Lahore, Pakistan

By Damir Sagolj

A man wearing traditional white Pakistani clothes disappeared from the window back into the burning building. A minute later, a different man wearing black emerged from inside but it looked like someone was holding his lifeless body. The body was slowly pushed over the edge of the window and then released. Twenty seconds later the man in white came out again. He sat calmly for a few seconds in the open window with his back turned outwards and then just fell.

GALLERY: MEN FALL FROM BUILDING INFERNO

And that was it; both men were dead in less than a minute. After several long hours of fighting a raging fire (or were they short hours? Time gets twisted in extreme situations like this), this part of the story ended in the way I had feared from the beginning – the worst possible way. I shot pictures of people falling from the building to their deaths, of others crying on the ground, of desperate and helpless rescue workers.

It was supposed to be an easy pre-election day in Lahore. We did expect some heat as the campaign of the two main candidates was coming to an end but what happened that Thursday still haunts me without any signs of easing. What started as an easy day for me and poor government workers in their modern office building in Punjab’s capital ended with more deaths than in election violence across the country over the next few days.

Earlier in the day, just after arriving in Lahore I received a short text message saying that a fire had broke out on the seventh floor of a government building and that there could be some people trapped inside. I was on my way to the hospital where Imran Khan, the former Pakistani cricket player and rising star in politics, was recovering from an injury. He was big in the news and there was a possibility for journalists to see him but a building on fire, with people trapped inside, is always the priority. I put Imran aside for a while and headed toward the LDA Plaza.

As expected, the scene around the building was as chaotic and mad as in your darkest nightmares. The “do not cross” yellow line served only to make our pictures more dramatic. Hundreds of onlookers around the building stood in the way of already confused rescue teams showing no signs of fear or respect for the situation. Later, the rumor spread that the building had cracked and it may collapse – nobody either cared nor moved back an inch.

Inside the building, the situation was much worse. Above the seventh floor where the fire originally broke out, there were scores of people trapped. Obviously, they couldn’t make their way out of the building and had to be evacuated. It was not such a high building – only nine floors – and was accessible from three sides so one would think there must have be a way for all of the government employees to be rescued.

Unfortunately, that’s not what we witnessed over the next several dramatic hours.

Those who made it to the roof – some of them climbing ropes and cables up the facade of the building – were saved by helicopters. The aircraft hovered low above the burning building making the fire go wilder and launching a dangerous storm of debris that flew into people’s eyes and our cameras. But, for the people on the roof that was a salvation – one by one they were taken to safety. I could read the relief in their body language, no matter how small they looked through my lens as the helicopters flew away.

For others who were not lucky enough to make it to the roof, what seemed like a manageable fire soon turned into an inferno. At some point, more based on what I saw around me on the ground, I realized there was a minimal chance for these poor people to be saved. I’m not an expert in rescue procedures but this operation didn’t look very promising from the very beginning.

I focused my mind and cameras on two men, both sitting on the windows of the seventh floor, their legs hanging outside and faces wrapped in scarves to block the heat and the black smoke – one on the east and the other one on the south side of the building. For hours they both frantically gestured towards firefighters who could not do much except spray the building and cool victims with water from afar. Time was running out and the gestures of people trapped became weaker and weaker.

I quietly told a friend of mine, another journalist at the scene, afraid to hear it myself “they will jump”. He just closed his eyes; we both knew it will happen.

What happened later I had to carefully reconstruct – frame by frame in my head and pixel by pixel in my pictures. The final image was mind-blowing and very disturbing. But, it’s not really important what I say here – did they really jump to their deaths or just fall? For two men from the south side of the building the raging and approaching fire was too much – they could not stand the heat and smoke anymore. The man from the east side was still hanging onto the window for a long time but his movements were weaker and weaker. At some point he stopped showing signs of life.

In total, 25 people died in the terrible accidental fire at LDA Plaza in central Lahore on that day, local media reported later. The elections that brought me to Pakistan were relatively quiet and Imran Khan was still in the hospital.

By Damir Sagolj

Totally unconcerned with incoming traffic, Khun Tuey powers the ambulance van through Bangkok’s narrow streets as fast as its engine can push it. Soon after the chase started, the pointer on the speedometer kisses the 120 mark and for a short moment I take my eyes off the road to look around. Next to the driver sits his beautiful, four month pregnant wife Amarin, ignoring what passes by the windshield as if she is watching a session of Bulgarian parliament on TV. To the left is Somat, a medic with 110 hours of training – the team’s expert for injuries. His eyes are closed and it looks like he is sleeping. I hope he is praying. Tonight, we all need prayers to come true.

It is the crazy wet Songkran, as the week-long Thai New Year is known. Earlier in the day, we all enjoyed the festival – I sprayed water, wore powder on my face, drank beer and played fool with friends.

But the fun part is over. Tonight is another Songkran night; one of seven dangerous ones when an already high number of traffic-related deaths and injuries surge. Experts say Thailand has the greatest number of road deaths in Southeast Asia per capita, due to a combination of lax road laws and careless driving habits.

Of those fatalities, four percent take place during Songkran, when alcohol is often added to the mix.

To get the full picture of the festival and its duality, I join the foundation patrol for couple of nights. The foundation is Ruamkatanyu, one of the two largest free rescue services for accident victims in Bangkok. They are sometimes called Bangkok’s body snatchers – the subject of a great and complicated story that seems to be mandatory for every foreign journalist to cover.

Not long after I climbed into their ambulance, the call over the radio announced the accident. With a quick prayer and his hands closed above the steering wheel, Khun Tuey takes us for a crazy rollercoaster ride through Bangkok’s downtown.

Behind the driver and his front seat companions, a young volunteer and I are glued to the little window looking toward the windshield. There’s another volunteer (sleeping) and another medic (checking his iPad) – all of them routinely uninterested in what seems to me as our certain and fast approaching crash.

I have been warned the foundation drivers are something special, atop the fact that almost every Thai I know gets possessed by ghosts of F1 drivers as soon as they sit behind the wheel. But this drive is beyond my expectations and my alarms are fully on.

I try to remember statistics on what seat in the car is the most secure in the case of a crash – is it back left, just behind what is called “a shahid (martyr) seat” in the Middle East? Or behind the driver? There are no seat belts where I’m sitting and for a moment I think lying in the stretcher would be a good idea.

Have I ever heard the news of an emergency van crashing in Bangkok? Would newspapers publish such a thing? I ask our driver, politely and trying not to show any concerns for our safety, if he ever had an accident. He said that in his 11 years of driving for the foundation, he’s had zero accidents. The only accidents he’s had was when he was driving backwards. Forward and fast is okay.

I’m bit calmer now. However, the feeling is similar to when I had been in claustrophobic armored vehicles, with U.S. soldiers driving on Iraqi roads littered with bombs. There are only two things you can do: Ask for a vehicle to stop and get out now, or just relax and pray for good luck. Otherwise, there is not much you can do.

After a few long minutes of manic chase, we are at the site of the first accident of the night – a man who fell off his motorcycle in front of an apartment building in Thong Lor. Most of the injuries during the first several days of Songkran in Bangkok are from motorcycle accidents. Later in the week when people get tired from partying and drinking, the fights take over as the main cause of injuries.

A man is helped by a smaller team from the same foundation that came to the site before us. That is not unusual – no matter how small the accident is, there will always be more than one team coming from different places to help.

Few minutes later, while driving back to a petrol station which is their night base, a call for another intervention came over the ever screaming radio used by foundation volunteers. At the same speed (and same prayers), the ambulance van reaches the front of a building on Rama IV Road. It’s a hit and run accident this time. The car hit a foreign man and drove away.

And it goes like this for the whole night. The team goes from one accident to another until after 2a.m. (the bars closing time) when the traffic calms down and the city goes to sleep. There will be few vehicles remaining on the streets, but for most of us it is time to go home.

In the few hours spent with a foundation ambulance patrolling only a small part of Bangkok, I witnessed several motorcycle accidents (of which two were very serious), two hit-and-runs and one strange episode in which a man, unconscious and helpless, was found lying on the road. The injured people are helped on the spot and delivered in great speed to the hospitals nearby.

Whoever follows news these days in Thailand is bombarded with numbers about road accidents during the festival. Numbers and numerology is big in Southeast Asia. Everyone is interested in numbers, writes them down and looks for the pattern they appear in. Often, people rush to the accident scene to write down the numbers from the license plates of the vehicles involved – the numbers might be lucky and can be used in the lottery.

The numbers for this year’s Songkran are awful – there are more people killed than in the previous year.

It is difficult to understand why the festival celebrations are sometimes so wild, despite the government’s pleads to respect each other and be careful on the road. Every year, the numbers of casualties gets grimmer and grimmer.

Khun Tuey and his comrades can’t do much about the number of accidents but they can certainly help the statistic – they do save lives. And that’s what they do night after night, all year long. I felt privileged to be a part of their team for few crazy nights in Songkran.

By Damir Sagolj

A devotee with a small zoo of animals tattooed on his body speeds toward the large statue of the Big Master, jumping over others and making unusual sounds and gestures. A volunteer standing in his way is big but fortunately very quick to stop the frantic run before a man crashes into the stage. A tattooed man bounces off the volunteer’s huge body, wakes-up from the trance and calmly goes back into the crowd. The air-bag volunteer turns to his colleagues and, as if nothing special is happening, comments in the ultra-cool manner of Bud Spencer (remember the Banana Joe movie?) “It is hot today. Very hot.”

And it’s hot indeed. It’s the beginning of the Thai summer. Only a few hours after the sunrise, the temperature is over 35 degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit). It is also abnormally humid. However, people who came to Wat Bang Phra today don’t really care for such banal things as heat and humidity – they are here for a higher cause.

Every year, on a special day in March thousands of devotees from all around Thailand (some from abroad, too) travel for the Magic Tattoo festival to Nakhon Prathom province, just over an hour drive from Bangkok. The festival takes place at a temple well known for “magically charged” tattoos.

People with such tattoos believe the inked drawings with elaborate designs of animals and sacred scripts give them mystical powers – protection from bullets and other danger, along with other benefits. They are made all across the country and very different people wear them, just like the amulets you can see everywhere in Thailand. When soldiers from the Thai army went to Iraq on a peacekeeping mission, 443 of them carried 6000 magic amulets for protection.

Tattoos and amulets are made elsewhere but Wat Bang Phra is a special place and the most famous for its powerful, magic tattoos. A few days before the festival, I spoke to a young man from Bangkok’s notorious Khlong Toey slum about his tattoos. Salut got his first tattoo at the age of 17. Now, nine years later, most of his skin is covered in inked drawings and there is barely enough space for another. But, he needs more tattoos, saying they protect him from danger and give him extra self-confidence. After observing his body and smoking a menthol cigarette (that, along with flowers, is offered in exchange for tattoos), a Buddhist monk pulls out a traditional half meter long needle and starts inking sacred script in the tiny empty space around the young man’s left nipple.

With just a needle and ink made of herbs, a tiny amount of snake venom, cigarette ash and some other ingredients, master monks at the temple make beautiful tattoos with computer precision and great speed. The recipe for the ink differs from master to master. Some use just the oil, from sesame or coconut, to make invisible tattoos that have the same powers once they are finished and blessed. At any given time, there is a line of people patiently waiting for their turn to get tattoos. Not many questions are asked and everything goes very quickly and smoothly.

The sacred tattoos, known as Sak Yant, can be inked at the temple anytime but today is the festival and a special day – its powers can be renewed. According to Buddhist belief, to maintain the holiness and powers of the tattoo, bearers have to obey certain rules – not to kill or steal, no drugs or drinking, no lying and no sexual misconduct.

Perhaps, there are some people at the temple on Magic Tattoo day who don’t follow these rules very strictly so recharging is needed. Lots of devotees who we would colloquially call “tough guys” wait in the crowd and seem to be very determined to get the most of what the special day offers.

As the pleasant dawn turns into a very hot morning, tattooed devotees start working themselves into a trance. At some point, one by one, they jump-up from the praying position and start making their way toward the statue of the Big Master. Some of them run maniacally, others crawl, but all mimic the creatures that are tattooed on their bodies.

Over the next few hours, there will be many tigers, some chickens and snakes and at least one of something powerful I can not recognize trying to make it all the way to the statue. On their way, the wall of air-bag volunteers stands making sure devotees are calmed before someone gets hurt.

Most of the devotees are men, some teenagers and some older gentlemen, but there are a few women and foreigners in the crowd, too. The foreigners, called farang here, take it very seriously. Thai people don’t seem to care about these weird looking white people and it all goes smoothly. As one of the devotees said, “We are one big tattooed family here.”

The tattooed family continues the religious performance until its culmination a few hours later. Just as the heat becomes unbearable, as if someone gave an order (they probably did but I didn’t hear it) everyone jumps at the same time and starts charging toward the statue. I’m talking about few thousand people, many of them in a trance.

If a photographer on site (me in this case) didn’t climb on the stage where the monks and shrine are, no pictures would be taken and it would not be fun anymore. Based on the good advice of more experienced colleagues, I’m with the monks above the devotees before it’s too late. The sound is (as is the case for such religious ceremonies) way too loud and I don’t think I can even hear my own thoughts. Maybe that is the whole idea with these monster speakers at religious places – who knows.

The horrible noise means there will be no ambient sounds recorded this time for my multimedia report so I go back to where I belong – to make more intense pictures of believers trying to reach the statue and the shrine. Monks use hoses similar to those of firefighters to spray the crowd with holy water. They also give them flowers, fruit and other food including the smiling pigs head from around the statue. Everyone on the ground seems to be desperate to get some and, at one point, the whole scene reminds me of food distribution in an overcrowded refugee camp but with more smiling people.

Soon afterwards it’s all over – no one is in a trance anymore except the person with the microphone who continues to test my nerves and the limits of over-sized speakers installed everywhere. Luckily, in the quiet corners of the temple some refreshing food and drinks are served by ever smiling volunteers.

After we all leave and the Magic Tattoo festival is over, the temple will go back to its routine – more magic tattoos will be made for those who need and believe in them. It is Thailand after all; the land of smiles and rituals that people from different cultures consider strange and perhaps don’t fully understand. But for local people it all seems to be working well. See you next year at the temple – just bring the ear-plugs.

By Damir Sagolj

“Gentlemen, that was excellent!” said a young American called Richard as he downed a glass of snake’s blood in a room full of cobras and tough-looking Asian men. “Never refuse the invitation, never resist the unfamiliar.”

But those lines come from a movie called The Beach, and Richard was played by Leonardo DiCaprio. A few days ago, another young American, this time a real-life U.S. Marine training in Thailand, told Reuters what cobra’s blood really tasted like. “Terrible. Really terrible. But it’s a good experience. It’s something I can always tell my grandchildren about.”

And that sums it all up. For troops attending this strange training exercise, it’s something to tell grandchildren and friends at home. And there is Facebook, of course – many thumbs-up for bad-ass Marines.

Cobra Gold is an annual military exercise that gathers more than 10,000 troops from the U.S and its Asian partners. It includes other more conventional exercises, but journalists can pick only a few events from a busy schedule to cover, and top of the list is jungle survival.

It looks much more exciting and tough in pictures than in reality.

First, the Marines listened to a Thai instructor, a sort of smiling version of Chuck Norris, at a military base just behind U Tapao airport in Chon Buri province. The idea was to prepare them if, by some miracle, they ended up alone and unsupported in the hostile jungle.

What happened in reality was that a group of young Western kids, eyes wide and cameras ready, listened to Khun Norris tell them about the jungle: what to eat, what to drink, where to find shelter – in short, how to survive before the rescue team snatches you back to the world of hamburgers and cholesterol.

The training itself offers useful information; how to desalinize sea water, how to sleep in a tree, how to find and prepare food that in the real world grows on supermarket shelves. Everyone seemed bored. They were waiting for the most spectacular part. Cobras!

But before the cobras a Marine tried to bite the head off a live chicken. This is what happened:

Two birds were brought in. Khun Norris killed the first by holding its neck and swinging its body onto the ground. The chicken’s head remained in his hand, while the lifeless body lay at his feet. He made it look easy.

A Marine volunteered to kill the second chicken. But after swinging it twice the head of the stubborn chicken refused to be disconnected from its body. Khun Norris said he must now do it with his teeth. Meaning, he would have to bite the bird’s head off.

A frantic battle ensued between perfect American dentistry and the leathery neck of a farmed Thai chicken. Both sides ended up losing. Khun Norris (who wore a barely visible, Mona Lisa smile) ended the slightly embarrassing episode with a Rambo knife.

Enough with chicken, bring the snakes in! The Marines formed a wider circle (safety first!) and a wooden box was placed in the center. Khun Norris opened it and nonchalantly caught a cobra as if it was as harmless as a water hose, not one of the deadliest snakes in nature.

For those who live in Asia and whose understanding of usual and normal is in serious disorder (me included), this could be just another show with dangerous animals and reptiles. But for American Marines who are probably more familiar with more sophisticated military techniques, catching and eating a snake to fight a war is probably totally alien.

The most important part comes right after the cobras are beheaded. The Marines stand in line with mouths open, like little birds waiting for their mother to feed them. The blood drips in. Some miss the mouth, which adds to the drama.

Photos are taken. The media is happy and the Marines have digital certificates that they once drank cobra blood. We say goodbye to the very likable Khun Norris over a glass of army rum – with a drop of cobra blood in it.

By Damir Sagolj

A siren rips apart the silence at the tsunami memorial in Aceh. A short announcement follows, after a greeting in Arabic and blessing from God – everyone is to leave the site immediately. It is time for prayers and the memorial built around a huge ship stranded miles inland during the 2004 tsunami will soon close its gates. Visitors are leaving the site, expected to go to nearby mosque and pray.

I’ve been watching different groups silently walking through the gates – students, business-like people, families and tourists – few went praying. Others were more interested in small shops selling souvenirs and in their pictures being taken. Some stood behind the memorial’s fence, smoked a cigarette and then just boarded their buses.

Aside from some smaller districts in Indonesia that have sharia-inspired bylaws, Aceh is the only province in Indonesia, the country with the world’s largest Muslim population, where such laws are implemented. This is something that occurred for complicated reasons some of which go well beyond the religion itself and have more to do with Achenese tradition, the long struggle for the independence and conflict with outside forces, Jakarta included.

Indeed Aceh is where Islam, spreading from the Middle East, landed first in the archipelago (the province is often called “the verandah of Mecca”, something that is mandatory for every reporter coming from Aceh to mention) but it was only at the beginning of the 21st century when sharia was announced by the government in an attempt to finally end a rebellion that had lasted for decades.

The first punishments came after the law entered into force, in what locals say was something of a “pilot project”. It took few years to organise how the laws would be seriously implemented. A sharia police force was formed, courts were established, but it was the tsunami in 2004 and the following peace deal that marked the start of more ambitious implementation of several sharia laws passed by local authorities.

There is a strong connection between the devastating tsunami that killed 170,000 people in Aceh and the implementation of Sharia law.

A message in thick red letters handwritten on a wooden board is placed at a spot where it cannot be missed on a popular beach in Banda Aceh, the province’s capital. The warning to those who might be violating one of the Islamic law says: “Be aware! Being a couple dating alone at the beach in our village is your own responsibility”.

The other one, just down the road warns: “dating is extremely forbidden”. Beside the sign, a happy couple sits fully dressed in ankle deep water playing with their kid, offering an idealistic picture of a Muslims enjoying their time.

Dariani Binti Ali Basyah, a 46-year-old shop owner near the beach and a widow who lost her husband and three sons in the tsunami explains to me “I believe the tsunami was the punishment from the God. It was not just a natural catastrophe, it was the punishment. Since long time ago ulama was warning about the punishment that will be sent when we are not ready. Even last night at zikr (a collective prayer) they were talking about the punishment, the warning from the God”.

Now, villagers put up signs warning people from outside to obey the rules. “I’m worried it will happen again,” Binti continues. “There could be another disaster, not only tsunami. It can also be individual punishment”.

I look at the strong woman with a lot of respect for her struggle to rebuild her devastated life and stay safe. But, that does not make complete sense, many of my questions have no answers – why here, why innocent, why…?

I understand that according to Herr Marx religion can be the “opium of the people”, and that such a belief serves as the anaesthetic after the big tragedy, like an airbag that absorbs the impact of mighty calamity. I didn’t say any of that to the woman who didn’t expect any words from me anyway. I just lifted my camera, focused on her face with no visible emotion and then moved a lens to the right, snapping an unnecessary picture of a bloody sunset descending over Aceh.

Who am I to judge? I’m just a stranger who parachutes into other people’s lives and only hopes to understand. I read post-tsunami poems in the book I bought at the airport, one of them saying “I believe that this is a sign of His love/For us/An eternal love wrapped in secrets, which can never/Be grasped”.

These beliefs are not only found here near the sea and among the survivors; some people
across the province also think the tsunami was a message from God and some even take actions beyond writing warning messages. Recently, shops offering snacks and soft drinks to young people gathering nearby were set on fire, just to make sure young and unmarried couples would not sit too close to each other in isolated places, angering the God.

Other places, more isolated and far from villages, offer a different picture. On Lam Puuk beach, just outside Banda Aceh, hundreds of youngsters, boys and girls together, play volleyball, bury each other in the sand or just swim. No bikinis here, but people are certainly not fully dressed as sharia instructs – I see some headscarves and long robes, but people mostly wear loose t-shirts and shorts. It seems to be a lot of fun here, as it should be on a beautiful and sunny afternoon.

A group of teenage girls burry a boy in sand and insist I shoot a happy picture of them before they all run into the water. It gives me the feeling I’m in Lebanon or Jordan, but not Iran or Saudi Arabia. “Sharia lite”, a friend of mine suggests.

Who is going to make sure Sharia laws are implemented here, far from scared villagers and among just the ghosts of empty houses built for tsunami survivors in the wrong place? Sharia police perhaps, on their rare visits to such places.

Formed to implement Sharia law, Wilayatul Hisbah (WH), which is the official name for the sharia police, is spread across the province working in small units, patrolling and conducting occasional raids. The units are made up of different kinds of people – some of them claim to be on a mission, others just needed a job. There is no more obvious move for a journalist than to join the sharia police force patrolling streets and “isolated places”.

Facing strong competition from many of the so-called embeds I have done with different forces around the world, I must say that my time spent with WH was probably the most boring
one. With only occasional moments worth documenting, most of the time
on patrol is spent praying or on coffee breaks. It was boring but interesting, a friend of mine would say, for such an important story that offers more downtime than excitement.

It all starts with in the morning with a military-style set up – men to the left,
ladies to the right – listening to the commander’s routine short speech. The force that looks more like a veteran boy-scout unit mixed with militant housewives will soon be deployed on pick-up trucks to the streets of Banda Aceh.

No weapons are carried, if you don’t count several Rambo knives hanging from the belts of “wehas”.

Their vehicle, clearly marked as WH, drives slowly until someone calls warning of a possible violation. On my first day with the force, I made friends with Iwan who joined the sharia police only a year ago. He seems to be more eager for action than others and I keep an eye on
him, looking for the picture that would tell the story.

After making several rounds, the pick-up leaves the city centre and goes into the labyrinth of a neighbourhood built unsystematically for the survivors of the tsunami – the patrol is obviously looking for someone who has broken the rules. This time, contrary to a reporter’s wish to witness something more exciting, the targets are three teenage boys who escaped school and are now smoking cigarettes in the shade of a big tree. The boys, naturally, jump and start running away the moment they see the patrol arriving. Iwan is the one who chases them but even his enthusiasm, which I suspect has something to do with my presence, fades as soon as the speedy violators disappear behind a fence into a bush.

Their school backpacks are searched and the proof of their anti-Islamic activity is found – a set of dominos that suggest possible gambling. The boys are too far away now and our patrol abandons the chase to go praying. The dominos are theatrically thrown into the mud.

After the mid-day prayer, more exciting law enforcement takes place – another schoolboy is captured, this time in an online game centre! Iwan keeps his big hands down but leans forward getting into the boy’s face to give him a moral lecture. His facial muscles dance, his
shoulders jump while bursts of words are fired at the kid. The boy remains very cool just like other young gamers in a dim room more excited about their scores of terminated cyber enemies and playing their fantasy football games. (As more bags are searched, a playstation wizard in the far corner seems to be unbeatable, with Messi, Ronaldo and Ibrahimovic in the same team).

Day after day, I witness more patrols all much alike. Only on Fridays, the routine changes. It is a Muslim holy day and men are supposed to go to the mosque for prayers. This
time, to ensure sharia is not violated, only an all-female unit is deployed to the city, armed with determination and a pair of loudspeakers mounted on their trucks. The message broadcast is simple and loud – all the business are to stop their activities, all shops to close and Muslim men are to go to the nearest mosques. Indeed, as the prayer time gets closer, more and more curtains are placed over the shop windows and the streets are almost deserted by men.

The patrol vehicle spots a small restaurant still open minutes before prayers start, and it pulls over, with a warning blasting from it speakers. A policewoman gets out of the truck and walks towards a man whose meal has just been served. A piece of chicken in his hand, he faces a lecture. In a movie-like scene, they look into each other’s eyes for few long seconds
and the man gives-up. It might be because a journalist is present but he gets up and leaves his lunch for prayer.

Back at the station, our mutual addiction to black coffee brings an Achenese and a Bosnian closer, and I use the downtime to talk to Iwan. The interview turns into a monologue as soon as the first question is asked, when Iwan gives me a theological explanation of a variety of issues. I write down the main points: he is on a mission spreading love among Muslims, he confirms that the tsunami was the punishment from the God, there should be more sharia police and implementation should be stricter… As far as possible human rights violations go, he laughs and says there are none and that everything is matter of perception.

However, human right activists warn that the implementation of Sharia actually does violate some human rights that are guaranteed by Indonesia’s laws and international conventions. Evi Zian, a prominent human rights activist from Banda Aceh explains that the rights of most vulnerable groups are indeed violated. “Implementation of sharia law actually brought human rights violations. Implementation itself using discrimination and also not following the law that had been ratified by Indonesian government. The vulnerable groups who had been getting
lots of discrimination are women, young people, minorities and, of course, the poorest.”

In the days that followed I visited those from vulnerable groups, carrying my camera and sound recorder with me. In a coffee shop called Black Jack, members of a punk band known best for an episode in which they were publicly punished and had their hair shaved, perform a song about equality for me on improvised instruments. (There is no boss, no subordinate/One goal, one hope/Live free, no occupation).

A few of the province’s remaining homosexuals and transsexuals complain that Aceh is probably one of the worst places for them to live but “it’s still okay”. A rather large group of protestant Christians who gathered for an early Christmas celebration in their church seem to be happy people, but also point out some difficulties.

Despite Sharia law, all of them say they are at home for good and, if the rules are followed, everything will be okay. At the same time, they do complain about sometimes un-professional and partial implementation of laws, mostly blaming it on the police and individuals who sometimes take things in their own hands.

“I don’t like the Sharia police, they disturb me” says one rebellious boy enjoying the nice afternoon at the beach. He confirms what many others are saying – for them, the problem is not the laws and Sharia itself, the real problem is implementation.

Human right activists indeed say that implementation is not what it should be – the police themselves sometimes violate laws and the rich and powerful get away without punishment
while the poor are regularly targeted. For some, such punishment is more than enough. Humiliated, they leave their villages or in the worst-case scenario – like the case of a teenage girl recently accused of adultery – they kill themselves.

Outside the capital Banda Aceh, the image changes slightly. There are more violations closer to the border with other provinces, while strong self- rule prevails in remote areas.

However, the main thing remains the same – there is a law, a force to implement it and politics above everything. It all makes one big power game in which the poor and the weak seem to suffer the most.

Seen from abroad, the issues surrounding sharia seem more serious and dramatic, partly due to sensationalist reporting and all the fuss about Islam in the world. You would see pictures on TV or in the paper of violators being publicly punished, but the number of such cases and
the reality is different. Very few punishments actually happen under sharia, and most of them are not meant to physically hurt but just to give a moral lecture.

However, the set of laws in force in Aceh is just a smaller part of what would be full Sharia implementation, covering all levels of society. At present, the sharia package in Aceh targets only those violating the Muslim dress code, illicit behaviour, drinking and gambling.

Some more serious laws with punishments that would include stoning to death are in procedure but not implemented yet. Many of those I spoke to – regular folks with ordinary lives, predict that will never happen.

I spent my last few days in Aceh documenting daily life in the province devastated by long decades of conflict and by a tsunami which left scars difficult to heal. For two boys wearing football jerseys (one Rooney and one Suarez) in an Islamic boarding school for orphans, I’m just another foreigner who has come only to leave a few days later. They ignore me, as they should.

For patients in a mental hospital whose number rose after the tsunami, I’m just someone who has cigarettes. For Winda and Yasir Saputra, a couple who met over Facebook (which is incredibly popular because of the restrictions imposed on young people) and whose wedding I photographed, I’m just another guy with the camera who promises pictures…

As I leave through the gates of a new, mosque-like airport building, another post-tsunami poem comes to my mind “To be born in Aceh is a disaster/To be born in Aceh is a curse/But the Achanese people are mighty proud and die here/God is Great/By God, the Achanese people are used to tests”.

The plane takes off and the Bosnian in me finally feels he understands at least a part of the complicated story – the part about the curse and the part about pride.

(WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT)

The bottom picture is of a dead man killed by who-knows-who and left alone in the desert. I shot this image almost ten years ago from atop a U.S. Marines tank speeding towards Baghdad.

It immediately got lost, the photo itself, amongst others illustrating what would be celebrated as the liberation of a country from a tyrant. Other images of fighting and those of U.S. soldiers doing this and that played well in the papers. Somewhere near Nassiriya, this man was left forgotten to rot under the desert sun — and on our hard drives.

Not long after, I realized that was probably my best shot from the short invasion from Kuwait to Baghdad. This was a simple but powerful picture of an unknown man killed by whomever and left alone among tank trails, surrounded by nothing but dust and the noise of war. Everyone was too busy with their personal wars at the moment, I suppose. People had to survive, to run away, while others had to win battles and justify their leader’s decisions. I had to take more pictures that seemed more important for the world of news that is always hungry for answers to those questions.

Yesterday I edited a strong set of pictures shot by a young, talented and brave Reuters photographer in Myanmar named Soe Zeya Tun. He covered another round of the terrible story of ethnic clashes between Muslim Rohingya people and the local Buddhist Rakhine population.

The first picture he sent that I picked up was something that made me look into my archive for that Iraqi man. It was Soe Zeya’s powerful picture of a single body (a woman? a Muslim?) floating in the sea not far from the village that was burnt in the latest escalation of bloody violence. People were escaping the violence in their rickety boats. This one didn’t make it.

Killed by who knows who, this unknown woman was left under the tropical sun in the sea somewhere near Pauktaw.

I’m sure, once the dust from breaking news settles down, this picture which says it all will remain as a perfect visual document of how brutal the conflict was and how fragile the life of people caught in it actually is.

In front of me stood what must have been the most beautiful “god’s” body in the whole of Phuket. Her gentle pink robe swayed above bare feet as she made her way in a trance through the crowd of devotees at the Chinese Jui Tui shrine. And her pretty face was pierced with a long spike, a piece of fruit stuck on its end.

This woman was a “mah song”, roughly translated from the Thai language as “entranced horse” or “one whose body is used by gods as a vehicle”. She was the centre of attention for a good reason. For the day, she represented a god whose powers would help purify members of the community and wash away any bad karma.

GALLERY: Extreme vegetarian festival

“The god has to hurt itself, for cleaning us from our bad deeds”, the brother of a mah song told a confused journalist, who was practically from another universe.

This ritual takes place during the vegetarian festival in Phuket, a place normally better known for its sandy beaches and wild nightlife. The annual festivities last nine days in the ninth lunar month, a time when the local Thai Chinese community celebrates the Nine Emperor Gods festival.

Don’t let the name “vegetarian festival” fool you – this is not a normal family event during which relatives gather around a table to share special food. The festival goes way beyond the tame meaning of its title, and it’s not for those with a weak stomach. Meat may not be on the menu, but the piercing of flesh is a big part of this bizarre event.

The vegetarian festival tradition goes back some 150 years. The legend is that a Chinese opera troupe fell ill in Phuket, but after observing a strictly vegetarian diet and performing rituals to the Emperor Gods, they all made a full recovery. The same festival is observed in China, but the special dimension involving piercing and self-mutilation is unique to Thailand, and is believed to have been influenced by the Indian Thaipusam festival.

The ritual starts early in the morning. Thousands of devotees wearing white gather at a local shrine before the dawn breaks and before the unbearable heat of southern Thailand kicks in. Everyone here wears white except the mah songs. They are the chosen ones and will soon slowly fall into a trance and give their bodies to a god. Their breathing accelerates as they make gestures and sounds that are not of this world – unless you are counting B movie Hollywood productions.

After the trance takes hold, one of nine Emperor Gods takes possession of the mah song’s body. Tomorrow, he or she won’t remember what has happened. The only evidence will be photographs and ugly scars, which will serve as reminders of the ritual.

Once in a trance, the mah song is not supposed to feel pain. This is a good thing, because on any other day, a mere glance at the arsenal of blades prepared for the ritual would be enough to make a person run away immediately. But here all the spikes, swords, knives and other sharp objects are regular festival props, which will soon be pierced through the cheeks of the chosen ones.

Relatives help cut the mah song’s flesh, and make a hole so that the object – sometimes of truly impressive proportions – can fit through. One, two or even twelve pieces of metal will remain pierced through their cheeks until the ceremony is over. Long hours of walking through what seems like a war zone, with a ridiculous number of exploding firecrackers going off, are ahead for these people who have – do not doubt it – unthinkable superpowers. They will walk, followed by thousands, through their neighbourhood touching others’ heads, offering candies and benedictions for the upcoming year.

In some shrines, the mutilation gets very creative. A sharpened section of a car wheel, a pair of guns, an umbrella or a floor lamp – all can be used for the occasion. Sometimes two helpers are required to carry the objects that are pierced through the cheeks of a mah song.

Self-mutilation, a theological concept that is not unknown in Christianity and Islam, is not a traditional part of Thailand’s dominant Buddhist religion. But for centuries, the Chinese community and its Taoist beliefs have played an important role in Thai society, so this tradition seems to be here to stay. Based on what I’ve seen over the past week, the festival is growing – just like the size of the objects used to pierce people’s bodies. It seems that the more spectacular the mutilation, the more effective the ritual purification is.

Scientists have studied the phenomenon of the hypnotic trance, which helps shield the mah song from pain, for a long time. Although some say that subjects are only “faking”, other reports state that people in a trance state have the ability to “modify the pain”. As a matter of fact, the hypnotic trance is used by anesthesiologists in some European hospitals for patients who are addicted to pain killers or those with stomach ulcers who can’t take anti–inflammatory medicines.

In any case, whatever makes the beautiful mah song I saw in her pink dress feel no pain is very special and deserves every form of respect.

Having witnessed her trance, others from the festival, including a small army of journalists and tourists armed with cameras, will go back to the shade of their boring, terrestrial lives, happy with their pictures and richer for having seen something from another world.

For more than a century, owners of ox-drawn carts, World War Two-era trucks and decrepit buses have descended on the Shwe Nyaung Pin Nat Shrine under a banyan tree in Myanmar’s biggest city to bless one of the world’s oldest vehicle fleets, dominated by Japanese rust-buckets from the 1980s or older.

Today, as the country emerges from 49 years of isolation, the shrine has new visitors: freshly minted cars. The Honda’s owner, Nyein Chang Aung, hopes the blessing will protect him from accidents in a country with some of the world’s most treacherous roads.

“My elders were coming to this tree and I’m doing the same,” he said. “They never had any accidents.”

As Myanmar opens up, its antiquated transportation system is undergoing dramatic change. New cars are plying roads dominated by rattletrap buses — known as “bikepoo”, or “big belly”, in the Myanmar language — and wheezing taxis.

The decades-old buses as well as trains are being retired. Airlines are updating fleets of mostly ageing Fokker planes from the 1970s.

Yet, despite the changes, travelling in Myanmar remains a colorful, surreal and daunting experience — a legacy of rules drawn up by paranoid generals who governed since a 1962 coup until last year, ruling by fear and superstition.

Most vehicles, for instance, are right-hand drive, a throwback to British colonialism. Yet the roads are right-hand traffic, similar to the American system, reducing visibility and keeping drivers on perpetual alert. As more vehicles are imported, such quirks worsen the strains of already-congested roads.

And few people know why such rules exist anyway.

Late dictator Ne Win switched from left-hand drive after he seized power in 1962. Some locals put the change down to superstition, while others say it was an anti-colonial, political gesture.

“Most people believe his trusted astrologer told Ne Win that changing from left to right hand side would bring him good luck in fighting against the leftist underground Burma Communist Party and its sympathisers,” said Kyaw Nyunt, a 75-year-old former drug store manager.

“BIG BELLY” BUSES

Car showrooms have mushroomed across the country, offering everything from Chinese-made micro cars to Japanese SUVs and expensive BMWs, all of which have begun jockeying for space on roads shared with tractors and occasional ox-carts.

Conspicuously absent in Yangon are motorbikes and bicycles, possibly a casualty of the former junta’s paranoia. They were banned in Yangon about 20 years ago. Explanations vary. Some say a motorbike driver once pointed his pistol-like finger at a car carrying a powerful general in the former military junta. Others say it was to prevent students cycling from campus to campus during protests.

In August, Japan Car Co Ltd, a member of ICE Group of Japan, and Myanmar’s state-owned Ministry of Rail Transport, signed a $451 million deal to improve bus services in Yangon.

Such deals mark the end for World War Two-era “bikepoo” buses.

“This is the last month I’m driving a bikepoo”, said Aung Win, its 48-year-old driver, as he surveyed passengers — students, Buddhist monks and farmers — sitting on wooden benches bolted into the vehicle’s wooden floor.

“I’ve been driving it for 20 years and I’m sorry my bikepoo is going to the scrap,” he said of the 1940s modified Chevrolet C15, among the world’s oldest buses in operation.

“The bikepoo era is over,” he added.

His manager will use its licence to import a new bus. That also marks a change. From 1997 until last year when a semi-civilian government took office, military-owned companies monopolized the distribution of vehicle import licenses. Only the rich and the powerful could afford them.

But a new policy went into effect in September last year. Since then, import permits have been issued for more than 58,000 cars, Ministry of Commerce data shows. For travelers in Yangon’s stifling tropical heat, that offers some relief: a few taxis now have air conditioning.

Car prices have plunged but remain high compared to other countries, inflated by taxes. A typical 2001-model Toyota sedan now costs about 20 million kyat ($23,000), compared to more than 120 million kyat ($140,000) in August last year.

A 1987 Nissan sedan now sells for about 7 million kyat ($8,200), compared to 20 million kyat ($23,000) previously.

Trains are also getting refurbished, mainly with new cars imported from India and China. With Japanese assistance, a 600-km (370-mile) rail link between Yangon and Mandalay in the north will be upgraded, shortening the journey to eight hours from 14, Deputy Minister of Rail Transport Thaung Lwin told Reuters.

A train line that loops around Yangon on ageing narrow-gauge rails is also being upgraded, he added, potentially transforming a colorful three-hour journey around the city of five million people. As rickety carriages jolt and sway between stations, passengers hang off the side. Banana-sellers and lottery-vendors hawk their goods inside.

At a station in the suburb of Danyingone, women sell food on the tracks and naked children jump between platforms, their cheeks painted in swirls of yellow paste made from thanaka bark, a type of sun protection dating back centuries.

Airlines are changing, too. State-owned Myanma Airways and five local private airlines recently bought second-hand aircraft while one more private airline will emerge in two or three months, according to government officials.

General Electric Co reached a deal in September to lease two Embraer SA-made jets to Myanmar Airlines, the latest in a series of deals since the United States reopened commercial dealings with the long-isolated Asian nation. Myanma Airways still use Fokker F28s, a short-range jet that began flying in the 1960s.

Many airlines operate on what is known locally as an “air bus system”. Usually there are not enough passengers for direct flights to all destinations in Myanmar, a vast country as big as France and England combined. To be profitable, airlines often fly to one city, pick up passengers, and then fly to several more cities before a final stop, a bit like a bus route.

At the holy tree in Yangon, business has rarely been better.

“Business these days is good, very good,” says Sein Pain, 67, after blessing the Honda. Sein’s family owns the tree and manages the business. Car owners pay anything from $3 to hundreds of dollars for different levels of blessings.

“Since the government allowed new cars last year, numbers doubled. Now we have up to 60 cars on a busy day.”

(Writing and additional reporting by Jason Szep; Editing by Jeremy Laurence)

Just around the corner from where Blade Runner met Bruce Lee, in the neighborhood where Hong Kong’s millions are made, 24 people live their lives in coffins. They call it home – but they’re only 6 by 3 feet wooden boxes, nicknamed coffins and packed into a single room to make more money for the rich.

SLIDESHOW: LIVING IN COFFINS

In a crazy chase for more dollars, landlords in the island city are building something unthinkable in the rest of the world – a beehive for people collected from the margins of society. Math is a rat; pitiless and brutal. Twenty-four times 1450 Hong Kong dollars a month is more than anyone would pay for this just over 500 square feet room.

Mister T, the only inhabitant of these coffin homes who did not want his picture taken (“I have a grown daughter, she would be ashamed”) calls it the bottom. After spending time in the States, with a few years behind bars, this is as low as it gets for him. He spits through broken front teeth, like the routine of a street gangster, and continues bitching about the life – “better than nothing, but not as good as the real life.”

Others here seem to be more relaxed about living in coffins and with their struggles. In a town where the size of ones living space is inversely proportionate to the size of mobile phone screens and where the rental rates, and life in general, are painfully expensive.

Blade Runner went digital. Bruce Lee got a full time job at Madame Tussauds. There are no more heroes in the neighborhood to help fight injustice. Except maybe Miss Sze, a community organizer with the sweetest “everything is going to be okay” look I have ever seen.

Being the only woman in the room, Sze goes from coffin to coffin to hear what residents have to say. Chung’s mother died and he lost his place in the queue for a proper community apartment. Kam has to wear a medical corset for his bad back and can barely move. And young King is here only for a month and wants to leave.

Miss Sze says that over 100,000 people in Hong Kong live in inadequate housing. Living space is always at a premium here and it’s not easy to find a decent accommodation if you are not wearing a silk suit, golden watch and all that comes with it.

“It was raining for days before she came, then rain stopped. She has super powers,” Poe Suter Toe, an ethnic Karen refugee said. Indeed, the monsoon rain started again the moment Aung San Suu Kyi left Mae La, the biggest refugee camp at the Thailand-Myanmar border. Its 50,000 people, refugees from all across the country, better known as Burma, remain behind razor wire surrounding the camp in mountains.

A day after, I crossed inside the camp one more time to ask people about Mother Suu’s visit. What do they think about it? Can she change the country? Can she help them?

SLIDESHOW: VOICES OF MYANMAR REFUGEES

As expected, I heard many different opinions; from no hope to big hope, from “she is my inspiration” to “she can’t do anything”, from fears of another “failed revolution” to excitement that the misery of these poor people could be coming to its end. Many were just being very cautious about their expectations.

Aung San Suu Kyi or Mother Suu, as her people call her, does not walk on water and does not make miracles, yet. She just re-joined the political scene in Myanmar and traveled out of her country for the first time in 24 years; fifteen of which she spent in detention under the junta.

SLIDESHOW: MYANMAR VOTES

Below are some portraits and words from refugees I interviewed at Mae La. They come from different states of Myanmar, are of different ethnicity and different religions. But, they all share the same destiny of refugees who escaped the repression and poverty of the country I hope Mother Suu will help change.

Refugees from Myanmar U Aunt Khaing, ethnic Burmese, his ethnic Karen wife Mi Mi U and their daughter pose for a photo at the doors of their home at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to their camp U Aunt Khaing said “I have five reasons not to come back to Myanmar: no democracy, no human rights, no real justice, no guarantee to have good life. Even if she becomes the president, I don’t want to come back. I don’t believe Suu Kyi and Thein Sein – they are politicians. I want to go to another country to live.”

Zune Nwe Tun Oo, 17 year old refugee from Mandalay in Myanmar, looks through the window of her home at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Zune Nwe Tun Oo said “She is my inspiration. I spoke to her yesterday briefly and now I changed my mind – before I wanted to go to a third country, get education and have a big house. Now, I want to come back after my education. I want to go back. My people need me.”

Wailin Aung, 24 year old ethnic Karen refugee, is seen through the gate of a home at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Wailin Aung said “I don’t understand politics but I don’t want to go back to Myanmar. Never.”

Poe Suter Toe, an ethnic Karen refugee from Mandalay in Myanmar stands between fences at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Poe Suter Toe said “I didn’t sleep for one week because of excitement and then I saw her for five seconds. I think she has super-powers. When you see her face you lose words. The rain stopped while she was here. But, she is not God, she can’t change Myanmar.”

Abdul Rahman, 41 year old Rakhin Muslim refugee, sells vegetables in front of a school at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Abdul Rahman said “I really like Suu Kyi but she can’t make the change in the country because the army is stupid. Army will never change. It is only talk now, no action. Only mouth talk.”

U Mon Gyit, a 35 year old Muslim Burmese refugee, is reflected in the mirror at his food shop at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp U Mon Gyit said “I saw her yesterday. We are only small people, we don’t know can she make changes or not. But, even if she becomes the president I will still watch situation for years before deciding to go back.”

Wa Ha, an 82-year-old Muslim Burmese refugee, carries food at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Wa Ha said “I like her and I have hope in her but not sure if she can change anything for me. I’m too old and I just want to die here. Life and death are better here in the camp than in Myanmar.”

U Tin Saung, his wife Myint Myint Yee and their son Kyao Pauk, refugees from Yangon in Myanmar, pose for a photo under the “hope” sign at their home at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp U Tin Saung said “There is no hope for Myanmar. Only hope for our souls. I think military will not allow Suu Kyi to have power and will make coup. Then they will be more cruel.”

Thu Said Ta, 26 year old Buddhist Monk passes time at the monastery at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Thu Said said “She is good, she brought hope and can bring changes but not sure what. I will go back if education and economic situation improves.”

Munane, 90 year old ethnic Karen refugee, who begs for rice for herself and her disabled granddaughter after her parents died sits inside a home at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Munane said “If I’m younger I would go back to Myanmar. I believe Suu Kyi can change the country.”

Naw Lah Htoo (C), 40 year old ethnic Karen refugee sells vegetables at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Naw Lah Htoo said “I love Suu Kyi and I love my country but I never want to come back. I don’t know anything about politics and I just want to stay here.”

Ethnic Karen refugees Yae Min Sein, his wife Mu Lao Cheing and their children Meo Chit Oo (L) and Kyae San Win pose for picture outside the hospital at the Mae La refugee camp near Mae Sot June 3, 2012. Asked about Aung San Suu Kyi’s visit to the camp Yae Min Sein said “I saw her yesterday. She can’t do much alone. In the future, only if other countries help Myanmar will change to better.”