When Peace Turns Violent

If you’re new to this series, start with this story: Red Shirts And Barbed Wire.

In the early afternoon of April 10^th, when Ya came running out of the hair salon shaking her invisible machine gun at me, the Thai Army had already started rushing toward Phan Fa Lilat Bridge with one objective – to remove the remaining 5,000 Red Shirts from the area.

There was just one problem. The protesters were armed with more than a cause. They had slingshots, rocks, bottles, and something not even the army was prepared for.

Over the course of the day, soldiers forced the Red Shirts two blocks north toward Makkhawan Bridge and the surrounding areas. As the pockets of violence spread, I kept wondering where I’d escape to if I really must, and my only option was south into China Town. But that would put me on Chakraphatdi Road – way too risky.

So I moved between the Green Hotel and Nakhon Sawan Road, asking the locals for updates about what was unfolding around us, and it wasn’t ideal.

Somewhere between the two bridges, the Thai Army was supposed to use rubber bullets to disperse the crowds, but instead soldiers fired live rounds from assault rifles and shotguns.

In retaliation, a protester sent an explosive from an M-79 grenade launcher spiraling through the air, ripping apart an army commander who was shouting orders from atop a tank. The Thai Army retreated while helicopters dropped teargas on Red Shirts.

Both sides continued fighting well into the night.

Playing wannabe journalist, I tried to get closer to Makkhawan Bridge with my camera, but the junction of Nakhon Sawan and Krung Kasem was cordoned off by police and military. So I stood on the corner with countless others, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening 550 meters down the road.

The sound of sirens smothered all noises, even those coming from the voices of the people standing next to me. But word still moved quickly. Every so often someone would relay a message that started near Makkhawan Bridge and traveled through a half a kilometer of mouths and ears back to the junction: “X number of people were shot.” “So and so just died.”

Was it rumors? Was it real? At the same time ambulances raced up and down Nakhon Sawan Road, coming and going with the possibly injured and dead.

The next morning, I woke up to the news that 800 people had been injured and 25 had died, including a real journalist working for Reuters.

Over the next few days I walked the streets where the Red Shirts had been for the last few weeks. Just the remnants of rebellion remained. Uncoiled barbwire on this road. A smoldering army tank on that one. Bullet holes in Democracy Monument.

But the fighting didn’t end. And neither did the fatalities.

In the weeks that followed things escalated, with more protests and anti-protests between the Red Shirts and the Yellow Shirts. The latter supported the current government and military and even called for less democracy if it meant the Red Shirts wouldn’t have the power to elect an official.

As for me, I returned home that May a changed man. I tried to incorporate myself back into American society. My close friends listened to my crazy stories. But at work, I never bothered explaining when asked about the “Thai peasants” in the “third-world country.” They would never get it.

I missed Thailand dearly.

One Sunday, I decided to drive from New Jersey to Queens, New York. Not far Woodside Avenue in Thai Town there was a temple – Wat Buddha Thai Thavorn Vanaram. I had never been there before but since I felt a strong urge to be around Thais again, I showed up unannounced. And, of course, just like back in Thailand, they welcomed me in and offered me food.

I took my plate to an empty table and grabbed a seat. I then put my face down and began stuffing myself with som tum. Moments later, two people pulled up chairs at the same table. I looked up. They were two men in their sixties. One of them wore a red shirt, and the other, a yellow shirt.

Whether this was purely coincidental or a political statement, I don’t know. I never bothered to ask. But as they sat at the table and ate and talked and joked, it reminded me of something I had been thinking all along – why couldn’t all those Thais back in Thailand see each just as these two men had.

So I pulled out my camera and finally put it to good use.

“Can I take a picture of you guys together?” I asked. “I just want to show some friends back in Thailand.”

Photo courtesy of Takeaway.