Oh to have the words to transport my reader into the world of Aung San Suu Kyi the way Besson's film transported me. The story is one of highly public record so I will not attempt to avoid "spoiling" the story as I usually do.
The film is full of the bright colours of her soul, and the music is masterful of both Burmese and classical English sounds, absorbing two worlds as two sides of the same story unfold on opposite sides of the globe.
From visiting her mother's sickbed, Kyi was quickly pushed into the political arena, just as Burma's military leader "resigned" in 1988. From there, the power hungry generals that remained sought her downfall. It was interesting to me to note the words of one of her large banners, painted to adorn the walls of her home during her house arrest: power corrupts, but the fear of losing power corrupts more.
The simplicity of that phrase in explaining so many corrupt regimes is remarkable.
During her imprisonment, much of which is omitted from the film, Kyi had to endure the knowledge of her country's torment - false arrest and imprisonment, mass murder, torture, rape, and which Amnesty International still describes as one of the words human rights records in the world - , separation from her family, utter isolation. But in the end, the moment of true heartbreak to me was the loss of her most ardent supporter, her greatest friend and companion: the husband, Michael Aris, who fought her corner half a world away, dead from prostate cancer at 53, the news of which reached Kyi through the BBC World Service, access to her family having been continuously denied for the previous 3 years.
Even in the face of such loss, and with her husband's unfailing support and encouragement, Kyi refused to go back to Britain to be with her children, choosing to continue her struggle for Burma's true freedom. And as time unfolded, the loss of her husband in March 1999 was not even a halfway marker in her confinement.
I cannot even begin to attempt to fathom her strength of character to relentlessly pursue her vision in the face of such pain.
After 20 years under house arrest, Kyi was finally, fully released in November of 2010 - a fact that I lament remaining ignorant of until now through my time in Georgia, and which most people are probably ignorant of, just as many remain ignorant of the situation in Burma under military law. She was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991, barely a year into her ordeal.
One scene in particular took my breath away: soldiers arrive at the headquarters of Kyi's movement the National League for Democracy, dispersing attendees and tearing down their bright red banner. Kyi and her colleagues are walking from the other side of the building. Ordered to stop or be fired upon, Kyi asks her colleagues to wait where they are. In a dream-like sequence, she approaches the soldiers and the rifles trained on her; she moves through their rank like a ghost, approaching their superior. A pace from his pointed pistol, she halts and closes her eyes...opening them to find the soldiers leaving.
My post script is in the form of a realisation, one that I should have had a long time ago: it is people not politics, and stories not statistics that grab peoples' hearts and bring the drive to act.
Although Kyi was protected from assassination by her status in the nation's consciousness, her strength and courage are unquestionable, and I for one feel ashamed to be living my life of quiet luxury in the face of her sacrifices and her acheivements.
As Kyi's final admonition in the form of a written post script in the film reads:
Use your liberty to promote ours.
Such a small request, such a great commission.
What then must we do?
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