Vicki and I enjoy Loi Krathong, perhaps in the same way Thais enjoy Christmas. We get into the spirit without fully relating to the tradition.Right after Loi Krathong here, Christmas started. Lights and even more decorations and signs popped up. We now hear Christmas carols in the malls, some sung in English, some in Thai. Everyone loves Christmas presents; you can bet Thai children want their parents to "Christmas" them. The way Thais look at it, "Christmas" is a verb.As far back as I can remember people around me have complained about the commercialization of Christmas. And as near as I can tell, commercialization has won, especially around here.Then again, here's a pleasant thought. Psychologist Steven Pinker has researched war and violence over the centuries. Pinker concludes that violence has declined in recent decades, in spite of a constant stream of violence in the news, on TV, in movies. He calls the period since the end of World War II the "Long Peace," arguably the most peaceful time in world history.So what caused the Long Peace? Pinker lists four pacifying forces, including an "expanding circle of empathy." As the world becomes more cosmopolitan, as we get to know each other better, we have more empathy and compassion for our neighbor. These days our neighbor could be a real neighbor next-door or a Costa Rican or Indian halfway around the world.In the spirit of the season, as we head into this Christmas week, I'd like to think we expats have helped expand the worldwide circle of empathy. Each of us does a small part, contributes just a little. But with more and more expats, over longer periods of time, we may be able to contribute to more understanding among cultures. Result: Less war, less hate. What a fine Christmas present. As the kids say: Awesome.Paul Terhorst
As a result, the eve of that Sikkuu was no time for celebrations, preparing feasts, or even Midnight Mass. Instead we planned to lay an ambush for the Merille, suspecting they might try a surprise night attack on our camp in the hope of catching us unawares. "They probably think we'll all be pissed (that is, drunk). So we must be ready for them," our commanding officer had said.
"But, surely, Sir," I interjected, "if the Merille think we'll all be pissed, they'll just take that as an excuse to get even more pissed themselves." To no avail.
So an uncomfortable night was spent lying silently in the sand under a thorn bush, a rifle by my side. Needless to say, we saw nothing and not a shot was fired, confirming the old maxim that soldiers spend most their time waiting for things to happen.
However, preparations were already well under way for the feast and dance, known as an n'goma, with which our African soldiers planned to mark the Big Day that followed our abortive night ambush. Earlier I had taken a truck and land rover out into the desert to find a cattle herdsman and persuade him to sell us a scrawny cow to serve as Christmas turkey. The wretched beast was manhandled into the truck and driven back to camp where it was tied up but well treated, with plenty of water and green stuff to eat.
Now the time had come to turn it into roast beef. My African Sergeant Major emerged with an army rifle, took aim, and put a single bullet straight between its unsuspecting eyes. As the beast wobbled and sank slowly to the ground, a Muslim soldier from the Kenyan coast ran forward shouting "Allah Akaba" (God is Great) and slashed its throat with a big knife, known as a panga and usually used for chopping your way through jungle. This made the meat "halal" and edible by pious Muslims, thus allowing our regiment's small Muslim contingent to join in the Christmas feast.
Skinned and cleaned, the cow was roasted for several hours in an open pit over a roaring fire of thorn bushes collected from the surrounding desert. It tasted quite good. Beer was served, and spontaneously the African soldiers started to dance around the embers. As planned, sikukuu was ending with an n'goma.
But suppose the Merille attacked us that night, instead of Christmas Eve, when we were digesting our roast beef?
"Don't worry," the officer in the tent next to mine said. "I'll start throwing grenades. I've got a box of them under my bed." I was far from reassured.
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