One of the Invisible Men of Thailand

The invisible man of Phana has two daughters, both grown up now, and I met the older one some time before I met him. One year she suddenly appeared each evening at the old market place, selling roti from a small stall. I can't resist the small, thin, plain roti pancakes served with condensed milk and rolled up in stiff white paper. Roti are always made fresh to order so if a few people have ordered before you, you have to wait some time, though you place your order on arrival. So most evenings I would stand by her stall watching her prepare and serve the roti and chatting with her. Her English and my Thai were pretty much at the same level and we got along fine in a mixture of the two languages. I learned that she had completed her secondary schooling in Phana and had gone to study at a college in Bangkok, but she had come back to spend some vacation time with her parents who lived on a farm on the outskirts of Phana. I couldn't understand why I had never seen her before. Once seen she was hard to miss. No other woman in Phana, I thought, wore a hijab, the muslim headscarf.

Our meetings at the old market place continued on a more or less daily basis for a week or so. Then one day she suddenly announced that her father wanted to meet me. That sounded pretty alarming to me: our meetings were pleasant but strictly based on my craving for roti. To be fair, though, I had noticed that at 19 years old she was very attractive and rather sweet. Anyway, it was agreed that we would meet at the local celebration of Loy Kratong because, as she said, her father was "coming out" for that. I only learned later exactly what this "coming out" entailed and what it told me about her father's life in Thailand.

And so we met at the Loy Kratong celebration where he was doing a roaring trade in roti with the help of his wife and their two daughters. In the years since then we have become good friends. We have much in common: outsiders in Phana, and a few English words, many of them, he insists, are in fact Urdu, and sometimes he is right. I go to visit him on his farm and he drops by our house on his way to market. I will call him Al, because that is not his name but I am reminded of a rather meaningless song by Paul Simon on the Graceland album he made back in the last century sometime. I learned the story of his life, some of it illustrated by photos of him as a young man in Bangkok wearing flared trousers, platform shoes, long hair and sideburns.

 

 

Al's family came originally from what is now Pakistan, but he was born in what was then known as East Pakistan. During the civil war which resulted in the creation of the state of Bangladesh, Al, aged about 12, left home together with an uncle and a cousin, leaving behind his parents and sisters. The three of them spent some time in Myanmar before arriving in Bangkok about 5 years later. In Bangkok, Al worked mostly on building sites and got married to a young woman from Phana. His uncle and his cousin both died soon after they got to Bangkok. Al never heard from his family but assumed the worst; it was a very bloody civil war.

I have always been very impressed by the way Al was able to make his way in a strange country, how he became a married man, a father and a farmer, without having any family role models other than his distant childhood memories. (Now, to bring you up to date, he is a father-in-law and a grandfather, too.) I am sure that his religion and the 'family' that it provided, was a major influence in his growing into a mature, law-abiding and well-adjusted adult.

At first, too, I was impressed that Thailand had given a home to this "illegal immigrant". I was much less impressed when I dscovered what he meant by "coming out". He lived in a tiny community of about half a dozen houses on the outskirts of Phana. The farm he worked was owned by his wife who had inherited it from her mother. The local police knew he was there and they knew he was an 'illegal'. They left him alone but if he "came out" they fined him. So of course he rarely did leave the farm, Loy Kratong being a worthwhile exception because the roti trade was so profitable that the fine was worth paying.

I am happy to say that Al is quite legal now and has been for several years. The Thai government (under PM Thaksin) gave work permits to people from the neighbouring ASEAN countries if they were already employed. Al is employed by his wife to manage her farm and of course he came from Myanmar.

So Al is no longer one of Thailand's invisible men. He is able to go to and from the market freely, to drop by my house, to visit his daughter and her family in Buri Ram, and ride his motor-bike to Ubon on Friday to go to the mosque there.

 

 

Comments

[Paul Garrigan]

I enjoyed reading this. It is good that this man no longer needs to hide. I think you demonstrate that it is worthwhile to try and get to know people who we would normally more or less ignore; they can have such interesting lives.

[Mike]

Lawrence a great story, very interesting too.

I really must engage my local Roti man in conversation since like most of his fellow tradesman he is originally from Bangladesh.

Its also good that you highlight one of the many good things that Thaksin did which a lot of people conveniently forget.

Duen's father(deceased) was originally from Myanmar and got his Thai citizenship in a similar way albeit before TS came to power.

[Lawrence]

Thanks to you both (Paul and Mike) for your comments. Glad you enjoyed reading about 'Al'. There is a follow-up to come, in fact, because his life took a new turn earlier this year.

Not sure that Mr T did 'many' good things. He too often felt that what was good for him was good for Thailand and also made very sure that the converse was true.

[Martyn]

Lawrence what a fascinating story. So many of us if put into Al's situation of arriving in a new country would have sunk on the streets of Bangkok. Al conquered and prospered within the Land of Smiles. That's of great credit to the man. I'm happy he's now not invisible and can travel about without paying unjust fines.

Talking of invisible....I'm a little bit disappointed you haven't included a photo of the pretty young roti seller. I assume you had a camera back in those days.