barber quietly. “They were handed down 65-year prison sentences. Then there was Bo Min Yu Ko. That young man was given 104 years in the can. See where his dreams took him?”
“My uncle wants to be president,” the boy muttered. “He’s planning to run in the 2010 election. He said it would be his first step toward becoming the Burmese Obama.”
“Ah!” nodded the barber. “Your uncle is indeed a dreamer too. As for me, I also have a dream. I just dream that the election takes place.”
They were both silent.
“But I wouldn’t bet on it,” the barber sighed.
The teenager watched the barber shaving his head. Now his ears were sticking out. It didn’t feel such a good idea any longer.
“So, you don’t really recommend that I follow this Obama dream, do you, sir?” he asked sullenly.
“Well," said the barber. "What I want you to know is that the reality of the Burmese dream is notoriously tough. But I do know that since Barack Obama has become president, more kids around the world will make up their minds about what they want to do with their lives and stop trying to be gangsters and thugs.
“What I suggest is that you keep the fire burning until the sun rises,” concluded the barber poetically as he whipped the white bib off the teenager’s shoulders, scattering his black locks of hair all over the floor.
The young man looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. The barber thought he looked more like a new recruit for the army than Barack Obama.
But the lad looked happy anyway. “So?” he asked the barber. “Do you think I look presidential?”
“Keep dreaming, my boy!” laughed the barber. “Keep dreaming.”
January 19, 2009
Toward the Union of a Divided Burma
By SHWE YOE
The barber stood at the door of his shop, waiting for customers. He didn’t have to wait long—a Tibetan-looking man in a traditional ethnic shirt, carrying a shoulder bag, stopped in front of him. “Good morning, sir,” he said in a strong ethnic accent.
"Good morning," the barber replied with a warm smile. “Please, come in and sit down.”
As he set to work on the man’s hair, the barber attempted to break the ice. "Unless I’m mistaken,” he said. “You’re from up north? Maybe from Kachin State?”
“Yes, I am,” replied the man.
“Your first time to the capital … I mean … to the ex-capital?” asked the barber.
“Oh, no, no, no,” the Kachin said. “I come here regularly.”
The barber nodded and continued cutting the man’s short black hair.
“This used to be such a beautiful city,” the Kachin said after a moment. “It seems so dirty and downtrodden now.”
The barber smiled and snipped lightly behind the man’s ears.
“No electricity, no sanitation. It seems that everything is broken in Yangon nowadays,” the Kachin whispered. “Not like the towns in China—they’re clean and well-organized.”
“Well, maybe things will change after the election in 2010 when we are demo-cratic,” replied the barber, purposely mispronouncing "democratic." He looked directly at the Kachin in the mirror and raised his eyebrow.
There was a minute’s silence. The Kachin man stared back at the barber in the mirror and then sighed. “I wouldn’t bet on it, my friend,” he said. “I’ve just come from a meeting at the offices of Myanmar Economic Holdings. They were asking about the jade and comparing the collateral from the mines to the budget just to run the election.”
“I see,” the barber said, innocently. “But what about all that money we’re supposed to be making by selling natural gas? I heard that the government had banked upward of US $3 billion in gas sales alone.”
The Kachin didn’t answer. He looked at the barber in the mirror again and shrugged. The barber nodded in response.
“Would you like it any shorter?” the barber asked.
“What?” the Kachin said with surprise.
“Your hair, sir,” said the barber with a smile, holding a hand-mirror behind the man’s head.
“Oh! Yes, of course. I mean, no. No. That’s fine. Very good, in fact,” the Kachin man said. “Just a shave, if you will.”
“Certainly, sir,” the barber said and went to fetch some water.
When he returned he asked: “Excuse me, my friend. Forgive me for asking. But are you, by any chance, a member of the Kachin Independence Organization?”
“Is it so obvious?” smiled the Kachin.
The barber chuckled. “I heard that the KIO had announced it wouldn’t contest the elections next year,” the barber said. “Apparently they changed their minds.”
He turned away casually, frothing up some foam in a cup with a shaving brush.
The Kachin looked around at the door and checked no one was there. Then he turned back to the barber and said, “The problem, old boy, is the pyidaungsu hluttaw [Union Parliament], the pyithu hluttaw [People's Parliament] and the amyotha hluttaw [National Parliament]. Every cabinet will be laced with 25 percent military officers. Nothing will ever change! There is too much centralized authority.”
“Not enough space for a federal government?” asked the barber.
“Indeed!” said the Kachin firmly.
The barber waited a minute and then asked: “And what about the disarmament? I heard that all the ceasefire groups would lay down their weapons. In fact, I read in the newspaper that the DKBA would act as a border patrol. Will the KIO do the same thing?”
“Well,” the customer said. “I don’t think we’ll settle for anything as pathetic as the DKBA did. Instead, I personally like the way the Wa are going about things.
“The UWSA are now issuing documents stamped ‘Government of Wa State, Special Autonomous Region, Union of Myanmar.’ That’s a pretty sure sign they’re getting ready to establish their own authority.”
“What is the junta saying about that?” the barber whispered.
“I don’t think the generals can say too much at present,” the Kachin muttered. “They need as many ethnic groups on board as they can get. Too much loose talk about ceasefire groups following Maung Maung and his plan to form a parallel government after 2010.”
“Maybe the Karen, Mon, and Shan leaders will follow if Maung Maung promises a power-sharing deal with the ethnic opposition,” the barber suggested with an innocent shrug, laying his scissors on the table.
“My friend, that’s why we’ve changed our minds and don’t want to bet on the junta’s road map,” the Kachin whispered, sitting up and looking directly at the barber.
Just then, another customer entered the store and the two men fell silent.
“I’ll be with you in one minute,” called the barber with a smile. The customer sat down just as the Kachin stood up. He looked at the barber and smiled carefully.
He rummaged in his pocket and suddenly looked shocked. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. “I don’t have any money. How stupid!”
He leaned closer to the barber and whispered: “Myanmar Economic Holdings couldn’t afford to pay us for the jade this month. They asked us for credit. I wonder, my friend, if you could do the same. Could I pay you next month when I’m back in Rangoon?”
“Don’t worry about it,” shrugged the barber. “Save your money. Let’s call it my contribution to a federal union.”
The barber stood at the door of his shop, waiting for customers. He didn’t have to wait long—a Tibetan-looking man in a traditional ethnic shirt, carrying a shoulder bag, stopped in front of him. “Good morning, sir,” he said in a strong ethnic accent.
"Good morning," the barber replied with a warm smile. “Please, come in and sit down.”
As he set to work on the man’s hair, the barber attempted to break the ice. "Unless I’m mistaken,” he said. “You’re from up north? Maybe from Kachin State?”
“Yes, I am,” replied the man.
“Your first time to the capital … I mean … to the ex-capital?” asked the barber.
“Oh, no, no, no,” the Kachin said. “I come here regularly.”
The barber nodded and continued cutting the man’s short black hair.
“This used to be such a beautiful city,” the Kachin said after a moment. “It seems so dirty and downtrodden now.”
The barber smiled and snipped lightly behind the man’s ears.
“No electricity, no sanitation. It seems that everything is broken in Yangon nowadays,” the Kachin whispered. “Not like the towns in China—they’re clean and well-organized.”
“Well, maybe things will change after the election in 2010 when we are demo-cratic,” replied the barber, purposely mispronouncing "democratic." He looked directly at the Kachin in the mirror and raised his eyebrow.
There was a minute’s silence. The Kachin man stared back at the barber in the mirror and then sighed. “I wouldn’t bet on it, my friend,” he said. “I’ve just come from a meeting at the offices of Myanmar Economic Holdings. They were asking about the jade and comparing the collateral from the mines to the budget just to run the election.”
“I see,” the barber said, innocently. “But what about all that money we’re supposed to be making by selling natural gas? I heard that the government had banked upward of US $3 billion in gas sales alone.”
The Kachin didn’t answer. He looked at the barber in the mirror again and shrugged. The barber nodded in response.
“Would you like it any shorter?” the barber asked.
“What?” the Kachin said with surprise.
“Your hair, sir,” said the barber with a smile, holding a hand-mirror behind the man’s head.
“Oh! Yes, of course. I mean, no. No. That’s fine. Very good, in fact,” the Kachin man said. “Just a shave, if you will.”
“Certainly, sir,” the barber said and went to fetch some water.
When he returned he asked: “Excuse me, my friend. Forgive me for asking. But are you, by any chance, a member of the Kachin Independence Organization?”
“Is it so obvious?” smiled the Kachin.
The barber chuckled. “I heard that the KIO had announced it wouldn’t contest the elections next year,” the barber said. “Apparently they changed their minds.”
He turned away casually, frothing up some foam in a cup with a shaving brush.
The Kachin looked around at the door and checked no one was there. Then he turned back to the barber and said, “The problem, old boy, is the pyidaungsu hluttaw [Union Parliament], the pyithu hluttaw [People's Parliament] and the amyotha hluttaw [National Parliament]. Every cabinet will be laced with 25 percent military officers. Nothing will ever change! There is too much centralized authority.”
“Not enough space for a federal government?” asked the barber.
“Indeed!” said the Kachin firmly.
The barber waited a minute and then asked: “And what about the disarmament? I heard that all the ceasefire groups would lay down their weapons. In fact, I read in the newspaper that the DKBA would act as a border patrol. Will the KIO do the same thing?”
“Well,” the customer said. “I don’t think we’ll settle for anything as pathetic as the DKBA did. Instead, I personally like the way the Wa are going about things.
“The UWSA are now issuing documents stamped ‘Government of Wa State, Special Autonomous Region, Union of Myanmar.’ That’s a pretty sure sign they’re getting ready to establish their own authority.”
“What is the junta saying about that?” the barber whispered.
“I don’t think the generals can say too much at present,” the Kachin muttered. “They need as many ethnic groups on board as they can get. Too much loose talk about ceasefire groups following Maung Maung and his plan to form a parallel government after 2010.”
“Maybe the Karen, Mon, and Shan leaders will follow if Maung Maung promises a power-sharing deal with the ethnic opposition,” the barber suggested with an innocent shrug, laying his scissors on the table.
“My friend, that’s why we’ve changed our minds and don’t want to bet on the junta’s road map,” the Kachin whispered, sitting up and looking directly at the barber.
Just then, another customer entered the store and the two men fell silent.
“I’ll be with you in one minute,” called the barber with a smile. The customer sat down just as the Kachin stood up. He looked at the barber and smiled carefully.
He rummaged in his pocket and suddenly looked shocked. “Oh my!” he exclaimed. “I don’t have any money. How stupid!”
He leaned closer to the barber and whispered: “Myanmar Economic Holdings couldn’t afford to pay us for the jade this month. They asked us for credit. I wonder, my friend, if you could do the same. Could I pay you next month when I’m back in Rangoon?”
“Don’t worry about it,” shrugged the barber. “Save your money. Let’s call it my contribution to a federal union.”
January 8, 2009
Running in the Wrong Direction
By SHWE YOE
As the barber busied himself in his sunlit shop on a cool January morning, a customer stepped in, looked cautiously around and greeted him with a hushed "Happy New Year, sir."
The barber looked up with surprise, recognizing a familiar figure. "Hey," he said warmly. "I'm very happy to see you. I thought you were behind bars.”
The customer settled himself back in the chair and confided to the barber: "I’m on the run. I’ll have to leave Rangoon very soon, perhaps for Mae Sot very soon."
The barber nodded: "This is certainly the right time to go to Mae Sot. I wouldn’t wait too long, either.”
The man in the chair was puzzled. “And why’s that?” he asked.
The barber smiled in his usual ironic way and replied: "The border-based oppositions are planning to form a new government."
"So what’s new about that?” said his customer. “Everybody knows that. They’ve been trying to form a government-in-exile for nearly 20 years. And they’re still trying. I can’t see anything happening.”
“You’re right,” said the barber. “Whenever I hear exiled PM Sein Win of the National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma on the radio, I nearly fall asleep. His leadership—even his voice—is so boring. He is not like his cousin, Aung San Suu Kyi.
“That's why that other leading umbrella organization, the National Council of the Union of Burma, announced on New Year’s Day that it will form a parallel government as part of its action plan for 2009."
The customer broke in: "Well, there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with that idea. But some sources at border say it hasn’t got the consensus agreement of the organization.
“They don't much like the NCUB’s secretary-general, Maung Maung. They said he didn’t even inform all concerned parties before issuing the New Year statement."
The barber put in: "But Karen leaders give him their support now. Maybe Shan leaders will follow if he is a good power broker. I think Maung Maung can promise to share power with the ethnic opposition. He’s quite a workaholic and devoted to overthrowing the regime. A real James Bond of a man—the only one who could bomb and destroy Naypyidaw.”
"You’re right there,” agreed the customer. "He’s very secretive and accompanied by bodyguards. He claims Than Shwe has sent assassins to kill him and other political leaders.
“He might buy votes from some of the opposition, but he can't buy all stakeholders. In September 2007, at the height of the Saffron Revolution, Maung Maung upset many exile activists when he took credit for the monk-led uprising. I am sure he can't win the voters' hearts."
The barber finally got to the point: "That's why I told you that you shouldn't wait too long to go the border. You could be the new prime minister. Who knows?"
The customer smiled. "And join a sinking ship? I’d sooner return to my colleagues in prison."
As the barber busied himself in his sunlit shop on a cool January morning, a customer stepped in, looked cautiously around and greeted him with a hushed "Happy New Year, sir."
The barber looked up with surprise, recognizing a familiar figure. "Hey," he said warmly. "I'm very happy to see you. I thought you were behind bars.”
The customer settled himself back in the chair and confided to the barber: "I’m on the run. I’ll have to leave Rangoon very soon, perhaps for Mae Sot very soon."
The barber nodded: "This is certainly the right time to go to Mae Sot. I wouldn’t wait too long, either.”
The man in the chair was puzzled. “And why’s that?” he asked.
The barber smiled in his usual ironic way and replied: "The border-based oppositions are planning to form a new government."
"So what’s new about that?” said his customer. “Everybody knows that. They’ve been trying to form a government-in-exile for nearly 20 years. And they’re still trying. I can’t see anything happening.”
“You’re right,” said the barber. “Whenever I hear exiled PM Sein Win of the National Coalition Government of the Union of Burma on the radio, I nearly fall asleep. His leadership—even his voice—is so boring. He is not like his cousin, Aung San Suu Kyi.
“That's why that other leading umbrella organization, the National Council of the Union of Burma, announced on New Year’s Day that it will form a parallel government as part of its action plan for 2009."
The customer broke in: "Well, there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with that idea. But some sources at border say it hasn’t got the consensus agreement of the organization.
“They don't much like the NCUB’s secretary-general, Maung Maung. They said he didn’t even inform all concerned parties before issuing the New Year statement."
The barber put in: "But Karen leaders give him their support now. Maybe Shan leaders will follow if he is a good power broker. I think Maung Maung can promise to share power with the ethnic opposition. He’s quite a workaholic and devoted to overthrowing the regime. A real James Bond of a man—the only one who could bomb and destroy Naypyidaw.”
"You’re right there,” agreed the customer. "He’s very secretive and accompanied by bodyguards. He claims Than Shwe has sent assassins to kill him and other political leaders.
“He might buy votes from some of the opposition, but he can't buy all stakeholders. In September 2007, at the height of the Saffron Revolution, Maung Maung upset many exile activists when he took credit for the monk-led uprising. I am sure he can't win the voters' hearts."
The barber finally got to the point: "That's why I told you that you shouldn't wait too long to go the border. You could be the new prime minister. Who knows?"
The customer smiled. "And join a sinking ship? I’d sooner return to my colleagues in prison."
December 19, 2008
Shoes, Paper, Scissors
By SHWE YOE
The barber stood at his door reading the newspaper, waiting for customers. He liked December. It was cool and the skies were a clear blue. It was the only month he enjoyed standing in the sunlight. He closed his eyes and imagined he was on a tropical beach.
He was suddenly shaken from his reverie by a heavy cough close by. He opened his eyes to find a very dashing gentleman of about 50 in front of him.
“Excuse me,” the man enounced. “Do you perchance have a moment to give a good man a haircut?”
The barber stared at the man for a moment. He was dressed in a smart grey Western business suit with a tight waistcoat around his prominent belly and a white handkerchief popping out from his jacket pocket.
“Perchance I do,” the barber replied theatrically, opening the door for the gentleman.
The gentleman sat down and the barber fussed around him, tying a bib around his neck and adjusting the seat.
"My word!” exclaimed the barber. “What beautiful shoes those are.”
"Thank you,’ replied the gentleman, obviously pleased. “I bought them in Italy while I was attending a seminar.”
“Indeed?” said the barber, snipping away at the man’s balding crown. “And might I ask what kind of seminar you were attending in Europe?”
"Of course," the man replied with a big grin. "I am an official with a government think tank. I was in Rome representing Myanmar, meeting with potential investors and foreign donors who want to help Nargis survivors.”
The barber stopped cutting and stepped back, examining the gentleman in the mirror. “Well, I never!” he exclaimed.
“Oh yes,” the gentleman whispered in mock modesty. “My reports go straight to the top brass in Naypyidaw.”
The barber stood back and sharpened his scissors against the sandpaper belt hanging from the wall. For a moment there was silence in the shop.
“A think tank?” the barber said, scratching his head as if totally perplexed. “My word, what on earth is a think tank? Is it like a fish tank? Do the generals actually put all you guys in a giant goldfish bowl and tell you to think about things?”
“No, of course not,” the gentleman scoffed, his face turning serious.
The barber continued cutting the gentleman’s hair and said nothing.
“Yes, that’s right!” exclaimed the gentleman, sensing he had put the barber firmly in his place. “I was instrumental in drafting the constitution and I also advised the government on the recent Asean charter. What do you think of that?”
The barber remained silent.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue, old man?” laughed the gentleman. “Or did you not expect to be serving one of the country’s most powerful men today? With my signature, deals are made on aid, democracy and human rights!”
“Sounds like you are a great believer in pieces of paper,” muttered the barber quietly.
“Excuse me?” the gentleman shouted, leaning closer to the barber. “Did you say something?”
“I just asked if you would like me to polish your shoes now,” replied the barber meekly, his eyes downcast.
The gentleman sat back with a satisfied grin. “Indeed I do,” he said.
“”Please just hand your shoes to me, so I can clean them under the sink.”
The gentleman untied his laces and removed his fine leather shoes. He handed them to the barber. “Let’s have them nice and shiny, old boy,” he stated.
“Might I say, sir,” the barber said timidly. “You are so dignified. You look just like a president or a world leader.”
“Really?” the gentleman said, puffing his chest.
“Yes, sir. Yes,” said the barber. “If you could just stand there beside the door for a second …”
The gentleman moved alongside the door as if posing for a photo.
Suddenly, one of his shoes flew across the room and slapped him squarely on the chest. He gasped and looked up in disbelief at the barber who was now standing in front of him holding the other shoe above his head, ready to throw it too.
“Perchance I do not, old boy!” shouted the barber. “But I do know a pretentious hypocrite when I see one! And you know what we do with pretentious hypocrites these days? We ‘shoe’ them, just like your good friend, President Bush!”
And with that, he threw the other shoe, striking the bewildered gentleman on the side of his head.
“Get out!” shouted the barber. “Get out of my shop, you parasite!”
Holding his eye with one hand, the gentleman quickly gathered his shoes from the floor. He fumbled with them and stumbled as he scurried out the door.
The barber followed him out with a large frown on his face.
“Who was that?” asked Ko Paing, who was just passing when he saw the gentleman stumbling out the barber’s shop and running away.
“Just another greedy bureaucrat,” replied the barber.
“Look!” said Ko Paing bending down. “He ran off without one of his shoes!”
The barber smirked. “Just like Cinderella.”
“I heard that some Saudi man offered to pay $10 million for the shoes that the Iraqi journalist threw at Bush,” said Ko Paing.
“Really?” said the barber, taking the shoe in his hand with a smile.
“Yes,” continued young Ko Paing. “He told the press he considered the shoes to be ‘Medals of Freedom.’”
“Really?” beamed the barber. “Well, in that case, maybe I’ll hang this one over my mantelpiece. After all, I’ll never get a medal for diplomacy!”
The barber stood at his door reading the newspaper, waiting for customers. He liked December. It was cool and the skies were a clear blue. It was the only month he enjoyed standing in the sunlight. He closed his eyes and imagined he was on a tropical beach.
He was suddenly shaken from his reverie by a heavy cough close by. He opened his eyes to find a very dashing gentleman of about 50 in front of him.
“Excuse me,” the man enounced. “Do you perchance have a moment to give a good man a haircut?”
The barber stared at the man for a moment. He was dressed in a smart grey Western business suit with a tight waistcoat around his prominent belly and a white handkerchief popping out from his jacket pocket.
“Perchance I do,” the barber replied theatrically, opening the door for the gentleman.
The gentleman sat down and the barber fussed around him, tying a bib around his neck and adjusting the seat.
"My word!” exclaimed the barber. “What beautiful shoes those are.”
"Thank you,’ replied the gentleman, obviously pleased. “I bought them in Italy while I was attending a seminar.”
“Indeed?” said the barber, snipping away at the man’s balding crown. “And might I ask what kind of seminar you were attending in Europe?”
"Of course," the man replied with a big grin. "I am an official with a government think tank. I was in Rome representing Myanmar, meeting with potential investors and foreign donors who want to help Nargis survivors.”
The barber stopped cutting and stepped back, examining the gentleman in the mirror. “Well, I never!” he exclaimed.
“Oh yes,” the gentleman whispered in mock modesty. “My reports go straight to the top brass in Naypyidaw.”
The barber stood back and sharpened his scissors against the sandpaper belt hanging from the wall. For a moment there was silence in the shop.
“A think tank?” the barber said, scratching his head as if totally perplexed. “My word, what on earth is a think tank? Is it like a fish tank? Do the generals actually put all you guys in a giant goldfish bowl and tell you to think about things?”
“No, of course not,” the gentleman scoffed, his face turning serious.
The barber continued cutting the gentleman’s hair and said nothing.
“Yes, that’s right!” exclaimed the gentleman, sensing he had put the barber firmly in his place. “I was instrumental in drafting the constitution and I also advised the government on the recent Asean charter. What do you think of that?”
The barber remained silent.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue, old man?” laughed the gentleman. “Or did you not expect to be serving one of the country’s most powerful men today? With my signature, deals are made on aid, democracy and human rights!”
“Sounds like you are a great believer in pieces of paper,” muttered the barber quietly.
“Excuse me?” the gentleman shouted, leaning closer to the barber. “Did you say something?”
“I just asked if you would like me to polish your shoes now,” replied the barber meekly, his eyes downcast.
The gentleman sat back with a satisfied grin. “Indeed I do,” he said.
“”Please just hand your shoes to me, so I can clean them under the sink.”
The gentleman untied his laces and removed his fine leather shoes. He handed them to the barber. “Let’s have them nice and shiny, old boy,” he stated.
“Might I say, sir,” the barber said timidly. “You are so dignified. You look just like a president or a world leader.”
“Really?” the gentleman said, puffing his chest.
“Yes, sir. Yes,” said the barber. “If you could just stand there beside the door for a second …”
The gentleman moved alongside the door as if posing for a photo.
Suddenly, one of his shoes flew across the room and slapped him squarely on the chest. He gasped and looked up in disbelief at the barber who was now standing in front of him holding the other shoe above his head, ready to throw it too.
“Perchance I do not, old boy!” shouted the barber. “But I do know a pretentious hypocrite when I see one! And you know what we do with pretentious hypocrites these days? We ‘shoe’ them, just like your good friend, President Bush!”
And with that, he threw the other shoe, striking the bewildered gentleman on the side of his head.
“Get out!” shouted the barber. “Get out of my shop, you parasite!”
Holding his eye with one hand, the gentleman quickly gathered his shoes from the floor. He fumbled with them and stumbled as he scurried out the door.
The barber followed him out with a large frown on his face.
“Who was that?” asked Ko Paing, who was just passing when he saw the gentleman stumbling out the barber’s shop and running away.
“Just another greedy bureaucrat,” replied the barber.
“Look!” said Ko Paing bending down. “He ran off without one of his shoes!”
The barber smirked. “Just like Cinderella.”
“I heard that some Saudi man offered to pay $10 million for the shoes that the Iraqi journalist threw at Bush,” said Ko Paing.
“Really?” said the barber, taking the shoe in his hand with a smile.
“Yes,” continued young Ko Paing. “He told the press he considered the shoes to be ‘Medals of Freedom.’”
“Really?” beamed the barber. “Well, in that case, maybe I’ll hang this one over my mantelpiece. After all, I’ll never get a medal for diplomacy!”
November 26, 2008
Diplomatic Terms
By SHWE YOE
The barber is sitting patiently, waiting for customers on a rainy day. The little bells on the door chimed as U Ba walks in. He is tall and dignified with a snobbish air and a carefully cultivated moustache.
The barber shudders when he sees him. U Ba is such an arrogant bore. The barber has long noticed that U Ba talks down to anyone below him on the social ladder, but kowtows pathetically in front of higher officials.
He was formerly a diplomat in an Eastern European country and liked to think of himself as worldly and wise.
Resigned to having to spend 30 long minutes with U Ba, the barber picked up his scissors and ushered him into a chair without a word. He tied a bib tightly around the old diplomat’s neck and immediately began cutting his hair without a word.
U Ba stared back at him in the mirror with contempt in his eyes.
Then he smiled devilishly.
“I suppose you read my article in New Light of Myanmar last week?” U Ba asked.
“Yes!” the barber replied. “An excellent piece.”
His voice was raised high in a sarcastic feign of interest.
The ex-diplomat ignored the tone of voice and thundered out the headline from his column: “The Myth of Suu Kyi!”
No reply from the barber as he snip-snipped at the older man’s head.
U Ba carried on regardless: “I’m afraid I have resigned from my job as a regular columnist at New Light,” he said. “I’m getting on, you know. I guess I’ll just be a consultant from now on,” he rattled on.
“A highly paid consultant, of course,” he added with a smirk.
“So, we will no longer have the pleasure of reading your groveling government rhetoric in the newspaper,” the barber responded. “Oh dear! That IS a shock.”
U Ba ignored him with a sniff. “Yes, consultant I am now. Consultant. I offer advice on business for foreign investors, sign MoUs for our partners in the NGOs, that kind of thing,” he snorted.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the barber. “MoUs for the NGOs of the SPDC? Why, you must be a VIP,” teased the barber.
U Ba didn’t pick up on the joke. He thought the barber had realized at last what a big shot he was.
“I’m getting paid in US dollars, of course,” he continued. “Helping to revive the Myanmar economy. At least, I’m doing my best,” he said with a humble shrug of the shoulders.
“You truly are the backbone of this country,” chuckled the barber. “What would we Burmese do without you?” he exclaimed as he whipped the bib from U Ba’s neck.
U Ba stared at the barber for a moment, not knowing if he were serious.
“Yes, quite,” he said.
That night at home the old diplomat’s wife noticed the bald line running through her husband’s head. It was as if the barber had shaved a road from the back of his neck to his crown. His wife couldn’t resist a laugh, but U Ba did not see the funny side at all.
The next morning he returned to the barber shop to give the barber a piece of his mind.
When he got there the shop was closed. In the window was a sign: “Why is it the spineless ones who think they are the backbone of our country???”
The barber is sitting patiently, waiting for customers on a rainy day. The little bells on the door chimed as U Ba walks in. He is tall and dignified with a snobbish air and a carefully cultivated moustache.
The barber shudders when he sees him. U Ba is such an arrogant bore. The barber has long noticed that U Ba talks down to anyone below him on the social ladder, but kowtows pathetically in front of higher officials.
He was formerly a diplomat in an Eastern European country and liked to think of himself as worldly and wise.
Resigned to having to spend 30 long minutes with U Ba, the barber picked up his scissors and ushered him into a chair without a word. He tied a bib tightly around the old diplomat’s neck and immediately began cutting his hair without a word.
U Ba stared back at him in the mirror with contempt in his eyes.
Then he smiled devilishly.
“I suppose you read my article in New Light of Myanmar last week?” U Ba asked.
“Yes!” the barber replied. “An excellent piece.”
His voice was raised high in a sarcastic feign of interest.
The ex-diplomat ignored the tone of voice and thundered out the headline from his column: “The Myth of Suu Kyi!”
No reply from the barber as he snip-snipped at the older man’s head.
U Ba carried on regardless: “I’m afraid I have resigned from my job as a regular columnist at New Light,” he said. “I’m getting on, you know. I guess I’ll just be a consultant from now on,” he rattled on.
“A highly paid consultant, of course,” he added with a smirk.
“So, we will no longer have the pleasure of reading your groveling government rhetoric in the newspaper,” the barber responded. “Oh dear! That IS a shock.”
U Ba ignored him with a sniff. “Yes, consultant I am now. Consultant. I offer advice on business for foreign investors, sign MoUs for our partners in the NGOs, that kind of thing,” he snorted.
“Indeed!” exclaimed the barber. “MoUs for the NGOs of the SPDC? Why, you must be a VIP,” teased the barber.
U Ba didn’t pick up on the joke. He thought the barber had realized at last what a big shot he was.
“I’m getting paid in US dollars, of course,” he continued. “Helping to revive the Myanmar economy. At least, I’m doing my best,” he said with a humble shrug of the shoulders.
“You truly are the backbone of this country,” chuckled the barber. “What would we Burmese do without you?” he exclaimed as he whipped the bib from U Ba’s neck.
U Ba stared at the barber for a moment, not knowing if he were serious.
“Yes, quite,” he said.
That night at home the old diplomat’s wife noticed the bald line running through her husband’s head. It was as if the barber had shaved a road from the back of his neck to his crown. His wife couldn’t resist a laugh, but U Ba did not see the funny side at all.
The next morning he returned to the barber shop to give the barber a piece of his mind.
When he got there the shop was closed. In the window was a sign: “Why is it the spineless ones who think they are the backbone of our country???”
October 6, 2008
Helping Hands
By SHWE YOE
The barber has a foreign customer today, a European member of an international nongovernmental agency working in Rangoon. Johnny is his name, and he falls into conversation with another, local customer, Htun Htun.
Htun Htun recently returned from the US to join in the relief effort for survivors of Cyclone Nargis, so the two have much in common.
“I’ve just returned from the Irrawaddy delta, where I saw a German NGO delivering food to villages without getting the approval of the authorities,” he said. “They claimed their relief effort was a big success.”
“The delta has been flooded with NGOs and foreign aid workers, all with their own agendas,” said Johnny. “I find it quite scary—it’s no wonder the generals are so concerned.”
The barber joined the conversation, drawing the attention of his two customers to a report on remarks by Burma’s home affairs minister. “He doesn’t trust any of you,” he smiled. “You’re all CIA lackeys and puppets of the US. He knows everything you were up to in the delta.”
“We Europeans, as well?” said Johnny. “Even we don’t trust America. We have more faith in Than Shwe than in the Americans.”
The barber warmed to the subject and stepped in, with his usual note of irony: “Sure, they’re aware that you were working for exile-based groups before and that you’ve moved here because funds are drying up abroad and are flowing in here. You’re just moving where the grass is greener.”
Htun Htun protested: “I came back from exile to help my people and I see foreigners who claim they also want to help the Burmese.
“There’s certainly space for us. If we can expand this space and work from within maybe we will be able to push for change.”
Johnny nodded his agreement. “Yes, that’s the reason I moved in here as a consultant— to access the situation in the delta and elsewhere. People are dying and hungry and we are going to help them. We have to work on poverty alleviation, to tackle HIV/Aids, TB and malaria. The whole nation is in need.”
Barber smiled at them. “You guys are funny. The Burmese don’t expect a lot from their government because they know it is hopeless to expect anything at all from Than Shwe. And the people in the delta aren’t expecting anything, either, from donors and INGOs, whom they don’t even know exist outside. Yet I found NGOs and UN agencies begging for money. You all seem to be looking to make money from crisis and related projects.”
“But do you think Than Shwe doesn’t know you are here?” intervened the barber. “He has been watching you all along.”
The exchange was interrupted by the entry of another foreigner, an American by his appearance and accent. He sat and listened as the barber and his two other customers resumed their conversation, and when the talk turned to projects and proposals he broke in: “I sent a proposal of my own to Washington and it’s just been approved.”
“And what’s the proposal?” asked the barber, as Johnny and Htun Htun looked on.
The muscular American replied: “To assassinate Than Shwe. It will cost one million dollars but the money’s on its way.”
Johnny and Htun Htun looked alarmed and made for the door.
“Hey, wait a minute, don’t forget to pay, my friends,” said the barber.
“How much?” Johnny asked.
“Ten dollars each,” the barber answered.
The duo looked shocked. “Dollars?” protested Johnny.
“You’re both on a dollar economy,” said the barber. “I live in Burma, on the local economy. I’m poor and need your healing hands.”
“God bless you,” added the American, and with that the conversation was over.
The barber has a foreign customer today, a European member of an international nongovernmental agency working in Rangoon. Johnny is his name, and he falls into conversation with another, local customer, Htun Htun.
Htun Htun recently returned from the US to join in the relief effort for survivors of Cyclone Nargis, so the two have much in common.
“I’ve just returned from the Irrawaddy delta, where I saw a German NGO delivering food to villages without getting the approval of the authorities,” he said. “They claimed their relief effort was a big success.”
“The delta has been flooded with NGOs and foreign aid workers, all with their own agendas,” said Johnny. “I find it quite scary—it’s no wonder the generals are so concerned.”
The barber joined the conversation, drawing the attention of his two customers to a report on remarks by Burma’s home affairs minister. “He doesn’t trust any of you,” he smiled. “You’re all CIA lackeys and puppets of the US. He knows everything you were up to in the delta.”
“We Europeans, as well?” said Johnny. “Even we don’t trust America. We have more faith in Than Shwe than in the Americans.”
The barber warmed to the subject and stepped in, with his usual note of irony: “Sure, they’re aware that you were working for exile-based groups before and that you’ve moved here because funds are drying up abroad and are flowing in here. You’re just moving where the grass is greener.”
Htun Htun protested: “I came back from exile to help my people and I see foreigners who claim they also want to help the Burmese.
“There’s certainly space for us. If we can expand this space and work from within maybe we will be able to push for change.”
Johnny nodded his agreement. “Yes, that’s the reason I moved in here as a consultant— to access the situation in the delta and elsewhere. People are dying and hungry and we are going to help them. We have to work on poverty alleviation, to tackle HIV/Aids, TB and malaria. The whole nation is in need.”
Barber smiled at them. “You guys are funny. The Burmese don’t expect a lot from their government because they know it is hopeless to expect anything at all from Than Shwe. And the people in the delta aren’t expecting anything, either, from donors and INGOs, whom they don’t even know exist outside. Yet I found NGOs and UN agencies begging for money. You all seem to be looking to make money from crisis and related projects.”
“But do you think Than Shwe doesn’t know you are here?” intervened the barber. “He has been watching you all along.”
The exchange was interrupted by the entry of another foreigner, an American by his appearance and accent. He sat and listened as the barber and his two other customers resumed their conversation, and when the talk turned to projects and proposals he broke in: “I sent a proposal of my own to Washington and it’s just been approved.”
“And what’s the proposal?” asked the barber, as Johnny and Htun Htun looked on.
The muscular American replied: “To assassinate Than Shwe. It will cost one million dollars but the money’s on its way.”
Johnny and Htun Htun looked alarmed and made for the door.
“Hey, wait a minute, don’t forget to pay, my friends,” said the barber.
“How much?” Johnny asked.
“Ten dollars each,” the barber answered.
The duo looked shocked. “Dollars?” protested Johnny.
“You’re both on a dollar economy,” said the barber. “I live in Burma, on the local economy. I’m poor and need your healing hands.”
“God bless you,” added the American, and with that the conversation was over.
September 18, 2008
A Conflict of Interest
By U SHWE YOE
The barber has a new customer—a rather talkative and argumentative old man. He complains loudly about everything as the barber cuts his hair. U Toke Kyi sits on the bench, half-reading his newspaper and half-listening to the old man ranting.
When he had finally stopped moaning about UN envoy Gambari and his work for dictators in Nigeria, U Toke Kyi decided to throw a spanner into the works.
“So, who do you want to be the next president of the US?” he asked.
The barber quickly interrupted: “I support Obama. I think the world needs a break from US foreign policy.”
The old man was silent for a moment. When he realized that the other men were waiting for him he sighed: “I will support John McCain. I believe he’ll drop bombs on Naypyidaw!”
The barber laughed: “That’ll be the day. Do you really think the Republicans are going to get involved with Burma? Nothing happened during the Bush years. Just a lot of talk and promises.”
“I think Obama will do a good job,” nodded U Toke Kyi.
The old man mumbled: “Maybe democracy isn’t such a great thing.”
“What!?” exclaimed U Toke Kyi, astonished.
“Well, look at Thailand,” gestured the old man. “Democracy doesn’t work in Thailand. Why should it work here?”
U Toke Kyi rustled his newspaper as he turned the pages. “I wish those anti-government supporters in Bangkok would go to Washington. Help overthrow the Bush regime.”
“Perhaps take over the White House and refuse to leave,” smiled the barber.
“I heard that the Democrats want to put Bush and Cheney on trial for war crimes and conflicts of interest,” U Toke Kyi said.
“What conflicts of interest?” asked the old man. “Haliburton? Oil pipelines? War profiteering?”
“No. Those aren’t serious conflicts of interest anyway,” U Toke Kyi said, grinning. “Certainly not as serious as appearing on a cookery show on TV.”
The barber has a new customer—a rather talkative and argumentative old man. He complains loudly about everything as the barber cuts his hair. U Toke Kyi sits on the bench, half-reading his newspaper and half-listening to the old man ranting.
When he had finally stopped moaning about UN envoy Gambari and his work for dictators in Nigeria, U Toke Kyi decided to throw a spanner into the works.
“So, who do you want to be the next president of the US?” he asked.
The barber quickly interrupted: “I support Obama. I think the world needs a break from US foreign policy.”
The old man was silent for a moment. When he realized that the other men were waiting for him he sighed: “I will support John McCain. I believe he’ll drop bombs on Naypyidaw!”
The barber laughed: “That’ll be the day. Do you really think the Republicans are going to get involved with Burma? Nothing happened during the Bush years. Just a lot of talk and promises.”
“I think Obama will do a good job,” nodded U Toke Kyi.
The old man mumbled: “Maybe democracy isn’t such a great thing.”
“What!?” exclaimed U Toke Kyi, astonished.
“Well, look at Thailand,” gestured the old man. “Democracy doesn’t work in Thailand. Why should it work here?”
U Toke Kyi rustled his newspaper as he turned the pages. “I wish those anti-government supporters in Bangkok would go to Washington. Help overthrow the Bush regime.”
“Perhaps take over the White House and refuse to leave,” smiled the barber.
“I heard that the Democrats want to put Bush and Cheney on trial for war crimes and conflicts of interest,” U Toke Kyi said.
“What conflicts of interest?” asked the old man. “Haliburton? Oil pipelines? War profiteering?”
“No. Those aren’t serious conflicts of interest anyway,” U Toke Kyi said, grinning. “Certainly not as serious as appearing on a cookery show on TV.”
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