Long years ago,
sometimes it seems many lives ago, I was at Oxford listening to the radio
programme Desert Island Discs with my young son Alexander. It was a well-known
programme (for all I know it still continues) on which famous people from all
walks of life were invited to talk about the eight discs, the one book beside
the bible and the complete works of Shakespeare, and the one luxury item they
would wish to have with them were they to be marooned on a desert island. At
the end of the programme, which we had both enjoyed, Alexander asked me if I
thought I might ever be invited to speak on Desert Island Discs. “Why not?” I
responded lightly. Since he knew that in general only celebrities took part in
the programme he proceeded to ask, with genuine interest, for what reason I
thought I might be invited. I considered this for a moment and then answered:
“Perhaps because I’d have won the Nobel Prize for literature,” and we both
laughed. The prospect seemed pleasant but hardly probable.
(I cannot now
remember why I gave that answer, perhaps because I had recently read a book by
a Nobel Laureate or perhaps because the Desert Island celebrity of that day had
been a famous writer.)
In 1989, when my
late husband Michael Aris came to see me during my first term of house arrest,
he told me that a friend, John Finnis, had nominated me for the Nobel Peace
Prize. This time also I laughed. For an instant Michael looked amazed, then he
realized why I was amused. The Nobel Peace Prize? A pleasant prospect, but
quite improbable! So how did I feel when I was actually awarded the Nobel Prize
for Peace? The question has been put to me many times and this is surely the
most appropriate occasion on which to examine what the Nobel Prize means to me
and what peace means to me.
As I have said
repeatedly in many an interview, I heard the news that I had been awarded the
Nobel Peace Prize on the radio one evening. It did not altogether come as a
surprise because I had been mentioned as one of the frontrunners for the prize
in a number of broadcasts during the previous week. While drafting this lecture,
I have tried very hard to remember what my immediate reaction to the
announcement of the award had been. I think, I can no longer be sure, it was
something like: “Oh, so they’ve decided to give it to me.” It did not seem
quite real because in a sense I did not feel myself to be quite real at that
time.
Often during my
days of house arrest it felt as though I were no longer a part of the real
world. There was the house which was my world, there was the world of others
who also were not free but who were together in prison as a community, and
there was the world of the free; each was a different planet pursuing its own
separate course in an indifferent universe. What the Nobel Peace Prize did was
to draw me once again into the world of other human beings outside the isolated
area in which I lived, to restore a sense of reality to me. This did not happen
instantly, of course, but as the days and months went by and news of reactions
to the award came over the airwaves, I began to understand the significance of
the Nobel Prize. It had made me real once again; it had drawn me back into the
wider human community. And what was more important, the Nobel Prize had drawn
the attention of the world to the struggle for democracy and human rights in
Burma. We were not going to be forgotten.
To be forgotten.
The French say that to part is to die a little. To be forgotten too is to die a
little. It is to lose some of the links that anchor us to the rest of humanity.
When I met Burmese migrant workers and refugees during my recent visit to
Thailand, many cried out: “Don’t forget us!” They meant: “don’t forget our
plight, don’t forget to do what you can to help us, don’t forget we also belong
to your world.” When the Nobel Committee awarded the Peace Prize to me they
were recognizing that the oppressed and the isolated in Burma were also a part
of the world, they were recognizing the oneness of humanity. So for me
receiving the Nobel Peace Prize means personally extending my concerns for
democracy and human rights beyond national borders. The Nobel Peace Prize
opened up a door in my heart.
The Burmese concept
of peace can be explained as the happiness arising from the cessation of
factors that militate against the harmonious and the wholesome. The word
nyein-chan translates literally as the beneficial coolness that comes when a
fire is extinguished. Fires of suffering and strife are raging around the
world. In my own country, hostilities have not ceased in the far north; to the
west, communal violence resulting in arson and murder were taking place just
several days before I started out on the journey that has brought me here
today. News of atrocities in other reaches of the earth abound. Reports of
hunger, disease, displacement, joblessness, poverty, injustice, discrimination,
prejudice, bigotry; these are our daily fare. Everywhere there are negative
forces eating away at the foundations of peace. Everywhere can be found
thoughtless dissipation of material and human resources that are necessary for
the conservation of harmony and happiness in our world.
The First World War
represented a terrifying waste of youth and potential, a cruel squandering of
the positive forces of our planet. The poetry of that era has a special
significance for me because I first read it at a time when I was the same age
as many of those young men who had to face the prospect of withering before
they had barely blossomed. A young American fighting with the French Foreign
Legion wrote before he was killed in action in 1916 that he would meet his
death: “at some disputed barricade;” “on some scarred slope of battered
hill;” “at midnight in some flaming town.” Youth and love and life perishing
forever in senseless attempts to capture nameless, unremembered places. And for
what? Nearly a century on, we have yet to find a satisfactory answer.
Are we not still
guilty, if to a less violent degree, of recklessness, of improvidence with
regard to our future and our humanity? War is not the only arena where peace is
done to death. Wherever suffering is ignored, there will be the seeds of
conflict, for suffering degrades and embitters and enrages.
A positive aspect
of living in isolation was that I had ample time in which to ruminate over the
meaning of words and precepts that I had known and accepted all my life. As a
Buddhist, I had heard about dukha, generally translated as suffering, since I
was a small child. Almost on a daily basis elderly, and sometimes not so
elderly, people around me would murmur “dukha, dukha” when they suffered from
aches and pains or when they met with some small, annoying mishaps. However, it
was only during my years of house arrest that I got around to investigating the
nature of the six great dukha. These are: to be conceived, to age, to sicken,
to die, to be parted from those one loves, to be forced to live in propinquity
with those one does not love. I examined each of the six great sufferings, not
in a religious context but in the context of our ordinary, everyday lives. If
suffering were an unavoidable part of our existence, we should try to alleviate
it as far as possible in practical, earthly ways. I mulled over the
effectiveness of ante- and post-natal programmes and mother and childcare; of
adequate facilities for the aging population; of comprehensive health services;
of compassionate nursing and hospices. I was particularly intrigued by the last
two kinds of suffering: to be parted from those one loves and to be forced to
live in propinquity with those one does not love. What experiences might our
Lord Buddha have undergone in his own life that he had included these two
states among the great sufferings? I thought of prisoners and refugees, of
migrant workers and victims of human trafficking, of that great mass of the
uprooted of the earth who have been torn away from their homes, parted from
families and friends, forced to live out their lives among strangers who are
not always welcoming.
We are fortunate to
be living in an age when social welfare and humanitarian assistance are
recognized not only as desirable but necessary. I am fortunate to be living in
an age when the fate of prisoners of conscience anywhere has become the concern
of peoples everywhere, an age when democracy and human rights are widely, even
if not universally, accepted as the birthright of all. How often during my
years under house arrest have I drawn strength from my favourite passages in
the preamble to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights:
……. disregard and
contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged
the conscience of mankind, and the advent of a world in which human beings
shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has
been proclaimed as the highest aspirations of the common people,
…… it is essential,
if man is not to be compelled to have recourse, as a last resort, to rebellion
against tyranny and oppression, that human rights should be protected by the
rule of law . . .
If I am asked why I
am fighting for human rights in Burma the above passages will provide the
answer. If I am asked why I am fighting for democracy in Burma, it is because I
believe that democratic institutions and practices are necessary for the
guarantee of human rights.
Over the past year
there have been signs that the endeavours of those who believe in democracy and
human rights are beginning to bear fruit in Burma. There have been changes in a
positive direction; steps towards democratization have been taken. If I
advocate cautious optimism it is not because I do not have faith in the future
but because I do not want to encourage blind faith. Without faith in the
future, without the conviction that democratic values and fundamental human
rights are not only necessary but possible for our society, our movement could
not have been sustained throughout the destroying years. Some of our warriors
fell at their post, some deserted us, but a dedicated core remained strong and
committed. At times when I think of the years that have passed, I am amazed
that so many remained staunch under the most trying circumstances. Their faith
in our cause is not blind; it is based on a clear-eyed assessment of their own
powers of endurance and a profound respect for the aspirations of our people.
It is because of
recent changes in my country that I am with you today; and these changes have
come about because of you and other lovers of freedom and justice who
contributed towards a global awareness of our situation. Before continuing to
speak of my country, may I speak out for our prisoners of conscience. There
still remain such prisoners in Burma. It is to be feared that because the best
known detainees have been released, the remainder, the unknown ones, will be
forgotten. I am standing here because I was once a prisoner of conscience. As
you look at me and listen to me, please remember the often repeated truth that
one prisoner of conscience is one too many. Those who have not yet been freed,
those who have not yet been given access to the benefits of justice in my
country number much more than one. Please remember them and do whatever is
possible to effect their earliest, unconditional release.
Burma is a country
of many ethnic nationalities and faith in its future can be founded only on a
true spirit of union. Since we achieved independence in 1948, there never has
been a time when we could claim the whole country was at peace. We have not
been able to develop the trust and understanding necessary to remove causes of
conflict. Hopes were raised by ceasefires that were maintained from the early
1990s until 2010 when these broke down over the course of a few months. One
unconsidered move can be enough to remove long-standing ceasefires. In recent
months, negotiations between the government and ethnic nationality forces have
been making progress. We hope that ceasefire agreements will lead to political
settlements founded on the aspirations of the peoples, and the spirit of union.
My party, the
National League for Democracy, and I stand ready and willing to play any role
in the process of national reconciliation. The reform measures that were put
into motion by President U Thein Sein’s government can be sustained only with
the intelligent cooperation of all internal forces: the military, our ethnic
nationalities, political parties, the media, civil society organizations, the
business community and, most important of all, the general public. We can say
that reform is effective only if the lives of the people are improved and in
this regard, the international community has a vital role to play. Development
and humanitarian aid, bi-lateral agreements and investments should be
coordinated and calibrated to ensure that these will promote social, political
and economic growth that is balanced and sustainable. The potential of our
country is enormous. This should be nurtured and developed to create not just a
more prosperous but also a more harmonious, democratic society where our people
can live in peace, security and freedom.
The peace of our
world is indivisible. As long as negative forces are getting the better of
positive forces anywhere, we are all at risk. It may be questioned whether all
negative forces could ever be removed. The simple answer is: “No!” It is in
human nature to contain both the positive and the negative. However, it is also
within human capability to work to reinforce the positive and to minimize or
neutralize the negative. Absolute peace in our world is an unattainable goal.
But it is one towards which we must continue to journey, our eyes fixed on it
as a traveller in a desert fixes his eyes on the one guiding star that will
lead him to salvation. Even if we do not achieve perfect peace on earth,
because perfect peace is not of this earth, common endeavours to gain peace
will unite individuals and nations in trust and friendship and help to make our
human community safer and kinder.
I used the word
‘kinder’ after careful deliberation; I might say the careful deliberation of
many years. Of the sweets of adversity, and let me say that these are not
numerous, I have found the sweetest, the most precious of all, is the lesson I
learnt on the value of kindness. Every kindness I received, small or big,
convinced me that there could never be enough of it in our world. To be kind is
to respond with sensitivity and human warmth to the hopes and needs of others.
Even the briefest touch of kindness can lighten a heavy heart. Kindness can
change the lives of people. Norway has shown exemplary kindness in providing a
home for the displaced of the earth, offering sanctuary to those who have been
cut loose from the moorings of security and freedom in their native lands.
There are refugees
in all parts of the world. When I was at the Maela refugee camp in Thailand
recently, I met dedicated people who were striving daily to make the lives of
the inmates as free from hardship as possible. They spoke of their concern over
‘donor fatigue,’ which could also translate as ‘compassion fatigue.’ ‘Donor
fatigue’ expresses itself precisely in the reduction of funding. ‘Compassion
fatigue’ expresses itself less obviously in the reduction of concern. One is
the consequence of the other. Can we afford to indulge in compassion fatigue?
Is the cost of meeting the needs of refugees greater than the cost that would
be consequent on turning an indifferent, if not a blind, eye on their
suffering? I appeal to donors the world over to fulfill the needs of these
people who are in search, often it must seem to them a vain search, of refuge.
At Maela, I had
valuable discussions with Thai officials responsible for the administration of
Tak province where this and several other camps are situated. They acquainted
me with some of the more serious problems related to refugee camps: violation
of forestry laws, illegal drug use, home brewed spirits, the problems of
controlling malaria, tuberculosis, dengue fever and cholera. The concerns of
the administration are as legitimate as the concerns of the refugees. Host
countries also deserve consideration and practical help in coping with the
difficulties related to their responsibilities.
Ultimately our aim
should be to create a world free from the displaced, the homeless and the
hopeless, a world of which each and every corner is a true sanctuary where the
inhabitants will have the freedom and the capacity to live in peace. Every
thought, every word, and every action that adds to the positive and the
wholesome is a contribution to peace. Each and every one of us is capable of
making such a contribution. Let us join hands to try to create a peaceful world
where we can sleep in security and wake in happiness.
The Nobel Committee
concluded its statement of 14 October 1991 with the words: “In awarding the
Nobel Peace Prize ... to Aung San Suu Kyi, the Norwegian Nobel Committee wishes
to honour this woman for her unflagging efforts and to show its support for the
many people throughout the world who are striving to attain democracy, human
rights and ethnic conciliation by peaceful means.” When I joined the democracy
movement in Burma it never occurred to me that I might ever be the recipient of
any prize or honour. The prize we were working for was a free, secure and just
society where our people might be able to realize their full potential. The
honour lay in our endeavour. History had given us the opportunity to give of
our best for a cause in which we believed. When the Nobel Committee chose to
honour me, the road I had chosen of my own free will became a less lonely path
to follow. For this I thank the Committee, the people of Norway and peoples all
over the world whose support has strengthened my faith in the common quest for
peace. Thank you.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Na hmuhning a tangah rak ṭial khawh a si.
Kan ruahnak i cheu cio hna usih.