“Divorce! The Musical” Receives 5 Ovation Award Nominations

The LA Stage Alliance has just announced their nominations for the 2009 Ovation Awards. “Divorce! The Musical” has received nominations for five awards, in the categories of Best Director, Best Musical Director, Best Ensemble, Best Original Music and Lyrics and Best Production.

Read what the Los Angeles Times has to say about the Ovations: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/culturemonster/2009/10/ovation-nominees-announced.html

Congrats to the entire cast, crew and creative team for a job well done!

International Conference on Shan Studies, Bangkok, 2009

Last week I attended the first International Conference on Shan Studies hosted by Bangkok’s Chulalongkorn University in cooperation with the EU’s Euro-Burma Office. For the first time, scholars, researchers, NGO’s and members of the Shan communities in Thailand and Burma came together to discuss the culture, politics and history of one of mainland Southeast Asia’s largest ethnic minority groups. Understudied academically, but possessing a large presence throughout the region of Northern Thailand and Northeastern Burma, the Shan, or “Tai” people inhabit what is presently known as Shan State. Lacking political autonomy in a nation riddled with ethnic warfare, the Shan have populated this large area of Burma since the 12th century, and have migrated into the mountainous regions of northern Thailand, Yunnan China and Laos. While their presence in each of these nations is strong, the Shan are nevertheless known as a “People without country,” for their status as citizens remains unrecognized by many Southeast Asian governments, including Thailand’s.

I spoke about my research this past summer in Northern Thailand where I met many ethnic Shan women and children and tried to make sense of their experience in the face of what I call Thailand’s “National Identity Project.” While working at DEPDC, a school in Mae Sai (a small city bordering Burma), I attempted to understand why so many Shan community members turn to child trafficking as a viable means of economic survival, and how this activity is related to Thai nationalism. After presenting my paper to an audience of Thai, Burmese, Shan and western academics and others, I was thrilled to find that the discourse was coherent and struck a chord with many members of the audience. I asked the questions, “Why are ethnic Shan not given refugee status in Thailand?” “What is at the heart of Thailand’s National Identity Project?” and perhaps most importantly, “How can we better understand the experiences of ethnic minority women and children living in northern Thailand?”

The other members of my panel were also compelled by these questions. Ursula Cats, an anthropology student from the Netherlands’ Vrije University and Busarin Lertchavalitsakul from Chiang Mai University presented papers on the illegal status of young Shan refugee women in northern Thailand and food within ethnic Shan communities, respectively. Together with the audience, we managed to open up a dialogue around the lives and experiences of Shan women living in Thailand—lives at once precarious and fragile yet deeply rooted in tradition and ethnic identity. For me, sitting on the panel with these two amazing women was an extremely empowering and enlightening experience that I won’t soon forget!

Being a student of Public Diplomacy, my blog about the conference wouldn’t be complete without a brief mention of politics: the Euro-Burma Office, in their efforts to maintain diplomacy were fairly strict about the panelists refraining from discussing Burmese politics during the conference. After our panel discussion, one man stood up: a lawyer and refugee from Burma, asking us passionately why we hadn’t been more strident in criticizing the Burmese government in our presentations. While I briefly addressed the man’s question, explaining that the focus of my studies was on the Shan in Thailand, not Burma, the conversation left several of us with questions as to how far politics can and should be explored in this type of conference. While the goal of the conference was indeed to celebrate Shan culture and identity, the conversation would not be complete without also understanding the root cause of the Shan’s migration into Thailand: namely, their oppression by Burma’s military junta. The debate about how much to say, and how to say it lingers in my mind. I can only hope that by opening up a space for studying Shan culture, academics, governments and publics alike will begin to take notice of the complex political web in Burma that, I believe, must be addressed by the world community in a more pro-active way.

Creator’s Statement- The Jews of Calabasas

Having been raised half Norwegian-Lutheran and half Polish-Jewish in the predominantly Protestant Midwestern town of Ann Arbor, Michigan, my cultural roots have always felt somewhat diluted and vague. It wasn’t until I moved to Los Angeles as an adult that I began to explore my connection to Judaism and the cultural interplay between Jews of various backgrounds and different degrees of religious commitment. While working as a music teacher at an Israeli-affiliated Jewish Day School near Calabasas, CA, I interfaced daily with Diaspora Jews, particularly women and children. It was here that I began to search for the meaning of my own Judaism.

Just how Jewish was I? I wondered. Having been raised as part of the liberal, reform movement, the daughter of secular parents, I’d always assumed that I wasn’t “really” Jewish, that I didn’t quite belong. Yet at the Day School I found myself feeling, in my core, a true and integral part of this Jewish community. Saying prayers, singing Hebrew songs and diving into Jewish life, for the first time in my life, was a beautiful shock to the system. The friendships I made and my newfound connection with Jewish spirituality and culture moved me deeply.

In February 2008, the Bernard Milken Jewish Community Campus in West Hills, CA, just one town over from Calabasas, was attacked. An unidentified assailant threw a Molotov cocktail into the Center, and while no one was hurt, the incident brought great fears and anger to the surface of the Jewish community. I observed the outraged responses of my friends and colleagues like an outsider looking in: while I too was angry, and while I too felt deeply hurt by the attack, I reasoned that it was par for the course. Some people just have hate in their hearts.

The reactions from other community members, however, were not so philosophical. Without skipping a beat, rumors began to spread– provocative claims about the ethnic identity of the attacker and his larger goals. People began to suggest that the Jewish community must strengthen its influence in Washington, and that protection from anti-Semitism in the U.S. required adopting a firmer political commitment to the State of Israel.

This shocked me. While I understood the community’s anger, I failed to see a direct connection between a hate crime in California and the US-Israel relationship. While I of course felt great support for the State of Israel, I simply couldn’t see how a need to increase military aid or adopt a hard-line approach to the Peace Process had anything to do with Bernard Milken. When questions of politics came up during my singing classes, I suddenly felt the need to keep silent. It was then that I began to feel conflict about my place in this Jewish community. Did my apparently pacifist views make me somehow unworthy of calling myself a Jew? Why were so many of my friends and colleagues suddenly invested in the military might of a nation they had never necessarily even visited? And, most poignantly, would my daring to question the motivations of conservative Jewish thought relegate me to being an outsider in this Jewish-American culture, a culture in which I deeply wanted to belong?

The incident, and my feelings of conflict around it raised fundamental questions for me about what it means to be an American Jew in 2009. Add to this the complex and profound issues of Jewish female identity, and a compelling story begins to emerge: a story in which wives, mothers and teachers seek to understand the meanings of their jobs, their roles, and their lives. A story in which Judaism is a moving target: both a source of comfort, identity definition and inclusion, but also one of conflict, fear and polarization. These issues and experiences are the source of my new work, The Jews of Calabasas. I am writing this musical with great love, deep reverence and, indeed, a critical eye on the values and assumptions we hold as Jews in America today. I sincerely hope that The Jews of Calabasas will entertain and inspire us as we work to unravel, and simultaneously construct, our Jewish-American identities.

Diaspora Jews… And Musicals… Oh my!

It’s a far cry from South East Asia, and in that respect, it’s somewhat outside of my analytical comfort zone. But no matter. I’ve been inspired to start writing my next Opus (or rather, little ensemble musical), The Jews of Calabasas.

Tonight three of my very favorite singer-actresses, Deb Snyder, Lowe Taylor and Gabrielle Wagner (all were part of the “Divorce! The Musical” ensemble) graced me with their talents when they came to our loft to try out the first round of material. For their valiant efforts learning these hot-off-the-press songs about life as a Jewish-American woman in the suburbs of LA, I offered them ample amounts of wine. But the ladies were all business: they sang for three hours straight and did such an excellent job grasping both the characters and the music, I’m now inspired to write more. In fact, I feel obligated.

The Jews of Calabasas is a piece I’ve been wary of writing. Partly this is because of its inherently political content: the story deals with an attack on a local Jewish Community Center that took place in 2008, and the right-wing sentiment of support for the Israeli military that was strengthened in the community as a result. The show also explores the nuances of what it is to be a Jewish woman living in America today.

My trepidation also has to do with its being close to home, as some elements of the show are based on my experience working in a Jewish Day School near Calabasas, CA. Despite my initial hesitation, I am grateful for the chance to translate my experiences into songs and for the incredible talents of the actresses who are bringing the show to life.

Stay tuned for more information about The Jews of Calabasas.

 

Public Diplomacy Magazine, Summer 2009

Check out my book review of Digital Diasporas: Identity and Transnational Engagement, by Jennifer M. Brinkerhoff in the Summer, 2009 edition of Public Diplomacy Magazine.

New Lecture: “Child Trafficking in Thailand: Empowering Girls, Ending Violence”

This year I’ll be presenting lectures on child trafficking at Universities throughout the U.S. and Internationally.

For booking and further information:

http://www.erinkamler.net/pdf/Child_Trafficking_Lecture.pdf

Hope

Saying goodbye is next to impossible.

“When will you come back?” The girls ask.

“Next year, I hope.” And I do hope, with every fiber of my being.

Some of the girls wish me good luck, and I do the same, and we don’t know when or if we’ll see each other again. It’s dark tonight but the mood of the classroom is serene. We’ve done yoga- the aerobic, sweaty, totally fun kind, chanted a meditation, and sung our song. My teaching is done for now. Still, my work feels desperately incomplete—like the first fragment of an idea being born, and now, put on hold until the next time I’m able to take another trip like this one.

It’s a strange equation, trying to help. A feeling of inadequacy mixed with the rush of excitement when you think you might have done something to make a difference, even minutely, in someone else’s life. So many people help others on a daily basis in ways that I do not. Teachers, social workers, aid workers, parents– all kinds of people dedicate every waking hour to this task. They are the true heroes, the ones like Li, like the staff here, like Pa Sompop who founded this school and dedicates every day of his life to keeping it afloat.

I’m not like them. I am decidedly un-heroic. I’m an artist first, a teacher second, and as such, constantly act in my own self-interest before, on my own terms, turning around and giving back to the world. But despite my inadequacies, and despite the obvious disparity between the lifestyle I lead and the momentary crumbs of inspiration I offer these girls, I still believe that we in the west– ordinary people like me– can actively help bring about change. And I believe it’s our obligation to try.

Earlier today Li took me to see Child Voice Radio, a program designed and run completely by kids with the mission of broadcasting information about child trafficking to the local Mae Sai community and throughout the greater Mekong Sub-region. A life-line reaching out from the trees. Being in the tiny studio, watching the DJ’s, the programming, and the process was an amazing thing to witness: total Public Diplomacy in action. If they can do this from here, I thought, how much can we do with our resources at home? What do we  have to offer, when we really sit down and think about it? Can we sacrifice our time- a few weeks, a few days, a few hours? Can we travel places and enjoy the world while actually doing something to help? Or, can we just simply learn about the world: step out of our boxes and take the initiative to think about issues and people that are far outside our experience and comfort zone?

Had I not decided to take this trip, had I not stepped into this other world I never would’ve met Li. I never would’ve made this friendship with a person I now know and love. Broken-English-Burmese-migrant-NGO-force-of-truth meets Los-Angeles-composer-writer-public diplomacy-student… let’s face it: we are a million worlds apart. But here we are after just a few short weeks, Li and I, sitting on the floor having another meal of fried chicken and sticky rice, talking border politics and teaching, fixing the latest keyboard-battery disaster and working out the lyrics to yet another song. Bound together in a friendship that I hope will last for the rest of my life.

There is hope in this jungle, then. Despite the mess of border politics, the drama of migration and the darkness of generations forced to adhere to the unkind will of the Nation-State, being here has given me vehement hope.

Now I know what’s possible: That when you help a girl find agency, when you teach her to be brave, to speak the truth even when it’s frightening and to rely on people who have her best interests at heart, she will grown powerful, capable, strong. And she will beam with light.

Khob Koon ka, Khun Li and Khun Dek Dek’s. Thank you for showing me this hope.

“P”

Night by the Burmese border is seriously the heart of darkness. I walk home from the internet cafe through the street of Mae Sai, past long alleyways, vacant, ominous buildings with shop windows boarded up, the market closed for the night. These are windows you dare not look in, streets you dare not go down. Not because its unsafe for me, a farang woman who can speak Thai and is essentially socially irrelevant; a political non-actor in the context of these streets. It’s the girls I’m thinking about tonight—the ones who haven’t made it to the school, into my music room. The ones who haven’t gotten out.

 The girls in my evening class want to start a choir. I asked them if they’d be able to work seriously and be dedicated, and really do it. They hurried to assure me they would. They are passionate about singing, and they love that the words of the song belong to them. When I told them I’d try to find a way to come back again next summer some were concerned because they won’t be here. Instead, they’ll be working for the Mekong Youth Net, or MYN, an affiliate program run completely by the girls that publicizes the work of the school and implements prevention initiatives throughout the Mekong Sub-Region, from Cambodia to Malaysia to Yunnan, China. The girls who joint the MYN must commit to a minimum time period of two years. After their initial training and field placement, they go into the community to actively educate the public about the dangers and realities of child trafficking. It’s a tall order for a sixteen year old. But then again, life itself is a pretty tall order. Isn’t it?

 I want to adopt a small girl named Bip. She is eight. Her father died two years ago and her mother works in Bangkok. Like many of these girls she is Stateless: she has no birth certificate, no nationality, and subsequently, no legal protections or rights. She is so tiny, so sweet, so alive.

She doesn’t need me to be her mom, though. She’s got a family already—the girls at the school who care for her fiercely. She calls them “P” or, “older sister.” This is also what she calls me.

I can be a sister then, to these girls. I can be their “P.”

 

 Here is our song:

When I woke up I felt lazy

I had a dream about my love

And I remember the kindness of my friend

When I went back home Koon Pa and Koon Meh felt happy

This was the best day of my life

This was the best day of my life

 

I want to be a teacher

My students will dance and sing

I will give them the chance to learn

I will be a Pastor

I will be a manager

This is my future dream

 

My future dream

My future dream

To be a doctor

To be an actor

To be a good person in this world

 

When I woke up I felt lazy

I had a dream about my love

And I remember the kindness of my friend

Now I’ll go back home and Koon Pa and Koon Meh will be happy

This will be the best day of my life

This will be the best day of my life

Finding Home

Yesterday we were stopped on our motor bike by the Thai Border Police. A checkpoint on a random village road. They were stopping everyone to check I.D’s: sarong-wearing women pushing carts to market or carrying baskets on their heads, children playing in the nearby yard, older men driving tuk-tuks looking for their next fare.

The officer wore his privilege like a badge of honor.

            “Bai nai?” He barked with a condescending authoritative gaze. “Where are you going?”

Li gripped the handle bars and brought the bike to a halt. I clung tightly to her shoulders.

            “Rongrien,” she said with a soft, barely perceptible voice. “To school.”

 He looked her up and down. Considered her response.

 

 The girls have very specific ideas about what it means to be the Police.

            “Pew, pew!” They squeal, laughing and aiming their hands like guns. Those men will do whatever they wish with a State-less Shan or Kachin girl. Whatever pleases them in the moment. Your life is in their hands.

It wasn’t always this way in rural northern Thailand. In the early part of the 20^th century, the concept of Stateless-ness didn’t yet exist. This was a different time- a time before the world was bordered and bound, before the paradigm of nationhood manifested itself with definitive certainty across the globe. People of multiple and intricately-interconnected ethnic groups lived and worked on this land; land that did not adhere to the boundaries so randomly and artificially imposed on what is now the sovereign Thai state. Tribes, villages and vast communities of overlapping languages, cultural practices and political and spiritual allegiances settled and migrated without concern across the borders of Thailand, Burma, Yunnan China and Laos.

It wasn’t until our military presence here in the 1950’s, during the American cold-war drama that we played out in Southeast Asia with such infamous fervor, that things began to change. Ethnicity was suddenly an issue. Difference was suddenly a thing to be feared. The “tribal” people who had lived on this land for generations could, after all, be communists. This was the narrative. This was how the paradigm started to shift.  

Anyone who seemed, spoke or looked like an “Other” suddenly needed to be watched. Migrants had to be closely identified, registered, tracked. By the late 1960’s, as if overnight, you had to prove that your family had been living in Thailand for at least three generations in order to get your “pink card” and claim your status as a Thai citizen. This was, of course, easier said than done, especially for ethnic minorities, or “hill tribe” peoples who not only didn’t share a language or transcription system with the Thais, so couldn’t understand this new registration procedure, but also had no documentation to show who they were. Without birth records or any other such bureaucratically-acceptable signs of national allegiance, how can you possibly tell a government who you are?

During the 1970’s, thousands of people were dubbed “illegal migrants,” and made criminals overnight. Thousands were arrested, deported, jailed or fined. Land rights were denied, educational opportunities revoked, employment options dissolved.

And the march of progress began. “Illegal” workers are workers who work for nothing—pennies to the dollar, 20 baht a day if your lucky. 20 baht, or roughly 60 cents. Or, if they’re forced to, for free. The wealth of this country, much like that of the U.S. which built itself on the backs of the slave trade, was created at the expense of thousands of people who had no choice but to work for free.

The girls have a basketball and a school uniform and a sharp mind and each other—but they have no legal home. Not in Burma, not in Yunnan, not in Thailand, not in Laos. Their mothers work in the bars and massage parlors of Bangkok, because without land how do you make anything grow? Their fathers may be dead, or gone to the city, or struggling for a wage, or maybe they live across a border somewhere– the ultimate divide.

Once a week Li goes to a special payphone near the Burma crossing, a vast stretch of road that takes you from Mae Sai over a long bridge into the village of Tachilek. Her brother waits in Rangoon for her call. She wants her mother to send her this powder-cream that many Burmese women wear on their faces to keep their skin beautiful and clear. They want me, Li’s new colleague, to chat online with her brother about Universities in the United States. He thinks it’s a long shot, doesn’t know how he’ll ever get a visa, but he wants to apply.  So we schedule a time.

I’ve written many songs, stories, poems and plays that intimately explore the concept of home. Many times I have stolen a lyric from myself: “Home is not a place.”

But I take the sentiment back. Home is a place. There is nothing so powerful as this place. And when its taken from you, stolen, rejected or otherwise denied, there is no greater isolation. Nothing makes you feel as unwanted, unimportant, and irrelevant as this.

No cliché can undo the damage. Home is not where the heart is, and you actually do need to look further than your own backyard.

The question lingers: Who belongs on this earth and who doesn’t? Who is allowed to be a person and who is denied? As if being a person was a privilege, not a right.

The police man waves us on without another word. Gives me a kind of seedy sideways look as we speed away. Li is silent for the rest of the ride, says nothing until we are back at the school, safely and securely back home.

Jungle Song

A majestic Katchin warrior

Large, round, looks like the earth

Hitches up her skirt

Legs like the jungle

Glides onto the motorbike

And through the cool night we ride.

 

Li takes me home after a long day at school, back to my solitary room. The girls are off to bed now, after a hard night’s work, after studying demanding music and impossible-seeming English words.

Something clicked tonight, and the girls got a dose of power and grace. I watched it happen. I kept talking as I taught them the two-part bridge in English and in Thai, intricate melodies overlapping, rhythms that you have to pay attention to in order to hear your cue. I was like a rambling idiot at times, but I was determined to hold their focus throughout the rehearsal so they wouldn’t lose hope.

        “These are your words!” I kept telling them. A cheerleader in Tevas and silver jewelry, a random blonde choir teacher from God knows where.

         “Your words,” I say again. They stare back at me. You’re asking us to do WHAT? Two part counter-melodies in ENGLISH of all things– it’s HARD. I say I know this is hard, girls, but you can do it! I know they can do it. They can work for it. They study here in the jungle, they’ve got this chance…

Here amid the wild, scraggly trees and majestic hills. Here as the sun sets, sitting on the warm tile floor impossible to keep clean.

Our music is what connects us. I am sweating and there are ants everywhere, endless ants marching in rows, swarms of them in my music room, and mold. That too. Creeping its way up walls, along rafters. Not offensive, just apparent. Would be a disaster in the U.S. But not here. Hygiene is a different issue here in the jungle. It’s a subject that you just don’t try to comprehend.

Not everybody could stand this jungle. I’m amazed I can stand it, actually, knowing myself. The other day the cat dragged in a lizard and bit its head off and ate it, then left its body lying there on the floor. One of the teachers swept it up. The jungle. You just gotta go with it.

The girls are filthy tonight. They’ve been playing basketball– barefoot, sweaty, free. Just as they should be.

        “Neung, Song, Sam!” I wave my hands with insistent cheer, much like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and the girls start to sing. They open their mouths and sounds come out… And I understand nothing. English is a universe away. But then its time for the Thai verse and….hallelujah! Suddenly they’re on their game. They totally remember their lyrics, the melodies, the rhythms. I am directing them, my arms waving, fingers pointing while I earnestly try to plunk out beauty on the damn pathetic Casio keyboard, all the while completely forgetting this language and they look up from their music, look at me like “Girlfriend, get it together. Speak Thai,” and so I do. Clumsy and awkward, I sing with them in Thai. I take the same leap of faith I’ve been asking them to take and I just sing the damn Thai, whether I know it or not. I let it come out the way I’m telling them to let it come out: “DON’T BE SHY! GIVE ME YOUR SOUND!” I shout, and they look at me like, “OK, we get it. We’re singing!”

And then, as if by magic, they are singing– countermelodies flowing, voices weaving beautiful strings of sound and we finally manage to get… through… the… song.

They look up from their music, and for a moment there is silence. And then, we all applaud.

        “Geng mag,” I say. Good work. You did such good work.

Forget the ants and the dirt and the lizards and the mold. This jungle has given us our song.