Luk Thung - The Isaan Record

Luk Thung – The sound of political protest
and Isaan’s cultural revival
Book author James Mitchell talks about Thailand’s most popular music.
In an excellent new book, James Mitchell traces the evolution of the Thai music genre luk thung
(literally, “child of the fields”) from its working class origins to becoming Thailand’s most popular
music. The Isaan Record talked to the author about how luk thung energized the revival of Lao-Isaan
identity and culture in Thailand from the 1990s on, and how it came to play a vital role in the protest
music of the country’s color-coded political conflict.
IR: How did you come to write a book about luk thung?
JM: The book is based on my Ph.D. thesis, but it is very much different. Before it was published by
Silkworm, it was rejected by major ethnomusicology series because it was too multi-disciplinary for
them. It mixes politics, it mixes history and there is only one chapter on music ethnology and
perhaps that was not “heavy” enough for them.
In the making of the book, I collaborated with Peter Doolan, who runs the Thai music blog Mon Rak
Pleng Thai and Peter Garrity, who is a passionate luk thung fan. This book would have never come
about without them. Nick Nostitz contributed a couple of photos and more to the original article on
the use of music by the Red Shirts and Yellow Shirts.
James Mitchell with Phongsri Woranut, a female luk thung superstar of the 1960s and
’70s. Phongsri became known for her involvement in the genre of phleng kae (“dueling
songs”).
IR: Is luk thung known outside of Thailand and is it considered an area of academic
interest?
JM: Luk thung is an area that has not really become mainstream in the academic world and
hopefully this book will change this a bit. It is becoming a far more well-known music genre and
there are many more international luk thung fans than before. Through my website Thai Music
Inventory, I’ve been contacted by people in Germany, Australia, USA and elsewhere who are fans of
Thai music rather than academics.
IR: How did you become interested in luk thung and was it easy to gain access to the
scene?
JM: It really was because of my wife, who I met in 2002 in Khon Kaen. After we got married and
moved here, I started working at Faculty of Fine and Applied Arts at Khon Kaen University. The
Dean of the Faculty, Chaloemsak Phikunsri, got me started with luk thung. He gave me some old
books and articles on the topic, such as Anek Nawikamun’s “Phleng Nok Sathawat“ (“Songs Outside
the Century”).
At first, it was frustrating to get people to talk to me. I tried to go everywhere in Bangkok to make
connections. I tried to ask major music companies for introductions to singers but no one was
interested. It is about maintaining control over their artists and their music. They seem to not want
to give anything away if they don’t see an upside to it. And for academic work, they don’t see any
upside to it.
But when I communicated this to my friend, Ajan Jenwit Phikap at Khon Kaen University, he
immediately said , “Oh, I know a really famous luk thung artist.” He took me to meet Soraphet
Phinyo right away. Soraphet became the main case study of my book and that’s how it all started.
The luk thung mo lam duo Job and Joy holding garlands known as phuang malai given to
them by their fans at concerts. Singers have to be ready to accept the garlands at any time
and are expected to hold them for as long as possible. This is an important aspect of starfan interaction in luk thung, writes James Mitchell in his book. Photo credit: Peter Garrity
IR: In the book, you highlight the interaction between luk thung singers and fans as a
reflection of Thai society.
JM: Apart from the concerts sponsored by TV and radio stations, luk thung artists also perform at
funerals, weddings, and ordination ceremonies. At concerts, all the big luk thung fans are up front,
and are mostly known by name to the singers. In one amazing picture that didn’t make it into the
book, two famous singers hand Peter Garrity a birthday cake. They bought it themselves and
presented it to him at their concert. You’d think it should be the other way around. These reciprocal
relationships are not specific to luk thung, but you certainly do not see the same kind of
relationships in Thai pop, in which artists are much more standoffish.
IR: You argue that luk thung became a main driver for the revival of Isaan culture in
Thailand. Can you explain what that means?
JM: Yes, and I say revival only because I am thinking back to when Isaan culture was quite strong
but successive Thai governments, and that goes back to the 19th century, have put their stamp down
on Isaan culture – like discouraging the use of Isaan language in both spoken and written form.
The oral nature of Isaan culture contributed to not only the success of the luk thung music industry,
but the entire entertainment industry. Isaan performers now really are everywhere, like all the
comedians from the Northeast who often started performing on luk thung stages. Luk thung created
this space for Isaan people to move into jobs in the entertainment industry.
The cover of the record “Phu Yai Lee” by Saksri Sri-akson (1961), a
song that was of unparalleled popularity in Thai music. The song is
inspired by a 1959 mo lam performance in Ubon Ratchathani about an
archetypical local Isaan official, who was not used to central Thai
language and was easily confused by government edicts.
IR: Around what time did the Isaan cultural influence on luk thung become noticeable?
JM: This began as early as the 1950s with Benjamin and Saksri Sri-akson. Saksri was a big star in
nightclubs with her song “Phu Yai Lee,” which was a phenomenon. In the 1950s and ’60s these
artists were not playing so much on the Isaan identity yet, but from the early 1970s on the whole
genre of luk thung isaan, or luk thung mo lam, began to develop. Around 1981-2 this really took off
big time.
This development might have been linked to the large of numbers of Isaan people who migrated to
central Thailand looking for work. It reached a certain point where the Isaan audience became the
most important audience in Bangkok and of course also for the bands touring throughout the
countryside. It might also be related to the many Isaan migrants going to work overseas and then
starting to come back, which meant that their social upward mobility and their economic standing
improved. They started to have more money to spend on records and concerts and that began in the
early 1980s.
IR: Luk thung used to be the music of the working class, how did it move into the
mainstream of Thai music?
JM: The real shift of luk thung becoming big business and rising in status took place after 1976. It
was especially fueled by the rise of Phumphuang Duangjan, the big star of the 1980s.
Oddly enough, as I write in my book, Soraphet Phinyo’s singing partner Nong Nut Duangchiwan was
actually a bigger star than Phumphuang for two or three years in the early 1980s. But by 1984
Phumphuang became the dominant luk thung star until her death in 1992. She added dancing to her
stage acts and her voice was just very powerful and sexy – before that most female luk thung singers
were more sweet and nice. She was also really the first person to combine luk thung with Thai pop.
The cover of Chaophya Magazine (November 1982) showing singer
and songwriter Soraphet Phinyo and luk thung star Nong Nut
Duangchiwan. The title of this issue, “num na khao – sao na kluea,”
refers to Soraphet and Nong Nut’s hit duet “Rice Farming Boy, Salt
Farming Girl.”
In 1989 and 1991 the royal patronage over luk thung began with “50 Years of luk thung”
celebrations and Princess Maha Chakri Sirindhorn became involved with it. She actually wrote the
lyrics to the song “Som Tam,” the big Phumphuang hit, which explains how to make som tam.
IR: You write that the usual portrayal of luk thung as an apolitical genre is a
misperception, why is that?
JM: Craig A. Lockert wrote a very good book, Dance of Life: Popular Music and Politics in Southeast
Asia, which looks at political use of music throughout the region. He concluded that luk thung could
not be used for political purposes because of the extravagant lifestyles of the artists and all the
commercial trappings of modern luk thung – like all the dancers, the wonderful costumes, the
commercialized lyrics. But when I saw luk thung artists perform at Red shirt protests, it became
clear to me that the concert really was part of the protest.
IR: Does that mean that luk thung became politicized through the Red Shirt protests?
JM: No, it was not the first time for luk thung to carry politicized messages. In the 1950s, before it
was called luk thung, it was called phleng chiwit (“songs of life”), which is not be confused with
phleng phuea chiwit (“songs for life”). Phleng chiwit is a very early version of luk thung; the songs
were sung in rural accents using rural themes, and they were highly political. So much so that the
songwriters were put in jail or they were threatened.
During the 1970s phleng phuea chiwit was the dominant protest music, but from what I have found
even during that time luk thung was used a lot for protests, for example by the communist
insurgents.
So, luk thung has always been political, but it has always been heavily censored too. It has been the
music of the working class and of the poor, but it wasn’t until the Red Shirts that the working class
could really be open about their criticism of the establishment in public.
IR: Have only the Red Shirts made use of luk thung music or did the Yellow Shirts
incorporate it in their protests too?
JM: When the Yellow Shirts and the other offspring groups used luk thung it was clear that they
didn’t have any real connection to the music. They use it because it is popular and it is party music,
so all the yellow luk thung songs are either very patriotic songs or they are party songs.
The Red Shirts were able to use luk thung with what might be the main focus of this genre, namely
themes of sadness and mourning. For example, they were able to write all these songs about Thaksin
and his absence. And really, the theme of absence is what luk thung is all about. But not only songs
about Thaksin, also mourning songs for Red Shirts who were killed during protests or about the
absence of democracy. For the Yellow Shirts, there were never these kinds of songs. When the
yellow side used luk thung, it wasn’t professional luk thung singers performing, but more Thai pop
stars or old luk krung singers – it always felt quite token.
Red Shirt luk thung singers in a hang khruang (“dancing revue”) in Khao Yai in November 2009. Photo credit: Nick
Nostitz/Agentur Focus
IR: Given the political nature of many luk thung songs, has the scene been affected by last
year’s military coup?
JM: There have been less luk thung concerts since the coup. At least, during the martial law period, I
think it was difficult to put concerts on at night. However, the regime has made up for this by using
luk thung concerts as “rewards” for certain communities or as a propaganda tool.
There aren’t any political songs being put out in Thailand right now. It is amazing to me how
successful the junta has been in oppressing political expression. All the political artists are pretty
scared at the moment. The only political songs that are being released at the moment come from
overseas, for example from the band Fai Yen. They are pumping out music all the time and some of
their songs are luk thung.
IR: Do you have plans for another book?
JM: A lot of my current research has been on old Thai records in the 78 rpm format and I plan to
publish a complete discography of Thai 78s, which has never been done for any Southeast Asian
country. I find these records through collectors, especially buy and sale forums on the internet.
There is a lively scene of Thai record collectors, but the part of 78 format collectors is quite small
and specialized.
I am also planning to write more articles and I would like to write something on Fai Yen. I didn’t
cover them in my book and I keep discovering new protest music that I missed. I’m also planning an
article on Sayan Sanya. Chris Baker quite rightly points out that the book misses out on some of the
biggest stars, such as Sayan, simply because they are not from Isaan. In the end the book became a
triangle of luk thung, Isaan culture, and politics with a focus on the Red Shirts. Of course, in the
future there could also be a second, updated edition of the book or perhaps a new, more
comprehensive history of luk thung.
Luk Thung: The Culture and Politics of Thailand’s Most
Popular Music
By James Leonard Mitchell
Published: September 2015. 214 pages. Silkworm Books. 625 baht.
James Leonard Mitchell completed his Ph.D. from Macquarie University in 2012 and is currently a
lecturer at Khon Kaen University and an adjunct research fellow at Monash University, Australia.
Isaan villagers and students travel to mineaffected communities in Mexico
GUEST CONTRIBUTION by Rebecca Goncharoff
This Friday, two representatives of a village affected by a gold mine in Loei Province and two
members of Dao Din – a student activist group at Khon Kaen University – will travel to Oaxaca,
Mexico, to meet with communities from across North America and Oaxaca state that are also
protesting large-scale mining projects.
The Educational Network for Global and Grassroots Exchange (ENGAGE), a coalition of former study
abroad students, raised the money to cover the Thai participants’ travel costs through an online
crowdfunding campaign and several fundraising events in Khon Kaen City. It also received a grant
from the Global Greengrants Fund, a charity that supports environmental actions around the world.
The exchange was organized by ENGAGE and Servicios Universitarios Y Redes de Conocimientos en
Oaxaca A.C. (SURCO), a Mexican community organizing network, after 300 masked men attacked
Na Nong Bong, the gold mine-affected village in Loei, in May of last year.
“After learning about this blatant disregard for human rights in Thailand, ENGAGE felt it necessary
to take action and support the villagers who have been fighting the mine for years,” says Rachel
Karpelowitz, former ENGAGE Network Coordinator.
The exchange participants gathered in Na Nong Bong village in Loei Province last Sunday
for a traditional baci ceremony. Over 50 villagers came to tie strings on the wrists of the
four people traveling to Mexico in order to wish them good luck on their journey. The Lao
ritual symbolizes the calling of the khwan, or soul, from wherever it might be roaming,
back to the body during a time of transition.
Na Nong Bong villagers have been fighting to close the gold mine located less than a kilometer from
their homes for almost a decade. They say that the chemical waste produced by the mine has
contaminated local streams and water sources used for farming and household purposes, leading to
illness and reduced crop yields. In 2009, the Ministry of Public Health advised residents not to drink
water from nearby sources or eat local vegetables.
Two students from the Dao Din human rights activist group will also join the exchange. Dao Din has
been supporting the villagers in their efforts to close the gold mine for over seven years.
During the two-week exchange the Thai participants, joined by representatives of Canadian First
Nations groups and an Appalachian community organizer, will travel to different indigenous
communities in Oaxaca state in an effort to share strategies and experiences among mining
resistance activists.
The participants argue that multinational mining companies threaten their local lands, communities,
and cultures. Organizers hope the exchange will strengthen grassroots movements against the
environmental contamination and violence brought about by extraction projects.
“It is critical that communities around the world, that people—who rarely are given choices about
how the lands they live on are used—share experiences, explore strategies, and create coordinated
action on a global level,” says Jonathan Treat, Director of Delegations for SURCO.
The two Na Nong Bong villagers traveling to Mexico – Phrattrapron Kaenjumpa, 35, and Surapan
Rujichaiyavat, 44, were selected by fellow community members to represent the village in the
delegation. Both were among those activist leaders hog-tied and beaten in the last year’s attack.
Feeling unsafe ever since, the villagers are eager to learn new strategies to defend themselves
against the mining company, Tungkum Ltd., and its allies.
“We need to learn how we can protect ourselves,” says Mr. Surapan, hopeful that he can learn from
the experiences of Mexican anti-mining activists. “There might be times in the future when we will
have to face similar situations [as the communities in Mexico].”
The Na Nong Bong villagers’ fear for safety resonates in San Jose del Progreso, a small town south
of Oaxaca City. In March 2012, Bernardo Vazquez, a local activist, was assassinated after actively
opposing a Canadian silver and gold mining project in his community.
The Dao Din students traveling to Mexico, Suttikiat Khotchaso, 27, and Jutamas
Srihutthaphadungkit, 20, are hopeful that they will be able to share what they learned in Mexico by
bringing back strategies for grassroots organizations in Northeastern Thailand.
“Sometimes old methods or strategies no longer apply,” Ms. Jutamas says. “We might not be using
the best strategies because we don’t know how other people in other areas are doing things. It will
be good to learn from other peoples’ experiences and then improve our own.”
Under the military government in Thailand, Na Nong Bong villagers and Dao Din activists have all
faced threats. Villagers were ordered to stop organizing under martial law, and then under Article
44 of the Interim Constitution, which bans political activity in groups of five or more people. In June,
seven Dao Din students were detained for 12 days after protesting the military regime.
Despite their continued struggle for human rights and against dictatorship, the delegates still fret
over the details of international travel. “I’ve never been on an airplane before,” says Ms. Jutamas
with a shrug, “what if I mess it up?”
Rebecca Goncharoff is a freelance writer living in Khon Kaen.
Isaan Lives – “I believe the villagers will
protect me.”
GUEST CONTRIBUTION by Genevieve Glatsky, Jaime Webb, and Megan Brookens
rently lives in the Langsunpattana slum community in Khon Kaen. He has been a community activist in Isaan since 1983.
A train roared past as Kovit Boonjear, a man with a long pony-tail and mischievous look in his eyes,
smoked a cigarette behind his modest home in one of Khon Kaen’s slum communities. “I never give
interviews,” he said with a smile and more than a hint of irony.
A 60-year-old Isaan transplant from the south of Thailand, Kovit is sparing with his words – not
because he does not enjoy conversation, but as a matter of safety. He has been a community rights
activist since 1983, a contentious career path in the eyes of the stringent Thai military regime.
Freedom of speech and assembly are limited and many of Kovit’s allies and friends have been
temporarily detained and fear arrest. With over 30 years of experience, he is well accustomed to the
risks that come with the job he has dedicated his life to.
Despite his poor upbringing, Kovit and his siblings all attended school. His father worked tirelessly
as a security guard and waiter so that he could send his children to live with their mother in
Bangkok, where there were more educational opportunities. His older brother became involved in an
activist group while in law school and inspired Kovit to follow a similar path.
During the 1960s and 1970s, when Kovit was starting his law degree, Thai student activism was
gaining strong momentum. Several universities had programs that sent students to work with
marginalized rural communities so that they could better understand the challenges faced by
Thailand’s poor.
As a freshman at Ramkhamhaeng University School of Law, Kovit stayed with a construction worker
who was building a school in Bangkok. Because his host’s family didn’t have national identification
cards his children were unable to attend the school their father spent so many hours building. The
irony resonated with Kovit. “It made me think that if people invest their time in something, they
should also profit from the value,” he said.
According to Kovit, his passion for supporting marginalized people stems from this early experience.
Seeing first-hand the injustices faced by the urban poor, particularly regarding their lack of access
to education, he felt compelled to leverage his own educational opportunities to fight for their rights.
He took his first job after college at the International Foster Care Organization Khon Kaen and he
has called the Northeast home ever since. Kovit’s work now revolves around supporting
marginalized communities, such as Khon Kaen’s slum residents and villagers resisting a mining
company in Loei Province. Kovit uses his experience as a lawyer to navigate the complex legal
system to ensure communities’ rights are upheld.
“The law is changing for the benefit of government officers, politicians, and businessmen,” said
Kovit, shaking his head in dismay, “not for the poor.” Even with a law degree, he still spends vast
amounts of time studying to keep up with ever-changing Thai policy.
Kovit values his high level of formal education, but believes that he can learn the most from personal
exchange with people. Understanding the lives of everyday people has always been at the crux of his
organizing strategy.
“When the villagers are wet, I am wet. When the villagers are hungry, I am hungry. I never consider
myself an outsider. I consider myself a part of the community,” he said as he shared a meal with his
neighbor, made from vegetables grown in his own garden.
“I listen. I talk with people,” he said. “The best way to make change happen is by casually stopping
by.” Whether working in the rice fields with villagers or laughing over a glass of whiskey, Kovit can
often be found discussing social justice issues with those around him.
He has worked closely with the community leaders in Wang Saphung subdistrict of Loei Province in
their decade-long struggle to close a gold mine located less than a kilometer from their village.
Villagers claim that the mine’s chemical discharge has caused illness and environmental
contamination, and that the mining company’s henchmen initiated an attack on the village last May.
In response to the tense situation following the attack, Kovit lived in the community for a year to
help the villagers create mining-resistance strategies.
Kovit looks toward the gold mine with villagers in Wang Saphung, Loei Province. In 2009, the Ministry of Public
Health tested local water sources for contaminants and consequently advised villagers not to drink the water or eat
locally grown vegetables.
“Kovit helped us organize and provided critical information. He was especially helpful after our
village was attacked and decisions were being made rapidly,” said Surapan Rujichaiwat, the leader
of Khon Rak Ban Koed (People Who Love Their Home), an organization of concerned villagers that
has been advocating for the closure of the gold mine.
It is one of Kovit’s primary goals to ensure that communities can sustain their movement without his
assistance by identifying leaders and developing a long-term strategy. “I try to accomplish two
things in the communities I work with: education and organization. This gets them to think on their
own,” Kovit said.
His nonviolent resistance tactics help villagers’ mobilizing efforts to gain momentum. However, as
Kovit draws increased attention to communities’ struggles, he too faces heightened risk. He claims
his name often appears at the top of the military’s list of people to monitor.
In 2013, he learned that fighting against resource development projects garners the attention of
more than just the military. A military officer began following Kovit under the pretense of protecting
him from a $10,000 bounty on his head, Kovit claimed. While this could just have been an
intimidation tactic, Kovit suspects that the bounty was issued by the mining company.
Despite the threats, Kovit remains undeterred. He has already recruited 18,000 signatures for a
petition he is circulating against current Thai mining policy. His goal is to garner 20,000 supporters.
“We have to be careful all the time. One thing I really believe is that the villagers will protect me,”
he said.
Moving forward, Kovit seeks to expand his impact outside of Thailand. He is currently working on a
website that will spotlight mining-affected communities throughout all ASEAN countries. The effort
is one more step in the direction of increasing public understanding of marginalized peoples’
experiences.
Genevieve Glatsky studies International Relations and Megan Brookens majors in Urban Studies at
the University of Pennsylvania. Jaime Webb studies Music and Philosophy at Luther College
in Decorah, Iowa.
Sakon Nakhon court jails villagers for forest
encroachment
GUEST CONTRIBUTION by Anne Sadler and William Lee
SAKON NAKHON – The ongoing clash between the government’s forest reclamation policy and
community land rights in the Northeast came to a head on October 21st. Standing before the
provincial court in Sakon Nakhon Province, nine villagers from Jatrabiab village — each convicted
with encroaching on protected forests — listened as the judge handed down their sentences.
For six of the nine villagers, the verdict was disheartening. Each must abandon their land, pay a fine
ranging from 10,000 to 20,000 baht, and submit to a form of probation for at least a year. Still, they
fared much better than three of their neighbors.
Mrs. Kong Phongsakbun, Mr. Bunsom Phongsakbun, and Mrs. Surat Srisawat share 40 rai of land in
an area the government has deemed “reserve forest.” For working on this land, Mrs. Kong and Mr.
Bunsom received a sentence of three years in prison, while Mrs. Surat received two and a half years.
Wednesday’s sentencing is the latest chapter in a saga that began in 2012, when Thai authorities
arrested 34 Jatrabiab villagers — largely rubber farmers—for trespassing in a reserve forest.
Prosecutors’ initially lacked the willpower to take substantive action against the accused. The
villagers’ court cases lay dormant for some time, but were revived after the 2014 military coup
thrust into power an active junta bent on pushing its “master plan,” which includes a commitment to
swiftly increase Thailand’s forest cover to 40% — up from the present nationwide proportion of 33%.
A primary government strategy to reach this goal has been to reclaim illegally used forestlands,
though villagers across Isaan argue that the forests are being used legally. They say the borders of
reserve forests, national parks and protected areas, which the government mandates must be free of
human activity — were drawn with people’s livelihood inside them.
Residents of Jatrabiab village and one of their lawyers gather for an Isaan-style lunch in the shadow of the
Sakon Nakhon courthouse. Relatives and friends of all ages flocked to the scene of the day’s proceedings in a
show of support.
Holding back tears, 51-year-old Mr. Phakdi Srisawat, the husband and son-in-law of the trio facing
jail time, was overcome by the judge’s ruling. “It is unfair, I don’t know what to do,” he said,
struggling to find words. Mr. Phakdi now faces the daunting task of collecting a total bail of more
than one million baht, without a job or land to leverage, since his land was also confiscated.
While distressed about the fate of her grandparents and mother, 27-year-old Ms. Saowalak Srisawat
fears most for her father. “Without my mother, my father is broken-hearted,” she said. “In this way,
he suffers more than my mother.”
Mr. Thanomsak Rawatchai, one of the three lawyers representing the villagers, expressed
disappointment with the verdict. “What the judge gave to the villagers, it’s too much,” he said.
Though nearly all of the villagers pled guilty to avoid harsher sentences, they maintain their arrests
were unjust. By their account, they have owned the land in question for decades, and have the tax
records to prove it. Mr. Phakdi asserts his wife’s parents had lived on their land for at least 34 years.
In a narrative difficult to substantiate, villagers claim that the Royal Forest Department (RFD) — a
government agency responsible for managing forest resources — agreed to provide them with land
titles in 2012. It turned out to be a deceptive ploy, they allege, as the RFD collected and submitted
their signatures to the police. The police then arrested all those listed as “trespassers.”
RFD officials emphasize that the target of the reclamation policy are investors: wealthy landowners
exploiting the forests for personal gain. Furthermore, NCPO Order 66 requires that poor or landless
people living on reserve land prior to June 2014 not be adversely affected. However, evidence
suggests the reality is the reverse.
Even considering Thailand’s ever-changing political system, the legal definition of an “investor” is
remarkably inconsistent. In an interview earlier this month, Sakon Nakhon RFD officials stated that
those with more than 50 rai of land qualify as investors. Some villagers claim it is 30 rai. On
Wednesday, for the judge, it was 25 rai.
“What law does the judge use to send people to jail for 25 rai of land?” said Mr. Laothai Ninnuan, an
advisor to the Isaan Farmer Association who has worked with the Jatrabiab community for over 30
years. “The law states that they can have 50 rai. The judge just made that law up,” he claimed.
Following Wednesday’s hearing, all but one of the 34 villagers involved, a juvenile at the time of his
arrest, have received sentencing. Most of those facing jail-time are in varying stages of the appeals
process.
Mr. Thanomsak stressed that judges have the wrong attitude about the relationship between
villagers and forestland. While judges think of villagers as catalysts of environmental destruction,
Mr. Thanomsak explained that, in reality, their communities have been able to sustain themselves
and the land for decades.
Throughout the day, dozens of Jatrabiab villagers sat in an outdoor structure adjacent to the
courthouse, gathered in solidarity for the nine awaiting their sentences. When asked about the large
turnout of supporters, Mr. Phakdi choked out just one word —“happy”— before succumbing to
silence.
For now, the trio remains behind bars, awaiting bail. “We will continue to fight; we will find a way to
get them out,” said Ms. Saowalak. “But today, I don’t know what to do.”
The State Prosecutor’s Office was not available for comment, citing official business.
Anne Sadler studies English Literature at Davidson College (North Carolina) and William Lee majors
in Environmental Science at Tulane University of Louisiana.
Isaan Lives – Somkit Singsong: “Thaksin put
the nation on sale and Lee Kuan Yew bought
it.”
Among a wilderness of green shrubbery, Somkit Singsong sat in front of a small clay hut outside his
village in Khon Kaen province. Sporting a beard akin to Vietnamese revolutionary leaders, Somkit
recounted the days when there was a bounty on his head. “They came for me at the crack of dawn.
Helicopters with spotlights hovered over the village. They wanted to kill me,” he said calmly.
From a rural Isaan childhood to student activism in Bangkok and six years with the communist
armed struggle, the 65-year-old is now leading a green development project in his Northeastern
home. But the life of Somkit will forever be linked to Thailand’s turbulent times of the 1970s.
A child of rural Isaan, Somkit Singsong went to study at Thammsat University in Bangkok, took up student activism,
and spent six years in the forest with the communist movement. Today, the 65-year-old is leading a green
development project in his Northeastern home.
Somkit’s rural Isaan upbringing distances him from most student activists in 1970s, who tended to
come from the urban middle class. Somkit’s university education likewise made him different from
most of those Isaan villagers who left their rice fields to fight with the communists during that
period.
A prolific writer and co-founder of the Isaan Writers’ Association, Somkit has published several
novels, short stories, and poems. Most of his writing belongs to a genre of literature known as
wannakam phuea chiwit or “Literature for Life,” which features strong protest themes.
His most famous work remains the words to a song that became the anthem of the political
movements of the 1970s. Along with fellow student activist Visa Kanthap, he wrote the lyrics to the
song Khon Kap Khwai (“People and Buffalo”) that would later be made famous by Caravan – a folkrock band that itself grew out of the pro-democracy protests of 1973.
“Every year on October 14, I organize an anniversary event in my home to remember the protests,”
said Somkit. “We play ‘People and Buffalo’ because it helps people understand society and has now
become part of history itself.”
Village Childhood and City Education
Born into a rice farming family, Somkit spent his childhood in Sap Daeng village, Khon Kaen
province. In the early 1960s, he followed a family member to central Thailand to attend middle
school on the Thonburi side of the Chao Praya River. Sarit Thanarat – the military dictator who had
seized power in 1958 – had just drank himself to death, Somkit remembered.
Somkit shared his high school years with someone who would play a fateful role in Thailand’s
politics decades later and pave the way for another military coup. “Suthep Thaugsuban was in the
same year. We were friends back then,” he remembered. “After high school, Suthep failed the
entrance exam for Thammasat University while I scored as the second best,” Somkit said, with a
mischievous grin on his face.
Rewarded with a scholarship from the National Education Council, he enrolled in the newlyestablished Journalism and Mass Communications program at Thammasat University in 1969. The
stipend of 1,500 baht covered his semester tuition fees and bankrolled a comfortable life in Bangkok.
Throughout the 1960s, a military junta had maintained its grip on power and formed an economic
and anti-communist partnership with the United States. The Northeast hosted tens of thousands of
US military personnel stationed there to support the American proxy war in Vietnam. In return, the
US government gave Thailand major financial and development aid.
Bringing Activism to the Countryside
In the late 1960s, resistance to military rule reached a boiling point among university students. In
the highly politicized atmosphere at Thammasat University, Somkit formed his own political creed
and the sharp-tongued Northeastener soon became a leader among student activists.
“I had the feeling that Thailand was not free, but a colony of America,” Somkit said, explaining his
motivation to join the budding student movement. “We talked often about independence and how to
end inequalities in Thai society,” he said.
On October 14, 1973 a student-led uprising swept the military rulers out of government and
launched a three-year democratic interlude for Thailand. After the unexpected victory, Somkit quit
his studies, left the capital and returned to his home in the countryside.
Somkit said he felt frustrated with the attitudes of people in Bangkok. “I had a vision to build the
society of my dreams in my home village,” he said, adding that the state gave too little support to the
country’s rural population. He began organizing development projects around his village and
engaged in politics by joining the central committee of the Socialist Party of Thailand.
“In the countryside, students were seen as the heroes of the time,” he recalled, “so I travelled
around and gave speeches explaining politics to villagers.” But hostility against students and
progressives was also rising. “The local bureaucrats hated me and called me a national security risk,
a traitor, and a communist,” Somkit said grimly.
Into the Arms of the Communists
On October 6, 1976, the military dictatorship regained power with a bloody crackdown on students
and protesters at Thammasat University. The shockwaves of the massacre reached Somkit’s village a
couple of days later. State and paramilitary forces were hunting down communists and all of those
branded “enemies of the state,” and they soon surrounded the area. Left with no other choice, the
then-26-year-old fled his home, hiding in the townhouse of a friend until undercover communist
agents offered him safe passage to a base in the Dong Mun forest, north of Kalasin province.
Somkit claimed that prior to this he had no connection to the Communist Party of Thailand (CPT),
which had launched a guerrilla war against the state from the Northeast in 1965. “The CPT had
spies all over Isaan back then, and I realized only later that they had kept an eye on me after I
returned from Bangkok,” he said.
Immediately after the massacre of October 6, the CPT invited all dissidents to join the armed
revolutionary struggle, accusing the Bangkok establishment and American government of backing
the killings. About 3,000 students, leftist intellectuals, and farmer and labour leaders followed the
communist call and fled into the forests.
Ironically, it was the state’s anti-communist witch-hunt that drove Somkit into the arms of the
communist fighters. He was never one of them, he stressed, but an ardent defender of socialist
revolution – a fine distinction that seems to be lost on most people these days, he complained.
Somkit received a warm welcome at the CPT’s base, and his involvement with the Socialist Party led
others to regard him as a senior party member. “They treated me with so much respect, but I was
really just a boy,” Somkit said.
After the CPT leadership invited Somkit to a major cadre meeting in Laos, he embarked on a
weeklong trek to the border, where he was flown by helicopter to Muang Xai in Oudomxay province.
“It was pure indulgence,” said Somkit. “There were servants, free cigars, and the fridge was filled
with wines from Europe,” he added.
Somkit felt proud to meet high-ranking communist leaders like Udom Srisuwan, the communist
party’s major theorist, and Phayom Chulanont, a Thai army defector. (In a historic twist, Phayom’s
son would later lead military operations against communist fighters and be appointed Interim Prime
Minister under the 2006 military coup.)
Failed Revolution and Finding a New Mission
Somkit never saw much good in the armed struggle and soon felt his work with the CPT was
fruitless. He disliked the hierarchical structures of the organization and criticized it for allying with
China and adopting a Maoist ideology – a move that would isolate the party from other communist
movements in Southeast Asia.
When China’s foreign policy flipped in the late 1970s and the Chinese regime became friendly with
the Thai government, the CPT was cut off from the Chinese support that had financed its activities.
Soon after, ideological disputes between the party leadership and student activists eventually drove
the students to part ways with the communist movement and return to the cities.
Most students abandoned the revolutionary struggle feeling jaded, but Somkit returned to his village
hoping to continue where he had left off. He initiated several development and environmental
projects and established a publishing house in Sap Daeng village. “The CPT was falling apart, but for
me it really all had just started,” he said.
Somkit begrudgingly acknowledges that the experience of the faltering communist revolution and
the return of military rule in the 1980s left its mark on his generation of leftists. Many fell into a
state of political shock following their return from the forests. While some of them would reemerge
in the country’s nascent NGO scene years later, they tended to turn their backs on political
organizations, often taking a stance against representative democracy.
After Somkit made rural Isaan the center of his life again, he retreated from politics and turned to
environmentalism. Along the way, political disillusionment crept into his life.
Somkit had a final fling with electoral politics as a candidate in a local election, but failed to win. “I
didn’t have money to give to anyone – the ones who had cash bought all the votes,” he said. “Maybe
it’s for the better; in parliament I might have turned into a bad person.”
The dirt road that leads to Somkit’s environmental development project, which is located a few kilometers outside of
his home village Sap Deang in Khon Kaen province.
Scorning Politics, Continuing Activism
A motor scooter came rumbling down the dirt road leading to Somkit’s development project, which
lies between two fields far from Sap Daeng village. Somkit’s son climbed off his motor scooter, put
down a bag with ice and cheap beer, and disappeared behind the clay hut to prepare lunch. The
thirty-something-year-old is taking care of his father, whose health has declined in recent years.
Today, it seems former activist Somkit has not even a glimmer of faith in Thailand’s political
development. “If I look at the future of this country, all I see is darkness,” he said. “Just look around
you, is there light anywhere here?”
Somkit scorns national politics and while he does not approve of last year’s coup, he calls the
current military government “the best of the worst.”
Thai politics has always been a stage “for those who seek benefits and power,” Somkit said, but
corruption and nepotism escalated when Thaksin Shinawatra entered the scene.
“Thaksin put the nation on sale and Lee Kuan Yew bought it,” Somkit said, referring to the
controversial deal between Thaksin’s family and the Singapore-owned Temasak Holdings in 2006.
The Shinawatra family’s sale of its share in the telecommunications giant Shin Corp to an investment
arm of the Singaporean government incited major public outcry over what was regarded as an unfair
tax exemption for the powerful family. Thaksin was accused of “selling out” national assets. The
controversy surrounding the sale added momentum to the anti-Thaksin protests that precipitated the
2006 military coup.
Somkit also has little respect for the recent political agenda of some fellow student activists from the
1970s. “The radical leftists really thought they could use Thaksin to overthrow the capitalist system
and the monarchy,” he said, mentioning two prominent red shirt leaders.
“I was once a socialist and anti-monarchy,” he said, “but then, I realized that there is no other king
in this world that is working as hard as ours.” Somkit discovered his love for the country’s royal
institution through his newfound passion to defend the environment, a mission that the monarch
always supported, he said as his son returned from cooking. The fried cobra dish he served was in no
time discovered by hungry red ants.
In a way, history played a joke on many members of Somkit’s generation. Once leaders of the
country’s most progressive forces longing to foment a revolution, today many seem stuck without
any political vision. And as many political observers have noted, these former student activists today
often find themselves cheering those who try to freeze society’s progress.
In Somkit’s view, things are “just different now” and he has moved on from his past of political
activism. “The world’s big issues today are environmental,” he claimed. “Political problems make up
only a small part of it.”
As Somkit picked a few red ants off some pieces of fried cobra, a construction worker trudged out of
the thick green undergrowth to hand Somkit a bill.
Next to the clay hut, Somkit is building an education center for organic agriculture. And the 65-yearold continues to think about new projects that focus on chemical free farming and he vows to fight
against the influence of global agribusiness on Thailand’s farmers.
“The farmers are committing suicide by putting chemical fertilizers into their fields,” he said. “What
we need is a new Green Revolution.”
A long way from home – Isaan villagers’
experience of farmwork in Israel
Since the early 1990s, tens of thousands of Northeastern Thais have left their farms at home to work
as agricultural laborers in Israel, often facing exploitation by manpower agencies and employers.
Despite a recent push to improve the working conditions of Thai farmworkers in Israel, their
situation often remains precarious.
GUEST EDITORIAL by Matan Kaminer
A Thai farmworker sits in his bedroom in the residential area of a farm in Moshav Yavetz in central Israel. Photo credit: Shiraz
Grinbaum / Activestills.org
Over 22,000 migrant workers, mostly from Isaan, are at work on farms in Israel. Although they are
but a small percentage of the total number of Isaan villagers who migrate to work abroad, the Israeli
agricultural sector has become completely dependent on their labor.
In some rural settlements, Thais now outnumber Israelis, and in modern Hebrew tailandi has
become almost a synonym for “farmworker.” Though wages in Israel are much higher than those in
Thailand, workers’ labor rights are often violated and living conditions are sometimes atrocious, as
has been documented by Israeli NGO “Workers’ Hotline” and the international organization Human
Rights Watch.
I interviewed three Isaan villagers who have worked in Israel about their migrant experience.
Though the durations of their stays in Israel are spread over two decades, the picture they present is
in some ways very similar: the work is hard and one pays a personal price for going abroad for so
long. At the same time, working in Israel has enabled our interviewees to achieve financial goals that
would have been impossible otherwise.
However, my three interviewees differed greatly in some aspects of their experience –
demonstrating that much depends on the particular farm on which one happens to be employed
when in Israel.
Thai laborers on a cabbage field on a farm at the Israel-Gaza border. Photo credit: Oren Ziv / Activestills.org
Large-scale labor migration from Thailand to Israel began around 1993, when the Israeli
government took steps to end the massive participation of Palestinian workers in the labor market.
These workers, coming from the occupied territories of the West Bank and Gaza Strip, were judged
to be too rebellious following the Palestinian Intifada (uprising) of 1987-1991, and plans were made
to replace them with workers from developing countries. The government began allowing farmers to
recruit workers from Thailand, and they quickly became the majority of workers employed on Israeli
farms.
Until 2012, in order to obtain work in Israel a Thai laborer would have to contract with a local
manpower agency in Thailand. This agency would connect with a manpower agency in Israel , and
the worker would then be eligible to receive a visa for a five-year work contract. Careful to prevent
the possibility of workers settling in Israel permanently, Israeli authorities limited each worker to
one five-year work period, and disallowed married couples from being in the country at the same
time.
Manpower agencies charged workers exorbitant fees, ranging up to 370,000 baht. Workers would
often spend their first year in Israel working off the debts incurred in order to pay this fee.
In 2012, the Israeli and Thai governments signed a bilateral agreement aimed at cutting out the
middlemen who were charging migrants these exorbitant fees, replacing Thai manpower agencies
with the International Organization for Migration, a non-profit intergovernmental group. Today the
problem of exorbitant fees has been become less severe and migrants pay around 75,000 baht,
which go to the IOM and manpower agencies on the Israeli side.
A residential structure used by Thai farmworkers in Sde Nitzan at the Israeli border to Egypt. Photo credit: Shiraz Grinbaum /
Activestills.org
However, many other problems associated with migrant life continue. A report recently released by
Human Rights Watch found that workers are subject to dangerous and unhygienic living conditions,
extremely long working hours, and substandard medical care.
Officially, Thai migrants in Israel are protected by Israeli labor laws, including those regulating the
minimum wage and overtime hours. However, a study conducted by myself and Noa Shauer of the
Israeli non-governmental organization Kav La’oved (Workers Hotline) found that in 2013, none of the
migrants who reported their work conditions to the organization were paid according to the law.
Their average wage for regular hours stood at around 70% of the legal minimum. Overtime for work
of more than ten hours a day, which is quite common in the agricultural sector, was paid at only 55%
of the legal requirement. Human Rights Watch reached similar conclusions.
Thai migrant workers’ weak negotiation position in Israel is in part due to the “bound” nature of
their employment. Clauses in their contracts, as well as their linguistic isolation and lack of
acquaintance with the country, make it very difficult for workers to change employers’ behavior.
A Thai agricultural worker in his residency in Moshav Yavetz, Israel. The small caravan holds eight beds, separated
by curtains and closets. Photo credit: Shiraz Grinbaum / Activestills.org
Thus, even when migrant workers are aware of the substandard nature of the conditions of their
employment, there is little they can do to improve their situation. Many migrants say that the
working conditions, together with the long hours and sadness of missing home and family, are
behind the prevalence of alcohol and drug abuse among workers.
Some point to drug and alcohol abuse as a possible factor behind the nocturnal deaths of workers,
known in Thai as lai tai. These mysterious deaths are also known in Isaan, and some consider them
to be caused by evil spirits such as phi mae mai or “widow ghosts.”
Between 2008 and 2013, 43 Thai men perished this way in Israel, yet there has been no systematic
investigation into their cause of death. The lack of interest displayed by the Israeli authorities in this
case is symptomatic of the general lack of public or state concern for migrant workers’ welfare.
While the workers I spoke to corroborated many of the findings mentioned above, they spoke of the
experience of working in Israel as a generally positive one. They said the work enabled them to
acquire property and make other monetary gains in life that otherwise they could not have achieved.
The first of my interviewees, Joe – a pseudonym – in his forties, lives in a village near Chumphae in
Khon Kaen province. He received us on the ceramic-tile floor of his two-story house and later took us
to a field where he grows sugarcane – a field bought with money he earned while working in Israel
in the 1990s.
Joe’s distant relatives, Maew and Jaey (also pseudonyms), live in a village in Udon Thani province
that has sent many workers to Israel over the years. Their stories exemplify the wide variety of
working conditions found in Israel.
A Thai farmworker shows a small notebook displaying his working hours in Moshav Ahituv. Thai farmworkers are advised to keep
track of their working time and the payments received from their employers. Photo credit: Shiraz Grinbaum / Activestills.org
Maew, also in her forties, worked on a farm in the hyper-arid Jordan Valley, near Jericho in the
occupied Palestinian territories. She worked up to 14 hours a day tending vegetables in greenhouses
and made between 35,000 and 45,000 baht a month, of which she was able to save about 25,000 to
send home to her family. In employing her for such long hours for such low pay (by Israeli
standards), her employers violated the local minimum wage law and possibly other laws as well.
Maew’s younger relative Jaey made the same wages, but working only six hours a day milking cows
near Acre in Israel’s north, in proximity to urban centers and in a much milder climate zone.
One cause for the difference may be the fact that Maew worked on a moshav or collective
settlement, and Jaey on a kibbutz or communal settlement; the latter tend to be both wealthier and
more committed to the historic humanistic values of the Israeli “labor settlement” movement.
The co-existence of such huge disparities in labor and wage conditions is clearly an effect of the
“bound” employment regime. If workers could freely choose whom to work for, conditions would
undoubtedly equalize, with better results for workers like Maew.
A female Thai farmworker picks pomegranates on a farm in Sde Nitzan,Israel. Photo credit: Shiraz Grinbaum for
Activestills.org
Although she is aware of these disparities, Maew did not react to them with anger or indignation.
She told me that she was glad of the opportunity to work long hours and make as much money as
possible to send home, and did not see the fact that her relative Jaey had made the same amount of
money working about half the hours as unjust.
Maew and Jaey also touched upon another interesting and troubling issue. They told me that
villagers in the area who had worked in Israel were approached by lawyers claiming that they could
get access to Israeli “tax refunds” for them.
According to Maew, hundreds of locals had signed papers for these lawyers but none had seen any
money. Their story corroborates reports of Israeli lawyers representing Thai workers to sue the
employers for severance pay – another legal requirement that is often unheeded.
The NGOs are worried that these lawyers may be engaged in unscrupulous practices vis-à-vis their
clients – a concern that Maew’s story seems to strengthen, as villagers signed up and never heard
anything back or received any money, and as they may have been misinformed as to the nature of
the legal proceedings.
Thai workers on a tractor on the way to start their working day in the early morning. Photo credit: Shiraz Grinbaum /
Activestills.org
Labor migration is a global phenomenon, linking countries across the world in a chain of human
movement that embodies both opportunity and exploitation. The workers I spoke to – who did not
know me well and may have hesitated to be completely forthright – spoke of working in Israel as,
overall, a positive experience.
Yet even this must be understood against the background of the alternative – either going to work
elsewhere in Thailand or abroad, where conditions and pay are often worse, or being mired in
unemployment and poverty back home in Isaan.
Compared to some of their neighbors, those villagers who are given the opportunity to do
backbreaking work for below-minimum pay, thousands of kilometers from home, for years on end,
may be the lucky ones.
Matan Kaminer is a Ph.D student in anthropology at the University of Michigan. His research is on
Thai migrant farmworkers in Israel. Additional reporting and translation by Disaraporn Phalapree.
Letter to the editor: Ratanawan monastery
reflects a globalizing Isaan
This weekend I went to Nakhon Ratchasima (Korat) to attend a community-based ceremony called
Gratitude to the Teacher at Ratanawan Monastery. Located on a hilltop amid perennial green forest,
it is considered a forest-tradition temple, a sub-category of Theravada Buddhism. This type of
tradition is interspersed throughout Isaan — you may be familiar with Luang Pu Man Phurithatto,
who made a debut of forest-tradition Buddhism in the region. Exceptional is the fact that roughly
half the monks are of non-Thai origin, a number of whom are Caucasian. As such, the locals always
call Ratanawan “wat phra farang” (temple of foreign monks). I have come here several times and am
moved by the rites, be it monastic or lay.
What stands out the most is the racial diversity there. I noticed young ceremony-participants—in
teenage years—who appeared Caucasian while their female parent looked Thai. They must have
been children of couples with transnational marriages. The picture evokes part of the books on the
Vietnam War I had been reading prior to settling this anthropological field trip. Historically, it was
through the concentration of US bases in Isaan that allowed for intimate bonds with the locals. Since
then transnational marriage, preferably with Western-looking men—or “farang” in Thai vernacular—
has become ubiquitous to the extent that plenty of female villagers wish to marry “farang.”
The abbot of Ratanawan is a foreigner, as are plenty of monks there, and can speak English — the
main lingua franca. To me, he acts as a cultural intermediary, ushering in people of the West and the
East together into the same community. Mixed-blood families, as observed, are keen to lend a
helping hand to monastic chores; informed of special ceremonies where the crowd is expected, they
organize makeshifts almshouses, giving out free foods to attendees and visiting nearby villagers. It
shows a growing locality derived from international co-operation. In addition, there were 10-odd
Chinese-speaking people. Knowing Chinese and overhearing their conversation, I recognized their
accent, which suggests their homeland was of the South Sea, namely Malaysia and Singapore. They
communicated with the abbot in English. I realized that they were the same group I had seen at
Ratanawan in early May this year when I had visited. Not only are they spiritually committed to
forest-tradition Buddhism, but they also furnish support. I recognized the Chinese name as the
chairman of the ceremony, an acolyte, acclaimed throughout loudspeakers on that day.
Isaan in fact comes to my attention since the community is expanding to embrace
cosmopolitanism. And because its people account for majority of Thais, I believe, the region is
significant in determining Thailand’s trajectory. Here, the factor of “temple” is important. Important,
because, referring to Ratanawan, it is now taking a vital role in globalizing Isaan. The locals
themselves can entertain global elements, from language to ideology, while at home. I am often very
surprised that more and more Isaanners can speak English—good English. It is decent proof of Isaan
approaching globalism.
Patrick Huang, Bangkok