By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
The dove may be the universal symbol of peace but, in Thailand’s volatile Deep South, it’s a Red-Whiskered Bulbul. Five Bulbuls were on display when I arrived in Ban Kue-meng. They were nestled in intricate birdcages, their trilling soaring like high-pitched arias. In birdsong competitions, the very best win their owners thousands of Baht. A decade ago, Ban Kue-meng was just another rural town in Thailand’s Yala province. These days, it’s known as the home of some of the best bird cage makers in the country. The craftsmen were sitting with their birds, fanning themselves as humidity bore down. It’s too hot indoors. Armed combatants, they told me, had destroyed electricity cables three days ago and power had been cut off since. Conflict in Thailand’s southernmost provinces of Yala, Narathiwat, and Pattani has claimed more than 5,000 lives since 2004. Ban Kue-meng isn’t exempt from the violence but bird cage making has had a big role in keeping the youth in the community and away from trouble. A Malay Muslim art, bird cage making is traditionally passed on from father to son. Young men in the south are losing interest but, strikingly, most of the bird cage makers in Ban Kue-meng are young people. Rusalan Meereh, who was barely out of his teens when I spoke to him, is one of them. The rubber plantation worker has a very early start to his day, slicing trees and collecting sap (a raw material for rubber) at 3 a.m. The whole operation would be over by 5 a.m. so Rusalan used to not have anything to do for the rest of the day. Young people in similar situations have filled the empty hours taking drugs, doing petty crime, or taking part in the violent conflict. “I became interested in bird cage making because my friends were learning how,” Rusalan said, “It’s very satisfying to work on something together as a team and then see your bird cage, something we worked on for a month, admired and bought.” The bird cages, selling for Baht 2,000-3000 (about $60 to $130), are fit for champion Bulbuls. Made of teak wood, the spindles are elegant but sturdy. Ancient symbols in Malay Muslim art are carved into the wood: crescent moons, daggers, and dragon-like fish. Like talismans, they’ve kept Ruslan and his friends away from trouble and have also helped them start small savings. At the workshop, the young men take on different parts of a bird cage- a spindle here and a tiny window there. When I ask to take photos, there’s a lot of posturing and banter. The workshop has become both creative space and haven. In moments of unrest, parents looked for their children and always found them in the workshop. “I’m happy to see the young people work so diligently. I want this art to be preserved and passed on to the next generations,” said Waha Malasaw, a Ban Kue-meng elder who had been teaching bird cage making for decades. “In these projects, you see young people and adults combine their efforts. That’s why I think it’s beautiful,” he said. His gaze rests on Rusalan and his friends, the bird cage makers who have been spared from the insurgency because of their craft. Violence has never been far away, just three days prior, these young men have heard of sabotage and the snap of power cables. But, right now, there’s only birdsong.