Thailand

FOR America, and, for that matter, for any other nation of the Western enclave, the shock of political upheaval in Asia is always dulled by distance; we are at least five thousand miles away from the scene of the crime. Hence, when French Indochina ceased to be French, when there were revolutions in Southeast Asia, and, more particularly, when Laos began to disappear behind the Asian iron curtain, the West usually did little but express dismay and regret.

For what are considered to be sufficiently good reasons — the trying climate, the difficult terrain, the apathy of the populace — the West allows these countries to go their way; or, rather, to go the way the Eastern bloc wishes. Understandably, after Korea, there is no rush to turn them into major battlefields. Yet the pattern of events is disturbing. Despite the nominal financial and military good will which we lavish on these territories, we are still waving them good-by as they pass over to the opposite camp. Where has the mistake been made?

By studying Thailand a little closer, to observe it while it is still with us, something can be learned; it proves to be a tragicomedy of misunderstanding in which the leading actors fondly imagine they are taking part in the same play.

Faces and masks

The word thai means “free”; Thailand, the “free land.” The name breeds confidence, and the outward signs are encouraging. Here is a nation complete with King, gracious Queen, Prime Minister, and Cabinet. We may be excused for believing that the country runs its affairs on a model constitutional basis. But, living there, one soon discovers that Thailand is controlled by its army, and any resemblance between parliamentary government as we know it and as it exists in Thailand is purely coincidental.

This barrack-dominated type of government is a prime example of the way in which Southeast Asians give their own particular twist to what we suppose are familiar forms. It cannot be stressed too strongly that in these very differences between the West and the Orient lies the explanation for our hurt surprise; the reason why we are caught off guard at the time of political debacles and why the United States, after all it has given, is reduced to being the victim of ingratitude.

What do we suppose Thailand to be? A land of temples? Of neat-figured dancers? These, of course, can be seen if one is willing to go out of one’s way to see them. But, in fact, Thailand is almost entirely devoted to agriculture, and traveling through its miles of flat, rice-sown land and fruit plantations, one finds that gilded temples and bejeweled dancers are rare.

The average Thai house is built of wood and is mounted on stilts; window spaces are filled by matting rather than glass; and inside, overcrowding is the norm. Nevertheless, compared with China, Thailand is a relatively spacious land that can amply feed its population. Bananas, coconuts, mangoes, and pineapples grow in haphazard, tropical abandon, except close to Bangkok, where orderliness has set in. Townships are lively, small, and few.

Over 80 per cent of the population is occupied in rice growing, farming, and forestry; the production of tin, rubber, and silk forms an important but secondary group of occupations. And though mountains are found at the perimeter of the country, it is best to think of the country in terms of the featureless flatness of fertile, mud-colored plains that alternate with unkempt forest. That is the true face of Thailand.

Thai resilience

There are no fortunes to be made in this part of the world; by the time the wretchedly slow process of plowing with the aid of a water buffalo, of planting and harvesting by hand is completed, profits are not large, despite the richness of the soil. Imagine, then, the effect that a foreigner has. His presence has already implied that he has sufficient wealth to travel. He has money in relative abundance, and even if he were to turn his pockets inside out in an attempt to buy friends and influence the people, he is not one of them. He remains divided from them by a civilization, a way of thinking, and a method of getting and spending. How can he conceivably communicate the immensely subtle ideas of democracy and what the West regards as freedom? How can he stress the urgency of fighting for his idea of liberty?

It is so much easier to win over these people if the foreigner can promise the division of wealth concurrently with the division of labor. The Communist preacher has a relatively simple task. Everyone understands the meaning of money; likewise, the meaning of work. To a great extent, these things already hold the majority of land workers in thrall.

Yet, whoever is out to capture the body and soul of Thailand will encounter a deceptive form of resistance. The country possesses a remarkable degree of resilience that cushions the influences that impinge on it. Thailand has, so far, bowed before strength, absorbed it, and recovered.

For instance, China, India, and Indonesia have all cast their artistic influences into the Thai melting pot. From this an individual style has been produced, such as the uptilted wings that decorate the eaves of the temples — “pieces of sky.” as they are known. More recently, the summer palace of the King was designed by an Italian. The result is that an exquisite Thai pavilion rests, in the middle of a carp pool, on a base built in the Monte Carlo baroque style. Nothing is completely indigenous to the country, but through the years much has become characteristic.

Lessons in politics

The siory of its art is analagous to the way in which Thailand learns lessons from strangers, and then, in due course, forgets the originators once the facts have been reinterpreted in a Thai manner.

The Chinese minority in Thailand is lashed by a blind, spiteful prejudice that has its roots, as is usually the case, in ignorance. That the Chinese are the shrewdest of shopkeepers and businessmen and possess a natural talent for forging ahead endears them to no one; they are used as scapegoats. The Thai people are jealous of them, the governing officials suspicious of them. Yet the Thai race itself was originally an emigrant body from South China.

From the Japanese, the Thais learned that the West is not invincible. During the last world war, the Thais managed to retain their title of “free” with superb naïveté. After a show of resistance that lasted only a few hours, Thailand allowed Japanese troops to enter. Then, to make perfectly certain of being on the right side, Thailand declared war on the Western Allies. On the defeat of the Japanese, peace was made with the United States, and once again freedom could be proclaimed.

But, as in Malaya, a few facts had been learned. The West was proved vulnerable; at one stage of the war, the Allies had been soundly beaten. Thus, the automatic respect and fear that were once accorded the Westerner were diminished.

Western influence?

At the present time, the influence of the Western enclave is dominant. Though most of Thailand’s rubber and rice go to Far Eastern countries, the majority of its import trade is carried on with the United States, Great Britain, and Japan. Textiles, petroleum, iron, steel, and chemicals are brought in, and Thai currency is notably healthy.

But, as usual, Thailand has put up its natural barriers that allow a foreign influence to go so far and no farther. Although the visitor may be dismayed at the degree of Westernization that has overtaken Bangkok — the featureless office blocks, the ugly boulevards, the plethora of automobiles and would-be imposing monuments — what has happened is that the city has taken on merely the most garish and superficial trappings of America. Life on the innumerable canals remains the same, the temple precincts are unchanged, and outside Bangkok the tractor has by no means ousted the buffalo, and kite flying is still more popular than baseball.

The economic factors act as a preservative. The absence of coal and oil, the railroad locomotives that burn logs, roads that threaten to jerk one’s spine through one’s neck — these are all factors that contribute to keeping Thailand relatively untouched .

POWERS, thrones, dominions

The number of saffron robes that catch the eye indicate that Buddhism is a solidly entrenched influence; young men of any class are still likely to spend a three months’ period of inculcation in the tenets of the faith. Yet, despite the vogue that Oriental religions enjoy in the San Fernando Valley, by the time Buddhism reaches the Thai farmer, it is a fairly simple affair. Prayers to fish and trees, an affection for spirit houses, and fortunetelling priests — their wisdom often based on sheer common sense — are typical traits of worship.

A sense of sin is altogether lacking, and there is no “or else" tacked onto the precept “Be good.” Climatic conditions of the most punishing kind doubtless keep the will from veering too far toward right or wrong; 90 per cent humidity is a god that is hard to thwart.

Buddhism is a popular religion, and its priests are respected. On holy days the temples are thronged, but the casual crowd characterizes the national attitude toward its faith —reverence coupled with an easygoing air, service under the lightest of yokes.

In the last analysis, it is the army that rules supreme, a supremacy that is nevertheless weakened by the rivalry that exists among the military elite. Yet the military factor is constant, and bribery, too, will always be present on a nonchalantly immodest scale. It is the clique in control that varies.

Two interesting points emerge. The first is a likely misconception: we may imagine that, because the military are in the saddle, the Thais are a nation of fighters. The reverse is true. They scarcely ever win their battles, and the graceful withdrawal has always proved a far better proposition. Their very physique, their small but beautifully formed frames and their nimble movements, gives the lie to any pretensions toward a militant character.

Second, because the Thais have become used to the spectacle of power passing from the hands of one faction to another in a series of melodramatic incidents, an active interest in politics is, practically speaking, denied them. Such matters are left to the military; civilians could easily be hurt. It would, then, be optimistic to suppose that the much broader horizons of world politics are of great interest to the Thais. While European newspapers cried havoc when Laos was invaded, Bangkok basked in the peace of the ostrich; Laos was a foreign affair.

If Thailand went to war, it would be, at best, to keep Thailand itself free, or, at worst, to keep the current clique in power. That our sympathy and big guns are automatically with them is a factor that combines the extremes of importance and unimportance. Our fears and hopes are not necessarily theirs. Moreover, concessions may be forced on Thailand by powerful neighbors who look greedily at its ample rice bowl, and if they are, we ought not to be greatly surprised. It is Thailand’s way.

There is the moral: it applies, in this instance, to Thailand, but also to all Asia. The nature of the people is too often disregarded. It is not that they differ from us only in their standard of living; as a glance at Thailand will show, the differences go much deeper. In preference to strategists and automobiles, Western exports worthier of us and preferred by the Thais would be teachers, tractors, and a large measure of tact.

How, one wonders, can a country such as Thailand survive, forming, as it does, an unwitting buffer state between two vast pressure groups? Certainly it would be foolish to expect Western heroics and political morality from so individual a nation. We have to be prepared to let the small man run his affairs in his own way. It is always possible to buy him up, lay down his policy, and iron out his characteristics — and, of course, others may do it before we do. Yet, perhaps its seeming frailty and its clinging to the word “free” at any price will, as they have in the past, guarantee Thailand’s survival.