Googling the Bardo

In 2002, Noah Meyer, my son, gave up his job as a Manhattan computer programmer to live on the beach in rural Phuket, Thailand. There he met and fell in love with Chompoonut (Jeab) Kobram, who had moved to the more prosperous south from her home in Buriram, Thailand, the most depressed part of the country.

Jeab had a daughter by a European man who’d returned to his homeland without acknowledging paternity. As is common in Thailand, a country high in poverty and low in prospects, Jeab left her baby, Cherie, with her parents in order to find work. After rigorous training, Jeab became a certified scuba-dive master, a good job in Thailand, where aging parents depend on their grown children for support. Noah adored Cherie, whom he got to know through visits, and intended to adopt her.

Jeab and Noah had been living together for almost two years and were engaged to be married, when her former boyfriend, Sam Van Treeck, a Belgian ex-pat, reconnected with her. Van Treeck and she had split up before she met Noah, whom she told, “I’m glad he no longer hates me.” Van Treeck was phoning mainly for advice. Jeab said Van Treeck was having trouble with his wife, a woman from Laos.

Jeab’s scuba-diving diploma arrived in the mail in June 2004 while she was away on a trip. In the middle of the afternoon on June 25, she phoned to tell Noah she was returning home the next day. He was to call her early that evening to make arrangements to pick her up either at the bus station or the airport. His next calls to her cellphone went unanswered and he spent a frantic night trying to reach her by phone and email.

The following day, Jeab’s uncle came from Bangkok with the newspaper; Noah saw Jeab’s lifeless, semi-nude body sprawled out in a photo on the front page. She was in Van Treeck’s condo in Pattaya. Police estimated that she was killed soon after she and Noah had last talked. Though the article reported forty-eight wounds, we were to learn from the autopsy that she had been stabbed 134 times, her throat had been slashed, and there were signs that she had been tortured.

Newspapers reported that nothing had been stolen from the apartment and that police believed the murder was not the result of a robbery gone bad, but was more likely a murder committed during a fit of rage. It appeared that Jeab had fought her attacker; hair found on her hands and blood and tissue from under her fingernails were sent for forensic testing. Newspapers also reported that a building security video showed that Van Treeck was in the apartment building at the time of the murder and that this information had been confirmed by witnesses.

A few days later, Van Treeck was arrested as the prime suspect. He said that he discovered Jeab’s body once he got home from his job as a tourist guide. He maintained his innocence, but police remanded him in custody to face charges of murder.

Later, in July, while Noah was staying with me at my home in Vancouver, we heard that after Van Treeck had spent seventeen days in jail, the Belgian embassy in Bangkok helped him make bail. We read in a Thai newspaper that Van Treeck’s father Marc, a well-known Belgian musician, had made a champagne toast to his son’s freedom and declared, “The bail proves he’s innocent.”

Then I received a private phone call from a case manager for Asia at Foreign Affairs in Ottawa. She said she thought that Van Treeck would be allowed to escape the country because such is the privilege of Western murderers of Thai women. Thailand has never been occupied, but it has been colonized by the West, upon which it is dependent for tourism. She said our only hope was to get as much media attention as possible, because it would bounce back to Thailand and might embarrass the government into detaining Van Treeck. Before Jeab’s death and since, newspapers have reported incidents of Western men finding ways of leaving Thailand after being accused of killing Thai women.

My main concern was for my son, who was focused but traumatized. Even so, Noah continued to work hard to bring attention to the case. But with the call from Ottawa I suddenly felt that I needed to get involved.

We were grateful for immediate coverage by Vancouver’s weekly Georgia Straight and soon afterward by the Asian Pacific Post. But all other media I approached were indifferent to what they construed as a “Third World story.”

There had already been a lot of publicity in Thailand. Jeab was beautiful and the murder sensational. Jeab’s mother, Sa-nga Phanbuatong, told the Bangkok Nation that Van Treeck had been asking her daughter to get back together with him. “Chompoonut turned him down as she was in a new relationship. My daughter said that he was very upset about the refusal and he had tried many times for reconciliation. I think Sam Van Treeck might be the person who killed my daughter out of jealousy and anger as my daughter did not want to get back together with him.”

Jeab’s family, impoverished rice farmers, has neither resources nor voice in their own country; they considered Noah their son-in-law and relied on him to obtain justice for their daughter.

My family is Canadian, so I appealed to authorities in Canada, as well as those in Thailand and Belgium, to have Van Treeck put on the Interpol list to stop him if he tried to cross a border. Canada’s Minister of Foreign Affairs responded with platitudes and the statement that it was “a private matter between a Belgian and a Thai citizen”—as if Jeab were alive to sue Van Treeck. The Belgian consul sent me an email warning me not to talk with the press.

In the fall, just before evidence in the case was to be presented in a Thai court, Van Treeck fled to Belgium. A major trading partner, Belgium has a one-way extradition treaty with Thailand; they can have criminals returned to them, but they never send their own citizens back to Thailand.

As far as I know, except for the Phuket Gazette and Pattaya News, no Thai press covered Van Treeck’s escape or its aftermath. A warrant effective for twenty years was issued for his arrest, but it is only good if he returns to Thailand. A series of hearings was held without him.

In Canada the Asian Pacific Post published another large article, which was followed eventually by an extensive feature (“Justice Delayed, Justice Denied”) in the Vancouver Courier. With the silence by all other media in Canada and the censorship in Thailand, the media in Belgium made do with Van Treeck’s side of the story.

Van Treeck’s parents organized a press scrum and a hero’s welcome for their son’s arrival at a Belgian airport. For weeks he was on television and radio, in newspapers and magazines, boasting about having survived seventeen days in a Thai jail. Van Treeck never said how he had left the country, but he did thank the Belgian embassy in Bangkok for support. Thai papers said his passport remained in the possession of the Thai government.

One of the many Belgian journalists who wrote about him called me to say Van Treeck had brought his Laotian wife to Belgium to appear as a “good family man” for the media. Some newspapers reported that Van Treeck’s wife had arrived in Belgium a week before he did.

In November, his family held a benefit, raising over 75,000 euros, during which Van Treeck announced, “Everything is for sale in Thailand. I’ll use the money to pay back my bribes for escaping.” Around the same time, he sent Noah an email advising him to “keep looking for Jeab’s killer, he’s out there.”

Several Canadian lawyers told me about the complications of international law. In the end it seemed that our only recourse would be to sue Van Treeck for “wrongful death” and that would mean hiring a lawyer and paying for a trip to Thailand to investigate. It was all prohibitively expensive.

When, in November 2006, two and a half years after Jeab’s murder, Thailand sent evidence and transcripts to Belgium and petitioned them to prosecute Van Treeck, a Belgian journalist called me to say, “Until now we were sure Van Treeck was innocent because naturally we stand up for our own.” Belgium accepted the Thai petition and agreed to prosecute, but Van Treeck remained free.

The more time went by, the more muddled things seemed.

As reported by Tom Sandborn in the Vancouver Courier“Even setting aside the intricacies of bail procedures and extradition treaties, the murder of Kobram is surrounded by puzzles. Early press coverage from Pattaya indicated that the police had a wealth of forensic evidence, including blood, fingerprints, hair and tissue. But as early as September, stories about the case featured police spokesmen refusing to comment on the forensic evidence, and more recent stories suggest the evidence was inconclusive.”

Jeab had lived to be twenty-three but it is as if she never existed. If demographics are destiny, Jeab was devalued to nothing because she was a woman of colour with no money and no power. Her erasure was not an isolated incident. All over the world more women die due to domestic violence than war. Countless women have been killed. Countless numbers of their murderers have gone free.

In December 2005, a British tourist, Katherine Horton, was murdered in Thailand. To avoid discouraging tourism, Thai authorities apprehended, tried and convicted her killers in under a month and the news was publicized internationally.

In the summer of 2006 another Thai woman was killed. Her accused British boyfriend was given bail and went on the lam. There was little publicity. The only difference between him and Van Treeck is that no one knows where the British boyfriend is.

Jeab’s death no longer defines my life. But it is as close as yesterday when something triggers me into thinking about it. No amount of scar tissue can cover my anguish about her terrible death, or my anger about the grinding injustice that followed.

No amount of time can eradicate my anxiety. Such evil does not fade away. It is hard to let go of expectations of justice, of any kind of justice. It is hard to get to grief.

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The news spread through me sickeningly. Noah was on the phone, telling me in a voice so flat it was airless that his fiancée had been stabbed to death. “No,” I shrieked, but then gathered myself up to concentrate on my son, who told me “I’m sleeping like a baby,” and I knew he was in deep shock.

He didn’t want me to go there. He’d be home in a couple of weeks, after organizing a memorial for Jeab and a trust fund for her daughter, Cherie. Schools are free in Thailand but uniforms and books are not. Her future was now his focus.

I’d recently spent a month with Noah and Jeab in Thailand. She was strong, proud, a feminist, exceedingly bright and very attractive. People gravitated toward her.

Before going on the trip I had experienced inexplicable dread. I’d had to take anti-anxiety medication just to get on the plane, and needed it the whole time I was there. The dose, enough to topple an elephant, only took the edge off, and even after I returned I remained afraid but didn’t know why. As soon as I found out about Jeab, I stopped taking the pills; they had prevented nothing.

Violence is the spine of news—the Montreal Massacre, Vancouver’s Missing Women, BC’s Highway of Tears. It has surrounded me, swarmed me, in movies, books and songs, but this was a direct hit. A thousand times I had heard the story of possession and destruction in the name of love, of a man destroying a woman rather than letting her go. Yet this was the first time I was really hearing it. It was unreal, unimaginable.

I went about my daily life, returned a tool to a neighbour and told him, told others too. Very matter-of-factly I said, “My son’s fiancée has just been murdered.” From a distance I watched as people gasped, as if I’d delivered a kick to their solar plexus.

Soon Noah was home and I held him in my arms, held back my tears. He needed me to be strong for him; I wanted to rock him as if he were a baby. If only I could soothe him, “It was just a bad dream.” But he could not awaken from this nightmare.

I am his mother. I was supposed to protect him, but I had no idea how to guide him through this wanton waste—I struggled for words. All he wanted was that it had never happened; all I wanted was to make his hurt go away. The shock that had been such a blessing was wearing off. The pain was getting in.

Noah’s sister Joey, his brother Daniel, and Daniel’s girlfriend Kelly, all of whom live in New York, came to Vancouver. Our family rallied around Noah. At times we fell apart. It is difficult enough to cope with natural loss due to sickness, accident or age, when there is no one to blame. How were we to grapple with the knowledge that some person had deliberately caused such suffering?

In the warm air I felt old and cold. I pushed my leaden body out of the house only when necessary. The sunlight was too bright for my eyes. The slightest breeze battered my skin. Social events were out of the question; I didn’t know how to make small talk, could only talk about the murder. Small violations became huge to me. I felt hideous, as if strips of flesh were hanging off me. I was crazy with grief. To be shunned. Stay away. Stay away.

Jeab’s daughter had just turned two years old when her mother was killed. Noah told me after one of his many trips to Thailand that even months later, every time Cherie heard the phone ring she asked, “Is that my mother calling?”

I kept going over the details of Jeab’s death, wondering what her last minutes were like. Was there a point at which she realized she was losing a battle for her life? We know she fought back; there were scrapes of skin under her fingernails. I vacillated between disbelief and disgust about the freedom of the man accused of her death. Injustice really is burning; it released corrosive acids that swilled around in me. I lost trust.

Some people were creeped out by me, as if I were carrying a contagious disease. Others pretended that nothing had happened, out of their idea of politeness, and so the burden was on me to bring it up or join in the pretense. Some prescribed how long it would take “to get over this” or what to do “to feel better,” as if I were ill. Their reactions came from simply not knowing how to respond and their fear that I might spiral out of control. All strong emotions are frowned on in our society, but especially anger and sorrow. Restraint and control are the order of the day.

But there is no correct or incorrect way to grieve. No right or wrong way, no time line, no limit. Nobody can tell you how to feel or when to feel it, or for how long. Grief is totally individual, totally personal. Emotions are not to be legislated, not subject to logic; they are their own universe. Closure is a myth. You learn to live with the hole in your heart.

Waves of grief came at me at unexpected times, in unlikely places. I went down, under, then resurfaced. It happened over and over, only the intervals and intensity varied.

Old friends extended themselves in soft, sensitive ways with words and gestures I could absorb. New friends came to me. Secrets were revealed as if previously kept in shame; I was amazed by the number of people who have been touched by violence to their close friends or family members.

Because I couldn’t stand being so self-absorbed, trapped in my own misery, I forced myself to go downtown for a demonstration about the plight of Afghan women. After the bus ride, while walking over to the protest area, I spotted someone I’d just seen as a subject in a TV documentary on homeless people in Vancouver. She’d changed her hairstyle and I thought she looked good. As we passed each other, she punched me hard in my belly. I doubled over and screamed, “Fuck you. Why?” while she sauntered away. But I knew why. She’d seen something in my face that showed I was too vulnerable to be out in public. I jumped back on a bus and hurried home.

My one ritual for the newly dead is to light a candle—I have no spiritual framework, nothing to bolster me. Jeab was Buddhist. I googled the Bardo, which means “gap.” It is a description of the journey you take, the transitions you make, right after you die. I clicked on “violent death,”“enlightenment,” and “rebirth” for a person who has been killed. Then I explored what happens to the killer. Buddhism is pragmatic; it has an answer for everything. But blinded by “an eye for an eye,” I could find nothing of comfort to convey to my son, and his comfort was the only thing that would comfort me. The umbilical cord is a magical material, a substance that lies dormant, ready to stretch when needed over time and distance.

I carried the murderous stranger within me. Someone else’s child had become part of me. I abhorred him, wished he were dead. Somewhere, very deep inside, notions of forgiveness skittered resentfully through me. But I expelled everything that threatened to dilute my sorrow and rage. These feelings I had to hang on to, or I’d disappear.

Explanations were meaningless, experience nothing. There was no sense to Jeab’s murder, no way to understand Van Treeck’s actions. I knew only that the shape of my son’s heart had changed forever. I could promise him only that his life would go on. On the radio I heard another mother and son discuss the Yiddish term kine-ahora. It is meant to ward off the evil eye, to protect those you love. I berated myself that I’d never said it too.

I put on the bracelet Jeab had given me, an exquisite amber bead on a braided rope. I wore it constantly, its consistency and weight a reassuring presence. Every time I thought of her, a hundred times a day, I held on to the bead.

My three kids are close in age and close in spirit. After spending time with me in Vancouver, Noah joined Daniel and Joey in New York. There he was able to find work to pay for lawyers in Thailand to represent Jeab’s family.

Though he was holding down a full-time job, going back and forth to see Jeab’s family, stopping en route in Vancouver to see me, he remained solidly involved with the case. But I took on the full-time job of dealing with the media, politicians and authorities.

I researched law, fielded phone calls and monitored e-mails from different time zones in North America, Asia and Europe. This meant staying up late into the night and waking up early the next morning. Always I received opposite messages from those in the know about international murder cases. Some advised me to continue seeking media coverage. Others urged me to leave it to quiet diplomacy. The only consistent message from everyone was never to use “emotional” language, state only the facts. Otherwise I was likely to provoke and alienate authorities. All my writing; my press releases, my pleas to politicians, my requests for legal information and help from international agencies, became an act of repression.

Along with being concerned for Noah, for two years I tangled with officials in Canada, Thailand and Belgium. The stress, frustration and exhaustion built, and one day I ended up howling in the bathtub: overwhelmed by helplessness, in despair at the tragedy of Jeab’s death and the futility of all my efforts to bring the accused to trial. I had failed to reach the “right” politician, failed to reach the “right” press.

As a temporary measure my doctor put me on anti-depressants, and the first time I smiled, after about a week, my cheeks ached—it had been so long.

Slowly my energy for life returned. Our entire family danced with joy at Daniel and Kelly’s wedding. Joey and Craig’s new baby, Henry, has brought all of us great happiness.

Noah continues to support the Kobrams in every way possible. Cherie lives with her doting grandmother and her aunt Jha in her own culture, rich with tradition, and she is thriving. She is being raised to honour her mother’s memory and will grow up knowing that Jeab counted.

Noah has found new love with a woman in New York, and they recently went to the remote village in Buriram so that Sarah, now his wife, could meet Cherie and the Kobrams. Our family is continuing to grow. Kelly and Daniel now have a baby son, Jack. Sarah and Noah now have a baby daughter, Navi.

Mostly I accept there’s little more within a legal framework that we can do about Jeab’s murder.* Part of me still resists letting go. I wonder whether I’ll retain the lessons I’ve learned about grief or if I will disappoint people in the future as I’ve no doubt done in the past. It is hard to be consoled and it is hard to console.

* In June 2009, Belgian law enforcement arrested Sam Van Treeck. He is once again out on bail and to date there has been no trial.