|
One prisoner of conscience is one too many — AUNG SAN SUU KYI 2012
Nobel Lecture
 |
Your Majesties,
Your Royal Highness, Excellencies,
Distinguished members of the Norwegian Nobel
Committee,
Dear Friends, |
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.
© The Nobel Foundation 2012.
Go here for more about
Human Rights in History.
More History
|
|
