Hordes of Israelis travel to the Far East, many leave a strong impression
By RAFAEL D. FRANKEL
To say Israeli travelers stick out like a sore thumb only makes sense if the proverbial thumb belongs to a cartoon character who just had his digit crushed by a five-ton grand piano and it's turning different colors while inflating to the size of a birthday balloon.
They are that easy to spot, especially the men who adhere to what must be a dress code published by the foreign ministry: brightly colored fisherman pants, a tank top with a Chang Beer or Redbull energy drink logo, an earring, slicked hair, and the standard issue purse-sized shoulder bag which rests down by the waist.
But it's more than just the look. Israelis here travel in packs, in gangs that swirl their way around Asia's beaches and jungles like tornadoes in Kansas, leaving guest houses, Internet cafes, and dance clubs gasping for air when they leave.
Where they go, craziness follows. Whether the craziness is good or bad depends on who you ask.
With close to 100,000 Israelis coming to Thailand - perhaps the backpacking hub of the entire world - every year, the level of interaction with people from all over is perhaps unsurpassed anywhere. As such, the impressions Israelis are leaving on people here, unintentional though they may be, are also having an effect on the way they are viewed in much of the Western world.
These impressions have nothing to do with CNN or the European daily papers. Since many Israelis come to the Far East at least in part to get away from the dreariness of daily life in Israel in these times, the impressions they are leaving may have nothing to do with politics, terrorism, or the right to self-defense at all - though that conversation certainly does come up.
Not that it would matter immediately if politics, rather than the next full-moon party, was the standard debate between Israelis and other travelers. For sure, the people they are interacting with are not in a position to sway international politics or opinions on any grand scale, but that's just the point. There are more important things to do and talk about. The truth is that Israelis are better known here for their crazy partying than for anything having to do with targeted killings or suicide bombings.
"They are crazy, crazy, and love to party and take many drugs," said Malte Kramer, 33, from Germany, who is in Thailand for the second time and was romantically involved with an Israeli woman for two weeks. "They're always in groups, very loud, taking drugs like you wouldn't believe. It's like they have this short time to live the way they want to live, like they cannot live in their country."
Kramer met Israelis on Koh Pangang, an island in the Gulf of Thailand known for its full-moon parties, trance music, and drugs. At least that's how Koh Pangang was known before. Now there's something else it is known for.
"You go there and there is Hebrew writing everywhere. And all around you people are speaking Hebrew. We call it David Pangang for fun," Kramer said.
Other names for Koh Pangang circle around Southeast Asia, such as Little Israel, or Little Tel Aviv. And they aren't far off. Invasion is a strong word, but considering that almost every establishment in Koh Pangang has signs up in Hebrew, or a staff that can say "Shalom, ma shlomcha?", or a menu which includes chicken schnitzel, "invasion" might not be far off.
Being so inundated by Israelis, many Israeli cultural traits, including the more objectionable ones, have shown themselves to the locals and travelers here, including rudeness - in the extreme.
"They demand, they don't ask questions. In Europe you would say they are not polite," said Olaf Biel, 30, also from Germany. "They have to be careful, need to show more respect when they meet other people."
Such descriptions are common here, especially among Northern Europeans and the locals. For a culture as soft-spoken and polite as the Thais are, even one Israeli can be a shock, let alone a half dozen. Many Thai guest houses, for example, have taken to asking where people are from before saying if they have any rooms. Some Israelis report being refused entry based on their passport.
"Most Israelis traveling here are just finished with the army. They are wild, loud, and don't have the same education that most Europeans come here with," said Keren Cohen, 23, French by birth, but with an Israeli mother. "And politeness is definitely not a priority. Sometimes, at least, people seem willing to forgive them once they hear where they are from. But still, it can put a lot of people off."
However, many travelers are willing to cut them some slack. After even a brief stint in Thailand, most travelers know at least one thing about Israelis: the mandatory army service. And having at least seen some news about the situation in Israel, many are willing to chalk up rude or harsh attitudes to a need to blow off three years' worth of steam.
This also leads to the description of Israelis by some travelers as being melancholy beneath their exuberant, adventurous exterior.
"There is a certain disenchantment, a sadness to them sometimes that you can see in their eyes," said Alessandra Volpi, 33, originally from Italy but now living in New York. "And from what they've been through in the army, it can also make them more aggressive."
Indeed, when a group of Israelis walks into a restaurant it feels as though a hand on the crowd volume switch just sent the amplifier into overdrive.
"It's true, we are loud, we make a mess," said Shai Tzur, 34, founder and co-owner of the Zullah Israeli House in Bangkok. "We know what we want, and we won't let people f**k with us. If we need to, we will say what we are thinking, even though sometimes that is not the best thing."
What nearly all travelers do agree on is that getting to know Israelis - beyond the usual pleasantries and party situations - is not easy. But once the ice is broken, those that make true Israeli friends, or perhaps have sexual relationships with them, find them to be among the most kind, caring, and fun people they have ever hung around with.
"Israelis can break everything, even cold people from Europe," Tzur said, proudly gesturing at the dozen or so Israelis sitting in his restaurant. "Israelis know exactly how to touch your heart, how to make you smile and be happy and have fun. It's not normal for Israelis to think they need to be with someone for a week before they can be free with you. They are like that from the beginning."
After traveling in Asia for nearly six months, Amanda Ciliberto, 23, from Seattle, says that of the 10 people she has met whom she now considers good friends, five are Israeli. Ciliberto was originally impressed by a group of Israelis she met on a boat in Laos, two of whom let her stay with them in a guesthouse when everywhere in town was full.
"I had no place to stay and they let me stay with them for free, without any questions," she said. "They are very quick to help you when you need it, and very quick to bond. They are very thoughtful and gregarious, very social animals."
Ciliberto also mentioned the physical beauty of Israelis. "Some of the most amazingly, stunningly beautiful people I have ever encountered," she said.
She is not alone in her opinions, as Israelis have also racked up quite a reputation as lovers. The sex columnist for the travelers' magazine Farang ranked Israelis with the "Best Bodies" in a recent issue: "They may seem the most eager to get into your pants, all machismo and no brains, but after coming out to Asia after three years of military service, they've got the bodies of gods, they're great conversationalists (once you get past the machismo), and they're really quite conservative. If you want respect in the morning, follow the Israeli woman's rules of etiquette: The first night is for talking, the second for snogging, and only on the third night do you 'let him' take you home. (We will forgive you, however, if you do what we've done more than once, which is to apply those rules in reverse!)"
True, sleeping their way to better international relations might not seem like the most reputable course to take, but it is having its effects. Those travelers who have had Israeli lovers, or who have made real friends with Israelis, have seen their opinions and impressions of the country change significantly during their travels. Add to this the complete absence of travelers from any Arab or Muslim countries - not one traveler interviewed for this story had met anyone from the Muslim world here - and the sympathies which are created are heavily tilted toward Israel.
"I don't know if my opinion about the political situation has changed much, but in terms of sympathy I do feel closer to Israel because I know so many people from there now," said Gulio Sasi, 26, an actor from Rome. "I feel closer to their culture and their religion."
Indeed, it's not simply a matter of gaining support for Israel in its current war. The attitudes and beliefs being sown here are more deeply rooted than opinions on current events. They are bound to be felt for years to come, when this generation is the one making the big geopolitical decisions.
"I am much more into Israeli/Jewish culture, so I have an affinity to them. As far as the Muslim world is concerned, I don't cope with it very well," Alessandra Volpi said, adding that Israelis remind her of Italians in being very open people. She does not find them rude, suggesting cultural differences among Europeans.
And perhaps that's the most important point. Some people here like Israelis; some find them loud and obnoxious. But ask a general impression of any nationality, be it British, or French, or American, and the same answers will come rolling in; some positive, some negative.
"The human contact is totally significant," Amanda Ciliberto, said, when asked what she thought might influence her opinions about the Mideast the most. "I wanted to go to Israel before, but I was scared. Now I think I'll go, and I think I'll have these friends for years to come."
©2003 The Jerusalem Post Magazine
Sunday, March 16, 2003
Within Burma's outward smiles, winces of pain
LETTER FROM RANGOON
By Rafael D. Frankel, Globe Correspondent, 3/16/2003
RANGOON, Burma -- Ivy grows outside apartment walls, most buildings are cracked, and the sidewalks in this once-elegant capital are crumbling. Still, Rangoon is sprouting luxury hotels, high-rise office buildings, and its fair share of upscale nightclubs.
Burma is a country of contradictions, but the signs that it is deteriorating are not all visible. Instead, they lie in the frayed fabric of a nation coming apart at the seams, falling behind in its economic, educational, and health care status.
Except for the short bananas sold on street corners for a few cents apiece, life here contrasts sharply with some other Southeast Asian capitals.
In Phnom Penh, Cambodia, and in Hanoi -- both bouncing back from decades of conflict -- motorbikes buzz around, carrying their busy drivers to and from work.
In Rangoon, the streets are clogged with 20-year-old cars running on spare parts and spewing black exhaust. The military junta that runs Burma and that refers to the nation as Myanmar, has outlawed motorcycles in the city and has raised taxes on cars so high that only the rich can afford new vehicles.
Burma, as one Western expatriate put it recently, ''is an undeveloping country.''
According to the United Nations, more than 35 percent of Burmese children suffer from malnutrition in what was once called the Rice Bowl of Asia. The health-care and education systems are in shambles, threatening to produce an entire generation in which ignorance and disease are the norm rather than the exception.
It is hard to determine exactly why the Burmese are no longer getting enough to eat. ''It's nearly impossible to get the true story,'' said a Western diplomat, who like others here spoke only on condition of anonymity. ''You cross-reference your facts and the things that match up three or four times you call the truth.''
So goes information dissemination in a totalitarian country.
Most likely, a combination of uneven distribution and overexporting has increased by more than 100 percent the prices for staples such as rice and cooking oil, the diplomat said. ''The poorest could face an increasingly difficult situation,'' he reported.
Meanwhile, only half of Burma's children complete Grade 5 because of gross underfunding by the government and an ingrained bribery system. Although school is supposed to be free, some teachers ask parents for ''donations.''
In addition, the younger generation is not keeping pace in learning English. When visitors need directions or are curious about current events, it is Burmese at least older than 40, who studied under the remnants of the English colonial system, who can speak with foreigners.
The effects of the education system are being felt in several ways. For example, there are no qualified architects or engineers to build the military's pet-project bridges over the Irrawaddy River; Chinese and Europeans are recruited instead.
In addition, there are no doctors coming up to take the place of those who are retiring, no small problem for a country where HIV infects almost 500,000 people, according to the United Nations, and is spreading rapidly. And with endemic cholera and tuberculosis, a public health crisis exists from which there is no discernible escape, a local doctor said.
Pinched by a government-mandated 25-cent consultation fee, the relatively few young Burmese doctors are cutcorners -- and endangering their patients -- by reusing syringes, the doctor said.
With myriad ills afflicting Burma, the people would be forgiven if they sank into societal depression. Nevertheless, as with all Southeast Asian countries, a gentle smile is still the rule.
''The Burmese are the most charming oppressed people in the world,'' American author Jeff Greenwald said after a recent visit.
©2003 Globe Newspaper Company
By Rafael D. Frankel, Globe Correspondent, 3/16/2003
RANGOON, Burma -- Ivy grows outside apartment walls, most buildings are cracked, and the sidewalks in this once-elegant capital are crumbling. Still, Rangoon is sprouting luxury hotels, high-rise office buildings, and its fair share of upscale nightclubs.
Burma is a country of contradictions, but the signs that it is deteriorating are not all visible. Instead, they lie in the frayed fabric of a nation coming apart at the seams, falling behind in its economic, educational, and health care status.
Except for the short bananas sold on street corners for a few cents apiece, life here contrasts sharply with some other Southeast Asian capitals.
In Phnom Penh, Cambodia, and in Hanoi -- both bouncing back from decades of conflict -- motorbikes buzz around, carrying their busy drivers to and from work.
In Rangoon, the streets are clogged with 20-year-old cars running on spare parts and spewing black exhaust. The military junta that runs Burma and that refers to the nation as Myanmar, has outlawed motorcycles in the city and has raised taxes on cars so high that only the rich can afford new vehicles.
Burma, as one Western expatriate put it recently, ''is an undeveloping country.''
According to the United Nations, more than 35 percent of Burmese children suffer from malnutrition in what was once called the Rice Bowl of Asia. The health-care and education systems are in shambles, threatening to produce an entire generation in which ignorance and disease are the norm rather than the exception.
It is hard to determine exactly why the Burmese are no longer getting enough to eat. ''It's nearly impossible to get the true story,'' said a Western diplomat, who like others here spoke only on condition of anonymity. ''You cross-reference your facts and the things that match up three or four times you call the truth.''
So goes information dissemination in a totalitarian country.
Most likely, a combination of uneven distribution and overexporting has increased by more than 100 percent the prices for staples such as rice and cooking oil, the diplomat said. ''The poorest could face an increasingly difficult situation,'' he reported.
Meanwhile, only half of Burma's children complete Grade 5 because of gross underfunding by the government and an ingrained bribery system. Although school is supposed to be free, some teachers ask parents for ''donations.''
In addition, the younger generation is not keeping pace in learning English. When visitors need directions or are curious about current events, it is Burmese at least older than 40, who studied under the remnants of the English colonial system, who can speak with foreigners.
The effects of the education system are being felt in several ways. For example, there are no qualified architects or engineers to build the military's pet-project bridges over the Irrawaddy River; Chinese and Europeans are recruited instead.
In addition, there are no doctors coming up to take the place of those who are retiring, no small problem for a country where HIV infects almost 500,000 people, according to the United Nations, and is spreading rapidly. And with endemic cholera and tuberculosis, a public health crisis exists from which there is no discernible escape, a local doctor said.
Pinched by a government-mandated 25-cent consultation fee, the relatively few young Burmese doctors are cutcorners -- and endangering their patients -- by reusing syringes, the doctor said.
With myriad ills afflicting Burma, the people would be forgiven if they sank into societal depression. Nevertheless, as with all Southeast Asian countries, a gentle smile is still the rule.
''The Burmese are the most charming oppressed people in the world,'' American author Jeff Greenwald said after a recent visit.
©2003 Globe Newspaper Company
Sunday, March 02, 2003
Searching for the truth in Myanmar
Democracy on hold in nation on edge
By Rafael D. Frankel
Special to the Tribune
Published March 2, 2003
YANGON, Myanmar -- In a totalitarian nation where the grapevine has replaced the media as the trusted source of information, two rumors this month--one false, one true--have stirred this nation's simmering cauldron of discontent.
The economy had been on a downward spiral long before the first rumor struck--that the commercial banks were about to go bankrupt. Although false, it created a run on banks that prompted some to restrict withdrawals.
So when the second rumor--that Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi was headed to jail again--turned out to be true, passions were already high. Soon nearly 2,000 protesters gathered outside a Yangon courthouse, an uncommon occurrence in this nation where a military junta has ruled since 1988.
On Feb. 21, a court found Suu Kyi, the leader of the National League for Democracy, guilty of wrongful restraint in a civil suit and gave her the choice of paying a 50-cent fine or spending a week in jail.
"The Lady," as she is affectionately known here, chose jail.
The suit stemmed from an altercation last year, two days after Suu Kyi was released from house arrest. Her cousin, Soe Aung, punched her after she refused to allow him inside her compound.
Suu Kyi filed a lawsuit against her cousin for assault, and he filed a countersuit. Soe Aung also was found guilty and ordered to pay a $1 fine or spend a month in jail. The outcome of his sentence was unclear.
The military, faced with a volatile crowd and the uncomfortable prospect of sending the hero of millions of Myanmar people to prison just eight months after her release from a second house arrest, ordered Suu Kyi's sentence suspended.
Though Suu Kyi won a minor victory, the path toward democracy has made no headway since her release.
"It's obvious the process has stalled," said a Western ambassador, who like most diplomats, political activists and residents spoke only on condition of anonymity.
Relations between the military and Suu Kyi's league are extremely tense. Hope for a political reconciliation, which followed Suu Kyi's release May 6, has given way to despair and frustration within the league and among its supporters.
Suu Kyi's conviction follows the arrest of seven National League members and five other democracy activists two weeks ago.
"The general sense is that the [democratic process] is going nowhere, and we are extraordinarily disappointed with that," a Western diplomat said.
Washington is a staunch critic of the Myanmar junta and a strong supporter of Suu Kyi, and the U.S. has imposed an investment ban, travel restrictions for Myanmar officials and an arms embargo, among other sanctions, on the country.
An olive branch to U.S.
Just this month, Myanmar's junta extended a surprise invitation to the U.S. to enter a dialogue on the country's political future. But Western diplomats here played that off as a public-relations move to ward off new sanctions rather than a serious offer.
The appeal followed hints by U.S. Assistant Secretary of State Lorne Craner that Washington would impose new sanctions on the former Burma due to a lack of progress in political dialogue with Suu Kyi and other democracy advocates.
The junta, which calls itself the State Peace and Development Council, is supposed to be engaged in UN-brokered talks on national reconciliation with Suu Kyi. The talks began in October 2000.
Even so, rather than negotiate, the military regime is conducting a smear campaign against the National League and Suu Kyi in particular, said league spokesman U Luwin.
He noted a cartoon published recently in a Yangon newspaper that depicted Suu Kyi and senior league members tarnishing the image of Myanmar.
According to local and foreign experts on Myanmar's laws, the trial and eventual finding against Suu Kyi appeared fraught with legal abnormalities.
National League officials "believe there is an orchestrated political campaign to embarrass her, to diminish her and make her look ordinary," a Western diplomat said. "The irregularities with the way this case was handled support that."
In its defense, the junta said that under Myanmar law "all citizens are treated equally" and that the charge of playing politics in the civil suit "is completely untrue."
But the Suu Kyi conviction was just the latest shock to Myanmar. Current events here have the populace on edge and even prompted the UN to issue a warning last week to its employees here to exercise caution.
The banking crisis, coupled with rampant inflation, is threatening to grind the economy to a halt. Since the beginning of 2002, prices for rice, cooking oil and gasoline have risen more than 100 percent.
Though another Western diplomat said the reasons behind the price increases were murky, the consequences were potentially devastating.
"The poorest could face an increasingly difficult situation here," he said. "It's hard to imagine starvation, but malnutrition, which is already a problem, could increase."
Talk of discontent
Interviews with taxi drivers, hotel clerks, educators and health-care workers here all point to high discontent with the state of affairs in what was previously one of Asia's wealthiest countries. A taxi driver, his voice trembling and rising as he spoke, said he thinks there "will soon be an explosion."
Due to the pervasive presence of military intelligence personnel, such "interviews" are conducted in hushed tones at the back tables of tea houses or in private vehicles--when they take place at all.
Fearing imprisonment or disappearance, most Myanmar citizens simply shake their head and walk away when asked about any matters concerning the military government.
Some 1,300 political prisoners remain jailed and executions and forced labor continue to be reported in ethnic minority areas, according to Amnesty International.
Those people who do talk paint a picture of a society deeply frustrated with its plummeting standard of living and an inept government that people blame for their myriad ills.
©2003 The Chicago Tribune
By Rafael D. Frankel
Special to the Tribune
Published March 2, 2003
YANGON, Myanmar -- In a totalitarian nation where the grapevine has replaced the media as the trusted source of information, two rumors this month--one false, one true--have stirred this nation's simmering cauldron of discontent.
The economy had been on a downward spiral long before the first rumor struck--that the commercial banks were about to go bankrupt. Although false, it created a run on banks that prompted some to restrict withdrawals.
So when the second rumor--that Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi was headed to jail again--turned out to be true, passions were already high. Soon nearly 2,000 protesters gathered outside a Yangon courthouse, an uncommon occurrence in this nation where a military junta has ruled since 1988.
On Feb. 21, a court found Suu Kyi, the leader of the National League for Democracy, guilty of wrongful restraint in a civil suit and gave her the choice of paying a 50-cent fine or spending a week in jail.
"The Lady," as she is affectionately known here, chose jail.
The suit stemmed from an altercation last year, two days after Suu Kyi was released from house arrest. Her cousin, Soe Aung, punched her after she refused to allow him inside her compound.
Suu Kyi filed a lawsuit against her cousin for assault, and he filed a countersuit. Soe Aung also was found guilty and ordered to pay a $1 fine or spend a month in jail. The outcome of his sentence was unclear.
The military, faced with a volatile crowd and the uncomfortable prospect of sending the hero of millions of Myanmar people to prison just eight months after her release from a second house arrest, ordered Suu Kyi's sentence suspended.
Though Suu Kyi won a minor victory, the path toward democracy has made no headway since her release.
"It's obvious the process has stalled," said a Western ambassador, who like most diplomats, political activists and residents spoke only on condition of anonymity.
Relations between the military and Suu Kyi's league are extremely tense. Hope for a political reconciliation, which followed Suu Kyi's release May 6, has given way to despair and frustration within the league and among its supporters.
Suu Kyi's conviction follows the arrest of seven National League members and five other democracy activists two weeks ago.
"The general sense is that the [democratic process] is going nowhere, and we are extraordinarily disappointed with that," a Western diplomat said.
Washington is a staunch critic of the Myanmar junta and a strong supporter of Suu Kyi, and the U.S. has imposed an investment ban, travel restrictions for Myanmar officials and an arms embargo, among other sanctions, on the country.
An olive branch to U.S.
Just this month, Myanmar's junta extended a surprise invitation to the U.S. to enter a dialogue on the country's political future. But Western diplomats here played that off as a public-relations move to ward off new sanctions rather than a serious offer.
The appeal followed hints by U.S. Assistant Secretary of State Lorne Craner that Washington would impose new sanctions on the former Burma due to a lack of progress in political dialogue with Suu Kyi and other democracy advocates.
The junta, which calls itself the State Peace and Development Council, is supposed to be engaged in UN-brokered talks on national reconciliation with Suu Kyi. The talks began in October 2000.
Even so, rather than negotiate, the military regime is conducting a smear campaign against the National League and Suu Kyi in particular, said league spokesman U Luwin.
He noted a cartoon published recently in a Yangon newspaper that depicted Suu Kyi and senior league members tarnishing the image of Myanmar.
According to local and foreign experts on Myanmar's laws, the trial and eventual finding against Suu Kyi appeared fraught with legal abnormalities.
National League officials "believe there is an orchestrated political campaign to embarrass her, to diminish her and make her look ordinary," a Western diplomat said. "The irregularities with the way this case was handled support that."
In its defense, the junta said that under Myanmar law "all citizens are treated equally" and that the charge of playing politics in the civil suit "is completely untrue."
But the Suu Kyi conviction was just the latest shock to Myanmar. Current events here have the populace on edge and even prompted the UN to issue a warning last week to its employees here to exercise caution.
The banking crisis, coupled with rampant inflation, is threatening to grind the economy to a halt. Since the beginning of 2002, prices for rice, cooking oil and gasoline have risen more than 100 percent.
Though another Western diplomat said the reasons behind the price increases were murky, the consequences were potentially devastating.
"The poorest could face an increasingly difficult situation here," he said. "It's hard to imagine starvation, but malnutrition, which is already a problem, could increase."
Talk of discontent
Interviews with taxi drivers, hotel clerks, educators and health-care workers here all point to high discontent with the state of affairs in what was previously one of Asia's wealthiest countries. A taxi driver, his voice trembling and rising as he spoke, said he thinks there "will soon be an explosion."
Due to the pervasive presence of military intelligence personnel, such "interviews" are conducted in hushed tones at the back tables of tea houses or in private vehicles--when they take place at all.
Fearing imprisonment or disappearance, most Myanmar citizens simply shake their head and walk away when asked about any matters concerning the military government.
Some 1,300 political prisoners remain jailed and executions and forced labor continue to be reported in ethnic minority areas, according to Amnesty International.
Those people who do talk paint a picture of a society deeply frustrated with its plummeting standard of living and an inept government that people blame for their myriad ills.
©2003 The Chicago Tribune