STORIES
The man who killed John Lennon
Mark Chapman saw himself as ‘Holden Caulfield’
By David Cocksedge
IT WAS just before midnight on 8 December 1980. An Englishman named Guy Louthan, living across the street from the Dakota Apartments in New York City, heard a strange noise outside and went to his window. “It raised the hackles on the back of my neck”, he related. “First I heard this noise, then I looked toward Central Park and there were people streaming through the park and then I looked to the other side of 72nd Street, and there on both sides were waves of people converging on the Dakota Building. They swept up the road and, as the leading walkers neared the Dakota, people behind were catching up with them so there was this sort of surge; a vast mass of people moving all over the sidewalk and in the road, in amongst the slow-moving cars. Some of them held candles; and when they go to the Dakota, they stood in large groups and started singing and chanting. I went outside and found out that John Lennon had been shot and killed.”
By 1 am on 9 December, reporters estimated that over 1,000 people had gathered outside the Dakota and hundreds more were outside Roosevelt General Hospital, where the famous musician had been rushed by ambulance. They were there to pay their last respects – the Emergency Department had been unable to help Lennon (born in Liverpool on 9 October 1940), who had died from four gunshot wounds to his back at 11.13 pm local time. It was an amazing, spontaneous public act of tribute to a person who had grown to symbolise the Peace Movement of the time. The man who shot John Lennon had surrendered meekly to arresting NYPD officers. His name was Mark David Chapman.
The assassin was born in Fort Worth, Texas on 10 May 1955, the first child of former Air Force Sergeant David Chapman and his wife Diane. The family moved to Atlanta, Georgia, shortly afterwards as Chapman senior pursued an engineering career and the chubby Mark began an unhappy childhood where he was often beaten by his father and bullied at school. This was partly the old, familiar story of the obsessed loner who harbours a grudge against society, but Mark Chapman was not socially inept and proved to be a very successful monitor and counsellor of children as he grew into adolescence. He developed a rich imagination as a child, inventing friends whom he would entertain with his favourite music, mainly the songs of the Beatles. In his early teens he developed a taste for marijuana, LSD and heroin and gravitated towards a drugs-dominated social set which adjusted well with his taste in music. At the age of 16 Chapman experienced an evangelical Christian conversion when he met Jessica Blankenship. As their relationship grew he became a counsellor at a YMCA summer camp, a job at which he excelled, looking after Vietnamese refugees. He reformed completely and left his drugs past behind.
Chapman still hero-worshipped John Lennon until he read Lennon’s quote, “We’re more popular than Jesus Christ now,” which caused him to renounce the former Beatle and all his works as anti-Christian. As Lennon made this quote in 1966, when Chapman was only 11 years old, I can only assume that Chapman learned of this comment in retrospect.
Chapman’s other great influence was J D Salinger’s famous 1952 novel ‘The Catcher in the Rye’. He identified immediately with Salinger’s tale of teenage angst and rebellion personified in his lead character Holden Caulfield, whom on being expelled from high school escapes to a series of (mis)adventures in New York City just before Christmas. Salinger’s character continually derides most adults as ‘phonies, and this
term struck a chord with Chapman. 
In 1976 he joined his girlfriend at college in Tennessee, but his studies suffered when he became obsessed over an infidelity the previous summer. He and Jessica quarrelled, and he dropped out of college. After working as a security guard for a time back in Atlanta, he resolved to end his severe depression by taking a trip to Hawaii where he would spend the last of his savings and then kill himself. He flew to Honolulu, but failed to carry out his mission. After rowing with his parents, he returned to Hawaii in May 1977 and almost succeeded in another suicide attempt. Chapman drove to the beach and tried to gas himself in his car, but the plastic hose attached to the exhaust melted and he was rescued by an unknown Japanese fisherman. He checked himself into a mental facility, and continued volunteer work at the hospital after his discharge. Chapman so impressed his co-workers at the Castle Memorial Hospital that he was given a full-time maintenance position there where he remained until April 1978.
During another six weeks holiday touring the world, Chapman met a travel agent named Gloria Abe, and they married on 2 June 1979. Their happiness was short-lived, however. Chapman developed a series of obsessions, including purchasing expensive art works. He began drinking heavily and lost his job, but managed to find another position as a security guard.
As his marriage foundered, Chapman identified with his fictional hero Holden Caulfield completely, often using the name as his own signature. Though he still played Beatles music he studied Lennon and (perhaps through the eyes of Holden Caulfield) decided that his former idol really was a phoney: Lennon continually preached simplicity, peace and love, yet lived a life of luxury in New York City.
On 23 October 1980 Chapman resigned from his job, signing himself out as ‘Holden Caulfield’. At a Honolulu gun store he purchased a 5-shot, .38 calibre Charter Arms Special revolver for $169 and on 30 October he boarded a flight to New York, determined to hunt down and kill John Lennon.
Chapman had $5,000 (a loan from his father-in-law) on him, and decided to live a little before he carried out his mission. He checked into the Waldorf Hotel and treated himself to a dinner of filet mignon and Heineken beer in the hotel restaurant. He knew that Lennon lived with his wife Yoko Ono and son Sean at the Dakota, a celebrity-filled apartment hotel across from Central Park at West 72nd Street. He spent a day walking around the building, studying the area carefully, especially the Lennon’s sixth floor windows; and talked casually to the doorman.
In Atlanta Chapman had obtained five hollow-point cartridges for his gun. Hollow points are designed for maximum stopping power: on impact they splay open, ripping through flesh as they tumble through the body cavity, leaving large, messy exit wounds. They are also illegal for civilian use under New York’s Sullivan law.
After thoroughly checking out the Dakota, Chapman aborted his mission and returned to Hawaii; but by 10 November he was back in New York, again stalking Lennon. However after watching the movie ‘Ordinary People’ in which Timothy Hutton plays a suicidal youth trying to come to terms with his dysfunction family; he called his wife and flew back to Hawaii. “I had capped that volcano”, he revealed later. He told his wife, “I’m coming home. Your love has saved me.”
Back in Hawaii, Chapman’s demons were stilled, but only for a short time. Pretty soon they were tormenting him again. He spent days harassing a group of Hare Krishna’s who were preaching their faith in Honolulu; then started making threatening telephone calls. He told his alarmed wife that he was returning to New York to seek a new career; but he was back on mission again – to kill John Lennon.
He arrived on Saturday, 6 December 1980, telling a cabbie during the drive downtown that he was a recording engineer who had just come from a secret session of Lennon and McCartney who were recording together for the first time since the Beatles split up in 1970.
Chapman checked into the $16.50 a night YMCA on 63rd Street just off Central Park West - this time there was not enough cash for a splurge at the Waldorf. After a quick meal, he walked the nine blocks to the Dakota, a chubby, slightly nerdy-looking man wearing tinted spectacles. He looked about as dangerous as a door-mouse.
Whilst waiting on the sidewalk he struck up a conversation with two women, Judy Stein and Jerry Moll. They told him that Lennon sometimes stopped to chat with them. Chapman offered to buy them both a meal later just before they left. Meantime he waited with a brand-new copy of ‘Double Fantasy’ (Lennon’s latest album after a long recording hiatus) under his right arm. At 5 pm, he gave up the vigil and walked back to the YMCA. Ironically the two female fans arrived back at the Dakota minutes later in time to see Lennon and talk with him.
Disturbed and disgusted by the sounds of two men having sex in the next room, Chapman checked out of the YMCA the next day and moved to the Sheraton Centre at Seventh Avenue and 52nd Street. It was 7 December, Pearl Harbour Day. He spent three hours waiting outside the Dakota then went to a bookshop where he bought a second-hand copy of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’. He also bought the December issue of ‘Playboy’ which featured a lengthy interview with Lennon and Yoko Ono; their first in five years.
Chapman avidly read the text as he ate his dinner. The centrefold reminded him of something that the fictional Holden Caulfield had done on his odyssey in New York. He called an escort service and requested a girl in a green dress, just as Caulfield had encountered. He paid the obliging hooker $190 when she left just after 3 am the next morning. Chapman awakened in his room at the Sheraton at 10.30 am on 8 December. Something told him that this was the day.
After showering and dressing, he took out the hotel Bible, opened it to the beginning of the ‘Gospel of John’ and wrote the name ‘Lennon’ after ‘John’. On the dresser he placed a letter praising his efforts at the refugee camp, along with photos of himself with the Vietnamese children. He then picked up the ‘Double Fantasy’ album and pocketed his revolver - in a cardboard box to conceal the outline. In the inside cover of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ he wrote, ‘this is my statement’, and signed it ‘Holden Caulfield’.
He arrived at the Dakota just after mid-day and talked to the doorman, Patrick O’Loughlin. Then he became so engrossed in reading his book that he missed seeing Lennon get out of a taxi and walk into the building. Chagrined, he resumed his vigil, joined by the two women he had met earlier and photographer Paul Goresh. Chapman took the two women to lunch and when they returned to the Dakota they were able to meet 5-year-old Sean Lennon with his minder. Judy introduced Chapman to the boy and they shook hands.
Chapman later recalled, “He was the cutest little boy I ever saw. It didn’t enter my mind that I was going to kill this poor young boy’s father and he would not have a father for the rest of his life. I mean, I love children. I’m the Catcher in the Rye.”
A few minutes later, John Lennon emerged with a gaggle of staff members. Goresh pushed a dumbstruck Chapman towards Lennon, who took the proffered album and pen, and wrote ‘John Lennon, December 1980’. He then looked at Chapman and twice said, “Is that all you want?” Chapman recovered enough to reply, “Yeah. Thanks, John, that’s all.” Lennon got into a waiting limousine and sped away.
A delighted Chapman offered Goresh $50 if he would return the next day with a photograph of himself with Lennon.
Mark Chapman was torn, he would later say, between the adult and the child inside himself. He could fly back to Hawaii with his autographed album and live out the rest of his life peacefully. Or he could stay and commit murder. The child won. He stayed outside the Dakota.
Goresh told him that Lennon had gone to the Record Plant recording studio and probably would not be back until after midnight. As he walked away just after 8 pm, Chapman pleaded with him: “Please stay. You never know if you’ll see him again.” Goresh didn’t catch the hint and hurried off to the subway. Chapman was left to wait and talk with the replacement doorman Jose Perdomo and two other Lennon fans.
At 10.49 pm his wait was over. A white limousine purred around the corner and stopped at the curb. Yoko Ono got out and Lennon started to follow her, walking across the sidewalk towards the building. Chapman related, “A voice in my head kept saying – DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”
He called out, “Mr Lennon!” Lennon turned to see Chapman, crouching combat style with both hands on the revolver. The Englishman turned to run just as Chapman commenced firing. Four rounds of the five tore into him, but to Chapman’s amazement Lennon did not fall. He somehow managed to run up six steps into the concierge’s office. He said, “I’m shot,” then fell face down. He never spoke again. Perdomo knocked the empty gun from Chapman’s hands and punched him as he kicked it away, screaming, “Do you know what you have done, you bastard?!”
Chapman took off his hat and coat and threw them down. He knew police were coming and wanted them to see that he was not concealing another weapon. He stashed the ironically-autographed album by the security guard booth; then sat down on the pavement to read his book whilst awaiting arrest.
At his trial in June 1981 Chapman changed his insanity defence to a plea of guilty, and in August he was sentenced to 20 years imprisonment. When asked if he had anything to say, Mark Chapman rose and read a passage from the last chapter (26) of ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’
Twenty nine years after the assassination of John Lennon, Mark David Chapman is currently still behind bars at the Attica Correctional Facility at Buffalo, New York. He has been denied parole five times due to ‘concern for the public safety and welfare’, and also because prison is probably the safest place for Chapman himself. If he had remained longer outside the Dakota that night, it is quite possible that he may have been lynched.
On 8 December 2006, Yoko Ono published a one-page advertisement in several newspapers stating that, while 8 December should be ‘a day of forgiveness’, she had not yet forgiven Mark Chapman for his senseless act of murder on 8 December 1980.
Now for the spooky part: In the 2008 movie ‘Chapter 27’, Hollywood actor Jared Leto pulled off a brilliant performance as Mark Chapman, bulking his slim frame up by an additional 15 kilogrammes for the role. But the actor playing John Lennon was a man named – Mark Chapman…
Next month: Caravaggio the painter
True Crimes Listing
True Crime stories published in the Observer:
2002
April –The Green Bicycle case; May – The Craig/Bentley Case; June – The A6 Murder Case; July – Murder of the Earl of Errol; August – The O J Simpson Murder Trial; September – Aileen Wuornos, female serial killer; October – Ronald Opus; November – Madame X; December – The Spree Killer (Chris Wilder)
2003
January – Shootout at Smiths’ Club; February – The Christine Dryland Case; March – Poisoned Pie in Essex; April – Massacre at Lidice; May – The Diana Davidson Murder Case; June – The death of Alkibiades; July – The Headsman of Colmar; August – Ruth Ellis; September – The Mel Jones Murder Case; October – George Smith, the bath murderer; November – Murder in a combat zone - Vietnam 1966; December – The Barn Restaurant Case
2004
January – The assassination of JFK; February – Judge Falcone and the Mafia; March – Gilles de Rais/Bluebeard; April – The hand in the sand case (New Zealand); May – The Hong Kong drugs murder Case; June and July – Jack the Ripper parts 1 & 2; August – Murder at Farleigh Court; September – London’s Bonnie & Clyde; October – Ruth Snyder Case; November – Death of a rock star (Jim Morrison); December – Torso in the Thames
2005
January – Murder in the Red Barn; February – Gangland double cross; March – Fatal Attraction in Ulster; April – Guernica; May – Bonnie & Clyde (USA); June – Murder of Jill Dando; July – Pedro Lopez, Monster of the Andes; August – Deadly Aperitif; September – Henry VIII & his wives; October – Sid & Nancy; November – The real Dracula; December – Poolan Devi, India’s Bandit Queen
2006
January and February – Charles Sobhraj parts 1& 2; March – Marilyn Monroe; April – The Yorkshire Ripper (Peter Sutcliffe); May – Mass murderer Ted Bundy; June – 10 Rillington Place (Reg Christie); July – Son of Sam (David Berkowitz); August – Tasmania’s Aborigines; September – The Nuremberg Trials; October – Watergate; November – Charlie Manson & his Angels; December – Assassination of Heydrich
2007
January – Betty Broderick Case; February – Fred & Rosemary West; March – Billy The Kid; April – Ned Kelly; May – Assassination of Anwar Sadat; June – Assassination of Robert Kennedy; July – Assassination of Gandhi; August - Halabja; September - Amritsar; October – Trials of Oscar Wilde; November – The Dreyfus Affair; December – Trial of Stephen Ward
2008
January – John Stonehouse; February – Rinkagate; March – Sir Walter Raleigh; April – Assassination of Abraham Lincoln; May – Execution of King Charles I; June – Wild Bill Hickok; July – Gary Powers; August – Terror at the 1972 Munich Olympics; September – The Borgias; October – Ted Kennedy & Mary Jo Kopechne; November – Guy Fawkes; December – Massacre at Wounded Knee;
2009
January – Charles Starkweather & Caril Fugate, ‘Natural Born Killers; February – Dick Turpin; March – King Farouk; April – Elizabeth Bathory; May – Assassination of Spencer Perceval; June – The mysterious death of Superman (George Reeves); July – The Rachel Nickell murder case; August - Colin Ireland, ‘The Fairy Liquidator’; September – Jeffrey Dahmer, American cannibal; October - ‘Blackbeard the Pirate’ (Edward Teach); November – Death of Robert Maxwell; December – The assassination of John Lennon
2010
January – Caravaggio the painter; February - Ted Kaczynski, The Unabomber; March – A stranger in the night; April – The Brighton trunk murders; May – Death in Jeddah (Helen Smith case); June – Death of Freddie Mills; July – Spree killers Leonard Lake & Charles Ng; August – The Zodiac killer; September – The Lindbergh baby kidnapping case (100th True Crimes); October – Caligula, the mad emperor of Rome; November – Leopold and Loeb, ‘Killing for Kicks’; December –
JonBenet Ramsey case
2011
January - Robert Maudsley, the British Hannibal
Expat living in an Isaan village (Part 1)
My introduction to Isaan
My name is Richard and I am in my sixties. I have travelled and lived in many parts of the world but finally fell in love with Thailand. So moved here, lock stock and barrel. After sampling Bangkok and exploring the islands in the south I came to Hua Hin to see a friend and decided that this is where I was going to settle.
With the expat community and a mixture of Thais I found it was easy to mix Western and Eastern cultures. The facilities are great and there is always something to do. I lived in a rented house surrounded by middle class Thais. A minute walk to the beach and ten minute walk to the town centre was just right for me. I soon accumulated lots of friends both Thai and farang and life seemed idyllic for several years. However Hua Hin was changing and with the explosion of development and the increasing number of Bangkok Thais descending at the weekends’ life was getting more hectic and resembled a holiday resort.
I had many Thai girlfriends but eventually got caught in the Thai lady ‘fishing trawl’ and settled down with one female who moved in and took care of me. I should explain: I suffered a DVT attack some five years ago, so my mobility is hampered. Suddenly out of the blue my girl asked me if I would like to visit her family in Isaan. So I agreed to a new adventure.
Now bear in mind my exposure to Thais so far were mainly middle-class Thais living in westernised accommodation and some of them spoke a little English.
So off we went: by car to Bangkok, flight to Khon Kaen and then a pickup to the village. We were met in the Khon Kaen passenger lounge by a horde of dark-skinned Thais of all ages. Our baggage was seized and we proceeded to the car park. Two broken-down pickups awaited us yet with more Thai villagers.
I was seated in the front with a beer Chang and some barbecued chicken for the journey to the village. After leaving Khon Kaen I was amazed at the superb road infrastructure with hardly any traffic about. After 20 kilometers things changed dramatically: we turned left and suddenly were on a road of partly concrete and partly dirt. On the sides were old Thai homes and all the way to the village cattle and buffalo were on the road. The countryside was a sea of rice and sugar cane fields. We passed through many small villages and got waves and cheers from all who dozed in their hammocks during the midday heat. After a one-stop visit to a local shop and market to buy up supplies (sweets for the kids, crates of beer and some toiletries) we arrived at a small village at the bend of the road and went down a narrow dirt road to an old Thai house where we disembarked.
More Thai faces appeared from the surrounding bush and I was ushered into the house courtyard to meet the immediate family and the wife’s father. When this little old man appeared in his Thai clothes, an eerie silence descended. My wife and her sisters went face down on the deck with high wais to her father. He approached me and gave me a once over inspection. He then gave me a high wai and came over and shook my hand. The rest is covered later but as a visitor you are treated like royalty.
Back in Hua Hin I had a trauma. I have just been to the real Thailand. Hua Hin, Phuket, Bangkok – those places are not the real Thailand. My mind pondered the situation. Could I live there? What about health, what about internet connection? What about food? What about friends? So I stayed a resident in Hua Hin and every now and again I would go and stay in the village for a week to chill out. Yes, chill out. If you think Hua Hin is chilled out try a spell in the wilds.
So that was my introduction to Isaan and now I will elaborate on life in an Isaan village.
My life in Isaan
Well I finally moved to the village. Why? I am still wondering. I have been on the move from house to house, country to country since I was five years old. I never figured myself to be a ‘slippers by the fireside’ guy. Life is too short and there is more to learning by travel than you can get from books and university. Plus I was getting bored with Hua Hin. Conversations revolved around the credit crunch, visa situations and I am a born optimist.
So here we go. Bear in mind that no two villages are alike. They all have their own sub- cultures and rituals.
I arrived in the village and took up residence in the wife’s father’s home. The wife inherited it as the youngest daughter when he passed away. Traditionally the youngest daughter must look after mother and father before wedlock. The upside is they inherit the house and plot on their expiry. I had the house rebuilt to satisfy my needs. The work-force involved was family and for more technical bits a so-called reputable local builder was hired. All the teak and wood was restored and used so the only changes were a new roof, some concrete pillars and of course a shower and western toilets. Plumbing was improved too. I also had a room built on the side - for me only. Computer gear, memorabilia and a place I could go to for my space. Internet access solved. No chance of a landline without a fat wallet. Satellite deemed to be expensive and unreliable. Solution? Nokia phone link to AIS. Oh relief! I now had a western toilet, internet connection, a good hospital one hour away and limited farang food ten kilometres away.
Acceptance
Just as Thais differentiate between a tourist and an expat the same applies in the village. I was once a visitor now I am a resident and treated as a village person. No more red carpet and no more allowances for western behavior. This does not mean I am an accepted Thai. Even if you have lived here 20 years, have Thai children, speak Thai and Lao you will always be a farang outsider.
Some years back two other farangs came to live here. Both were ostracised; one because he built a high wall around the house and allowed no one in; and the other for his noisy behaviour. Both used to sit at the bar near the roadside and shout as they got drunk. The headman approached me and asked if I could have a word. Thais avoid confrontation in case of loss of face. I agreed. Knowing one of them quite well I asked him to sit for a chat. He is an ex- Coldstream Guardsman and had a habit of riding round the village singing Beetle songs and generally acting like a naked to-the-waist yobo. I tried vey diplomatically (for me) to explain that his actions were startling the villagers and that he needed to calm down and soak up their culture. He took it well and thanked me.
The word ‘integration’ has been raised many times on website forums and bar conversations. When one is totally outnumbered and alone, integration is a must. It is their country we are mere visitors or guests and MUST abide by their rules, civility and culture.
The family
My wife has 12 brothers and sisters and all have children, grandchildren and out-of-wedlock children. At the last count there were 67 family members living in the village and many more scattered across Isaan and Bangkok. So the majority of the village is family. Her father was considered to be a wealthy and influential man. Every time a child was born to him he bought a plot for them to live on. He owned cattle, buffalo and rice and sugar-cane fields. His downfall was the loss of his wife and his reversion to drinking Thai whiskey and gambling. All was lost except the property given to his children.
The village
The village is primarily a family affair but is also ruled by the temple, headman and chief of police. The temple is a working temple and used as a place of worship, gatherings, caring for the sick and elderly and to a degree - schooling. The headman dictates laws for the community (more in my bit on rituals): when to build, what to buy and banisher of bad spirits. The chief of police is in charge of local policing which doesn’t really amount to much. Anything serious is the responsibility of the regional police. The village is very much a commune where all is shared.
Work in the village
Just about everybody works the land. Rise at 4 am and work until 6 pm. Whilst the men go to the fields or tend the cattle the women take care of the home and the kids, weave baskets and straw matting, harvest and process silk worms.
During the season women will get up at 3 am and go looking for mushrooms and dress them up on banana leaves and sell them on the roadside. The men will also craft furniture and just about anything required for the family that can be done with material from the bush. Their skills in turning something out of the bush still amazes me. Some of the younger more attractive girls leave for Bangkok or the holiday resorts. Ones with a reasonable education and knowledge of English may swing a job in a shop or restaurant. The rest!? Well we know what happens to them; but all will send money home to support their families.
The children all play happily together. No computer games or TV; outdoor life is their thing. They are all very resourceful when making things from the bush: catapults, blowpipes, kites, buggies, spears and fishing rods, to name a few. At night some of the older kids don ‘wellies’ and a torch (worn on the head) and venture out into the bush armed with machetes, catapults, blowpipes and fishing rods to catch night game. They arrive home at dawn with an array of catches: fish, eels, frogs, beetles, bugs and snakes. All for the cooking pot.
Isaan village food and drink
If it moves or grows they eat it. Up country Thais eat very healthy food and always little and often. Unfortunately the children are beginning to lean towards fatty food and all have a sweet tooth – that western influence again. They consume all manner of meat (cow, buffalo, pig, duck, chicken, rat, snake, frog, dog, turtle, ants, lizards, and wild boar if they can spear them). DON’T anyone ever tell you that they do not eat dogs in Thailand. They do!
Also on the menu are all manner of vegetables and greens growing in the wild and leaves from numerous trees plus fruits; plus spices and herbs. Plus sticky rice and sticky rice and sticky rice! Their diet is superb and would almost fit into many alternative medicine theories: meat in small portions, vegetables in abundance and of course copious amounts of sticky rice; always followed by fruit.
Most of their food is boiled or steamed with occasional barbecuing. Sometimes the meat is raw and that takes some stomaching. I have been given raw heart, liver and intestines which are supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Most women will not eat beef and turtle, as the belief is that for a woman to watch a turtle cook will make her barren. There are many old wives tales but I will cover that later.
Drink: As a rule most of the village drink water, Leo beer and soft drinks and many take the ‘killer.’ The two most common causes of death here are motorbike accidents (no helmets are worn, of course) and drinking the ‘killer’ which in mild form is bottled Isaan whiskey. In village brewing form it is a pot of fermenting rice which turns into pure alcohol. This is washed down with Red Bull and honey. When your eyes cross, go to sleep after drinking a litre of water. More about that in my personal experiences.
Village superstitions
All villages are rife with superstition. Don’t ever crack a joke about ghosts - they believe in them! Read up on Buddhist thinking and you will know why. These are based on personal experience so may vary according to the village. Snake found in the bathroom - killed and taken away to eat. Next day Headman arrives with a monk to re-bless the house and rid it of evil spirits. If a house or extension is to be built, permission must be given as to the right day to commence. Cleansing of spirit: the wife washes one’s feet and dresses you three times in a sarong. Prayer for faithfulness: the wife on bended knee kissing feet and reciting the ‘gospels’. The list is endless and means a great deal to them.
Village events and celebrations
Celebrations are very important to the Thai villager; as this is the time to let one’s hair down and to party and get ‘mao’ (drunk). Of course the recognised events are paramount although sometimes extended. Songkran here lasts seven days and nights. Local events are too numerous to mention, and all involve a parade round the village with monks at the head and copious amounts of booze consumed.
At one event I was in the crowd taking pictures and the parade stopped. I was ushered over to the monk’s pickup and told to mount and sit with the monks, headman and police. Duly installed I ended up surrounded by junior monks who spoke English and wanted to learn. They, including the top monk, smoked my cigarettes and I ended up throwing sweets to the children.
Monks in the villages are different to those in towns and cities. At Songkran I was seated on the tail-gate of a pickup. It was the usual parade but with the monks on foot. I was told it was permissible for me to throw water on a monk. Sure? Yes. Number one monk approached, so I alighted and in true Yorkshire fashion poured a bucket of water over his head. The crowd was in hysterics, and the wife was fuming. I was the told it should have been a trickle down the left shoulder. A high ‘wai’ to the monk and I said that I was sorry. He beamed at me; came over, put his hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry, you are still learning my farang brother. Here is my mobile number, and don’t tell anybody I speak English.”
(To be continued ...)
Book Review Sweetheart
St. Martin’s Press
By Chelsea Cain
Reviewed by CraigDavis
It is refreshing to find unorthodox, out-of-the-box writers who can lead you on a journey through unexplored territory. Chelsea Cain may be the most exciting thriller writer since Thomas Harris unleashed Hannibal Lecter on the public in the 1980s.
Sweetheart is the sequel to Heartsick, a chilling novel, where Gretchen Lowell, a genius sociopath behind bars, doles out the whereabouts of the remains of one of her 199 victims to Detective Archie Sheridan alone, as part of a weekly ritual. Archie himself was her last victim, whom she tortured with impunity for days on end, let him die, only to revive him, call the paramedics, and forfeit her freedom as she kept him alive until medical care arrived. Sweetheart picks up where Heartsick leaves off: Archie is slowly trying to wean himself off Vicodin that he eats to numb the daily pain lingering from Gretchen’s torture: scalpel artwork across his chest, the magnum opus being a heart-shaped scar that demonstrates her demented love for him. In the process, she also removed his spleen and spoon fed him drain cleaner, among other intimately twisted acts that Gretchen shared with Archie three years earlier. Archie visits his therapist, and leads an investigative team to identify three bodies found in a wooded area of Portland, Oregon.
Three elements exist in this novel that progress it beyond the last. First, Heartsick is a chilling tale, as the Archie races to catch a second serial killer, while reliving nugget by nugget the detailed torture intimately inflicted by Gretchen. Painkillers, weariness, pressure to catch the new serial killer and weekly subjection across the table from Gretchen in prison to wrench one more site of the remains of her victims, all blend to portray Archie as both hero and victim. In Sweetheart, the task force is not racing against the clock, since there appears to be no new serial killer on the loose, and because of the toll that the weekly meetings with Gretchen were taking on Archie, the police department has put an end to the weekly ritual. Yet without the interaction with Archie, a new crisis arises. Gretchen masterminds an escape from prison, kills three law enforcement officers in the process, and begins terrorising journalist Susan Ward and Archie’s families. To save them and other innocent potential victims, Archie gives Gretchen what she most desires: himself.
Once together, we finally learn the reason why Archie is so attracted to Gretchen, and she to him, which is our second discovery. She saved his life and gave up her freedom in the process, after all. Here a surprise awaits the reader. The third event is more of a transition. Susan Ward emerges from the shadows of Archie’s detective brilliance into a spotlight of her own, assuming a more leading role in the task force. Not only does she prove herself as genuine criminal investigative reporter in her own right, but a trusted partner in the task force who sniffs out Gretchen’s hiding place where others fail. The journalist also risks her life to save Archie. Despite the shift in focus, Sweetheart is a page turner.
One caveat for those who love the Hannibal Lecter series: Thomas Harris is an erudite, who brilliantly weaves into every scene elegant descriptions of lavish meals, valuable paintings, artwork, history, and even lovemaking. I was disappointed that Hollywood botched the ending to Hannibal that Mr. Harris crafted so eloquently. Ms. Cain, in these two books, does none of that. The excitement, chills, character development, anxiety, all of it, it’s there. But her style is entirely different, and equally alluring. I can’t wait for her next book!
Take the terror bus to Iraq
Syrian mercenaries ride from Damascus to Baghdad
MANY YEARS ago, in a land far, far, away, a young Jewish fundamentalist named Saul was heading up to Damascus on his donkey to hunt down and kill other Jews for not believing in their God in the right way. Well, everybody needs to have an occupation, they say.
On the way there, he was suddenly struck blind by a bright light from God himself and heard a voice telling him that he had it all wrong. He was so impressed by this that when he got his sight back and remounted his donkey he changed his name by one letter, to ‘Paul’ - as in ‘Saint Paul’, whom he later became. St Paul began to travel the then known world preaching the worldwide Christian doctrine of blind faith and intolerance of other religions.
Saint Paul’s epiphany led to the modern phrase, ‘A road to Damascus Experience’. Damascus is today the oldest inhabited city on Earth, dating back over 1,000 years before the martyr Jesus of Nazareth made his debut in Bethlehem in the Christian year zero. This ancient city, built on the original Silk Road, has for centuries teemed with travellers and traders, vagabonds, thieves, mercenaries, prostitutes and princes.
Today Syrian Jihadists slip across the border into Iraq to join the insurgency against the American military occupation to gain immortality in return for $3,000 a month; and scantily-clad Eastern European hookers from the former USSR throng the gaudy nightclubs of the city, looking for customers among the rich Arabs and sex tourists from neighbouring Gulf States. Welcome to the new Babylon.
When he is not active in Iraq, Abdullah cuts meat for a living. He is a Syrian cook at the ‘Kingdom of God’ restaurant in Damascus, in a bustling suburb dominated by Iraqi exiles. For the past year, Abdullah has also been on the payroll of Iraqi resistance forces fighting American troops. Like many Syrians, he is convinced that his country will be invaded next and that it is only by keeping the US bogged down in Iraq that Syria will be spared. “All we know is that Syria is the next station in the American plan. The Americans are all Jews or unbelievers,” says Abdullah with quiet conviction.
The re-election of George W Bush in 2004 only served to polarise this view. His ‘war on terror’ cloaked a policy of American expansionism, claimed the clerics, mullahs and hard-line Islamic fundamentalists, and jihadist fighters flocked to join their Iraqi brethren – and collect healthy pay packets for fighting for what they believe is a holy cause.
In April 2004, the Abdullah (aged 23 at the time) boarded a convoy of American GMCs in Aleppo, northern Syria, with 11 other fighters from the area. He had been recruited at a mosque 30 miles south of Aleppo, built by a local sheikh with business interests in Iraq and strong sympathies with the resistance. It is brazenly entitled the Mujahideen Mosque.
Abdullah, originally from the Aleppo area, and the other fighters were provided with Iraqi passports and weapons. Abdullah was given a grenade launcher to train with. They were told they would be relieving Syrian Mujahideen already in Iraq, part of a regular ‘troop’ rotation, and would be expected to fight until they in turn were either killed or replaced. In return Abdullah's family would be paid $3,000 (£1,600) a month by the mosque – more than most American soldiers in Iraq and a fortune in Syria where average salaries are less than $16 (545 baht) a week.
To enter Iraq from Syria there are three border crossings. Abdullah's convoy took the most northerly, through Rabia, a dusty collection of concrete houses straddling the border, and with pictures of the former Syrian President Hafez Assad festooning the checkpoint. Al-Jabouri tribesmen man the border. Like the al-Dulaimy tribe that guards the southern entry points into Iraq, they are deeply hostile to the US presence and Abdullah's convoy was waved through without checks.
The men were driven to a mosque in Mosul where, according to Abdullah, dozens of their fellow countrymen were staying. He would not disclose the name of the mosque, but one such building in Mosul is the Mahmud mosque, infamous for supporting the insurgency. This squat building on the west bank of the city has seen some of the heaviest fighting between insurgents and US and Iraqi forces.
Sheikh Latif al-Jabouri, who runs the mosque, claims the Syrians he shelters are businessmen who come to buy and sell cars and pray. Inside the mosque, Abdullah was greeted by a former Iraqi military officer. He was assigned to a ten-man force of Iraqi guerrillas, and the other Syrians he travelled with were spread among other units. For the next 80 days, Abdullah and his team went almost every day to attack American bases with mortars, or to man Mujahideen checkpoints.
He also took part in ambushes on US convoys. As a mine hit a patrolling Humvee, Abdullah fired a rocket-propelled grenade at the second vehicle. He was transferred to Fallujah for three months, conducting raids with his unit in the neigbouring Sunni towns of Samara and Ramadi.
Abdullah is reticent about giving details. He is a heavy-set man, clean shaven and dressed in western clothes, a sign of the high salary his family is paid even when he is not on duty. During a 15-minute interview in the Omayyad mosque in the centre of Damascus
(a tourist destination and deemed a safe place to meet by both parties) Abdullah barely spoke above a whisper.
“I don't feel scared; I feel satisfied,” he said. “We are Muslims; we should do Jihad (‘Holy War’). We should go to Palestine but it is difficult to enter; but in Iraq it is easy to kill the enemy.” Abdullah said he would return to Iraq, undeterred by the US assault on Fallujah or Syrian efforts to close the border. He remains convinced that the election of Barak Obama will not change the dynamics of the American military occupation of Iraq, which he says remains focused on keeping a firm grip on the captured oil installations.
The Syrian government has belatedly begun work on a 24ft (7.5 metres) high earth rampart at Rabia, after concerted American and Iraqi pressure. But such efforts have done little to stop the flow of men and equipment away from border checkpoints and the network of mosques that support people such as Abdullah. US and Iraqi officials believe the Syrian government has turned a blind eye to those supporting terrorists in Iraq, seeing the insurgency as an outlet for religious extremists to let off steam – and make some money for themselves and their families.
The existence of the Mujahideen mosque is advertised by signpost on the main road to Aleppo, Syria's second largest city, beside roadside billboards advertising soap suds and Magic World, a theme park, built in 2003 by a head of one of the largest tribes in the north, Aashim al-Halabi.
Aashim Halabi and his brother Shaaban run a business selling cars in Iraq, a highly lucrative trade since Saddam's fall. According to locals, both men were in Iraq when a ‘Daily Telegraph’ reporter visited the mosque on two occasions. The mosque is a modest building, with a single minaret, covered with stone cladding. The surrounding country side is rich agricultural land, dotted with recently constructed farmhouses. Outside, one young man, who would not give his name, claimed to be a fighter called to the mosque before being sent to Iraq. He said up to twenty fighters were sent from the mosque each month. The reporter who spoke to him was then threatened and ordered to leave by other men.
At another ‘Mujahideen Mosque’ built by the tribe at a nearby motorway rest station, the men's cousin, Sheikh Salim al-Halabi, said, “All of Syria supports the fight against the Americans. The Iraqis are our brothers.” You have to wonder, however, if these men would be part of the Jihad if they were not being paid so well in cash.
Iraqi exiles in Damascus say there may be as many as 80 ‘Mujahideen mosques’ either in name or spirit supporting the resistance. Several prominent mosques in Damascus, including the large Bilal al-Hashemi mosque, have reputations as being staging posts for Syrian fighters, suggesting a logistical and financial operation beyond the ability of any one tribal leader. US military intelligence services believe there may be as many as 2,000 foreign fighters in Iraq, mostly from Syria.
They do not operate in a vacuum. Iraqi exiles (those who fled the Saddam regime and more recent arrivals, supporters of the old regime) live in separate quarters of Damascus.
In the Seyyida Zainab district there is a concentration of Shia Iraqis who fled during Saddam's rule and are still pro-American in outlook. At the other end of the city, thousands of members of Saddam's regime have settled in the wealthy Mezzeh district forming a rival Sunni Iraqi area, complete with a ‘Sunni hospital’ and a prominent Ba'ath party headquarters
proclaiming in painted slogans ‘Long Live Arab Ba'ath Socialism.’ The refugees include the three sons of the former industry minister Mohammed al-Douri, on whose farm Saddam was captured hiding in a squalid bolt hole.
It is likely that many recent arrivals have sufficient funds to finance Syrian mosques. As members of Saddam's regime some have been able to buy swathes of Damascene property which they rent out. Others live off their plundered Iraqi money.
One place where money is on display is the al-Manar nightclub, high on the mountainside overlooking Damascus and a short drive from the Syrian president's official residence.
Damascus has become the new Babylon. It is the world’s oldest inhabited city, straddling the ancient Silk Road used by travellers and traders for centuries. Islamic mores are strong here, and the gaudy nightclubs are mostly filled with the super-rich ruling class and visiting sex tourists from the Gulf States.
The working girls, wearing crop tops, figure-hugging denim mini-skirts and high-heeled black boots, are from Syria or the former Soviet Union. In the al-Manar nightclub, the female sex workers are all Iraqi teenagers, or ‘Oranges’ as their pimps call them, after a famous Iraqi pop song. Ten girls working there charge $15 a night for dancing with men from 9 pm until 6 am when they make assignations for the following afternoon. The fee for sex is $100, half of which goes to their pimp Khalid, who keeps them, two to a room, in a hotel in Salhiya.
Seventeen-year-old Hena's story is typical of the others. Eighteen months ago she ran away from her middle-class home in Baghdad fearing for her life after her parents discovered she had had sexual intercourse with her boyfriend. Under Saddam’s regime there used to be only two places where such disgraced women could turn: the Abu Ghraib and Khamaliya neighbourhoods of Baghdad where brothels were protected by the government.
After the war local tribesmen attacked the areas with rocket-propelled grenades, but some brothels continued. Hena was taken under the wing of Khalid and offered passage to Syria to work as a prostitute. When her family began looking for her in Abu Ghraib, she joined nine other girls packed into a minibus. “I wanted to go to Syria,” she says. “ It's more free and less dangerous. No one knows about me here. I'll never go back.” Her dream is to marry a wealthy Gulf state Arab, and for the time being she has no intention of leaving her profession, the oldest in history.
Among occasional visitors to this club is Omar Sibawi Ibrahim, a son of Saddam's half brother, a former head of Iraqi secret intelligence and an interior minister. Omar was the golden boy of Saddam's regime. After graduating in computer science, he headed Iraq's Young Men's Association. He was a notorious playboy and womaniser and, not surprisingly given his tastes, the best friend of the late Uday Hussein, one of the former dictator’s fearsome sons. Now Omar is a fat, balding 40-year-old and is said to be the owner of al-Manar.
The venue resembles a Western nightclub with padded leather corner seats and a DJ playing the latest Arabic pop songs. For $20 a punter can pay for fake money to be scattered from the ceiling, adding to the atmosphere of casual decadence.
“We always get paid extra when he's around; like a Gulf Arab,” said Hena. “He'll drink with us when a girl has a birthday party. Sometimes he'll pay for some girls to come around to his neighbourhood and entertain his friends.”
Iraqi exiles believe that Omar is one of the main financiers of Syrian fighters in Iraq. Gen Ali Sa'ad (who commanded a division of Saddam's special guard until he was fired before the 2003 invasion on the grounds that he was Shiah), said, “Many members of Saddam's government like Omar Sibawi work and support the resistance by giving them money. They channel their money into Syrian mosques.” The general added that he had seen thousands of members of Saddam's regime seek refuge under Syria's sister Ba'ath party government.
When asked about these allegations Omar Sibawi refused to talk. A second call elicited the response that he did indeed know Aashim al-Halabi, but would say no more. Meantime the militant mosques in Syria continue to swell the insurgency in Iraq by training and sending mercenaries across the border to fight.
And in Damascus, fake money often cascades from the rafters at al-Manar.
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