“We don’t have that much time” – A Day in Veeraporn Nitiprapha’s Labyrinth of Memories

On a late Thursday morning, the EQ team sat down for an interview with Mam—Veeraporn Nitiprapha: mother, writer, occasional guest star, workshop organizer, aspiring grilled pork shop owner, and a witness to both the Black May events and the 1973 Thai popular uprising, twice each.

As soon as we referred to her as a double S.E.A. Write Award-winning author, she let out a playful breath and said, “Don’t call me a ‘female writer,’ or I’ll get mad.” A smile formed on her lips, and her eyes twinkled.

Before the cameras rolled and the recorders clicked on, she told us she had just returned from the ‘Pattani Decoded 2024’ event. The fond memories of the people from the South were clearly written across her face. Veeraporn, dressed in her signature black, also shared that she had once accidentally clinked glasses with members of Radiohead during their trip to Bangkok. There were many more stories she joyfully recounted after the recording began, each filled with sparks of her love for life.

“Right now, I’m doing all sorts of things. I bought a camera last year and started learning photography. I’ve acted in movies, in series–whatever people ask me to do, I do it. But look at me—I’m getting old now. When I was younger, I should’ve explored more, done more. But I missed out. We often think we have all the time in the world, but really, we don’t.”

That day, we talked about life and society in a small, closed-off white room, before heading outside to discuss writing techniques while strolling through a park. The sun’s rays filtered through raindrops, birds chirped, and people passed by—all of it becoming a backdrop of warm, lingering memories accompanying our conversation.

What followed was the piecing together of stories—both about her experiences growing up, the influences and circumstances that shaped her into a writer, and the process of turning an audio recording into this interview.

What have you been up to these days?

Just putting on some makeup and giving interviews (laughs). If there’s any traveling involved, that’s more exciting—I get to change my surroundings (pauses to think). I’ve never been one with a busy routine or the type to go here and there. Honestly, I was pretty lazy back then.

What was your childhood like? How did you grow up?

I was born around 1962, during a period of calm, much like in the time of the Buddha. The country was fairly peaceful at the time. I don’t remember too much, but I do recall there weren’t many malls or much to do. So, I ended up reading books because the four TV channels we had back then weren’t all that interesting. There were enough books to read, but not many places to go. The city was different, though not exactly remote—just an ordinary city with little excitement.

I grew up going to a book rental shop. Back then, I read works by authors like Krisna Asoksin, and ‘Suwanni Sukhontha’—just whatever came my way. When I was about 8, I visited some relatives in Udon Thani and had nothing to do, so I grabbed one of their books to read. It was a children’s novel called ‘I Am David’. It was one of the best pieces of translated literature I’d ever read. At 8, I had no idea what World War was, knew nothing about concentration camps or Jewish history. The book was about a Jewish boy who was born in a concentration camp and escaped, searching for his mother while traveling across Europe to Sweden. That’s all there was to the story, yet it was such an exhilarating adventure. It made me realize that ‘literature’ truly means good books—those that captivate and inspire.”

When I was 12, October 14, 1973, Uprising happened. It was a time when there were plenty of books around, and I got to read works like Maxim Gorky, Dostoyevsky, and Tolstoy. I was reading (exhaled thoughtfully) the masterpieces of world literature. A lot of what I read was revolutionary, literature for life, but even if you took away the revolutionary themes, they’d still be shining gems.

Then, with the event of the October 6, 1976, massacre, all the books I’d been reading disappeared—books written by Russians, who were perceived as communists at the time. So, a lot of great translated literature vanished for a long while. During that period, I read whatever I could find and reread what I already had.

What do you mean by rereading?

It’s an interesting part of learning to write. Most people don’t realize how important rereading is. They read a book once, maybe even quickly, just to get the gist. But that’s not how it works. Back in my day, we’d read for the pure joy of it, savoring every part. We read the same books over and over because we didn’t have a lot. From the October 6 event onwards, I continued to reread books until I was about 20 or 22, when more new titles started to become available again. Nonetheless, of course, they weren’t the same political works, nothing like Maxim Gorky writing to change the world—not that intense.

What did you like about yourself in your early 20s?

I didn't like myself. I was a weirdo. People always told me, "Wow, Mam is pretty crazy." So, I was left wondering–am I pretty or crazy? (laughs)

When your friends called you crazy, what were you actually like back then?

I was the type of person who’d wear a T-shirt with a chiffon skirt, Dr. Martens military boots, and a Grace Jones haircut with the sides shaved. Guys didn’t approach me for about 3-4 years, but I didn’t find it odd.

Actually, the 90s were fascinating. Culture didn’t just come by itself. It came with music, films, and other movements. Suddenly, we had indie bands, Radiohead, Depeche Mode, and movies like Pulp Fiction and films by Wong Kar Wai. It felt like the whole world was growing up together. And, of course, we had the Internet, which connected everything. We had Tower Records, which broadened our horizons, and video rental shops with new movies, something we didn’t have before. It was like, nothing came for the longest time, and then, when it did, everything arrived all at once.

What made you start writing books?

I have a son. At the time, he was about 15 or 16 years old, and this was before 2010. He’s an avid reader, and I naturally nurtured his passion for literature. Every morning, he’d wake up and say, “Mom, have you read this book? It’s amazing.” That annoyed me, so I thought, “I can do that too!” I wanted to prove it to him, so I started writing 2 or 3 chapters of a love story. I didn’t know where it would go. There was no concept—I was just trying to impress my son, that’s all.

Then came the events of 2010. There were the Yellow and Red Shirts. We couldn’t go anywhere; Bangkok was in shutdown for six months. The protests were manageable—that was normal. But then, in May 2010, during the crackdown, the government shot and killed civilians. That was crossing a line. Conflict is one thing, but death is another. And it wasn’t just the deaths—it was the fact that people were celebrating the killing of others, people they didn’t even know. That really shook my sense of humanity.

It didn’t matter where they were from or where they were educated, right? What mattered was what they were demanding, which at the time was based on principles—they were calling for elections and a prime minister chosen by the people. That was the right thing, that’s what schools taught us. So how did it come to this? Why did people try to overthrow that rule?

From what started as a simple love story with no concept, the novel developed a real theme. What makes someone become a person they’re not? Or, more importantly, what kind of person are you really? These are questions I believe we all need to ask ourselves. Who are we? What do we want? What kind of life, politics, or country do we want to live in? I didn’t get involved directly with politics because I think politics is just one part of what we call life. So, I focused on the myths—the illusions—that drive us. Why don’t people question those things more? Why don’t they wonder?

 So, is it the world that pushes you to write, or do you write to explain the world?

I think it’s my curiosity, desire, and ambition to understand everything that pushes me to write. And while working on my writing, it becomes a journey of understanding different things. I didn’t write my personal story, but I wrote about ‘Jongsawang’ (a character in Memories of the Memories of the Black Rose Cat). And while I was working on my writing, it became a journey of understanding different things. Of course, I didn’t write about my personal life, but instead about ‘Jongsawang’ (a character in Memories of the Black Rose Cat). Naturally, elements of it reflect people’s lives in one way or another. It might represent a part of someone, or a piece of a story. As I’ve said, sometimes Jongsawang isn’t a person at all but the inequality present in the story. This character might represent love, or hate. It’s a journey back and forth, and along the way, I gather things to bring back into the writing.

Does this make you obsessed, or does it make you start questioning our humanity?

My questions are: What are we? What does it mean to be human? Why did we allow the events of 2010 to happen? Being killed by state officials is extremely violent. The people who died were unarmed and were killed by those holding weapons.

It was something deeply violent to me. But my friends went off to do ‘Big Cleaning Day.’ These were my friends—it’s heartbreaking. It was sad because they were so cheerful while cleaning. It felt like the bad events had passed, and it was time to clean the house to start anew, without anyone asking why the authorities acted as they did.

After that, I started writing in a different way and came out with Blind Earthworms in a Labyrinth. If you read it superficially, you might not even see politics in it. As I’ve said, politics are ever-changing. In the end, things will work themselves out, one way or another. But our humanity—that’s what’s important. I chose not to write overtly about politics, but to tell the story through other means.

Is it possible to have a mechanism that records all memories, without those in power monopolizing which memories get recorded?

This is an issue I’m particularly interested in. I’m intrigued by what makes us who we are, and what makes us something other than ourselves, because history plays a big role in that. From the moment you’re born, they tag you as a boy or girl. Your gender is regulated. History governs you from day one. Even your ID card tells you that you are Buddhist, Thai, and it lists your blood type.

There are two kinds of history: mainstream history and oral history. Oral history is incredibly fascinating. If you look at Memories of the Memories of the Black Rose Cat, you’ll find that it is entirely composed of oral histories. The emotions within it convey how we felt in each situation, on those specific days. What we truly remember is the feeling, not the story. The story gets shaped either by mainstream history or by others, which leads to false memories—memories of things that never actually happened.

For instance, “Remember that strawberry ice cream we had that day? It was delicious!” “No, it was orange ice cream.” “No, I’m sure it was strawberry.” “No way, it was definitely orange.” And after a while, you start to believe you ate orange ice cream. False memories occur all the time. Even our dreams become part of them. So, did it really happen, or was I dreaming?

Memory is fascinating because sometimes what’s missing from our memory is what really defines who we are.

And if it’s not about memory, are you interested in something else at the moment?

One thing I’m particularly interested in is the confusion in our society. I think that this confusion comes from missing information and the insertion of information that wasn’t originally there. For example, the October 14 Uprising was a major event, yet we barely know anything about it. The same goes for the Black May incident. What do you actually know about it? You know what you’ve been told, what they want you to know. This narrative shapes society’s thinking in one direction, and that leads to confusion.

Just ask yourself: what prevents us from questioning? Why do we ignore where we come from, who we are, and where we’re headed? What causes our indifference to everything? If you can accept one set of stories, you might also accept the tale of a nun deflecting a bomb to Hiroshima. You might embrace the idea of spirit mediums and fall for scams on the internet. This refusal to question and this lack of interest in what’s real is truly bizarre.

When we read Blind Earthworms in a Labyrinth or Memories of the Memories of the Black Rose Cat, we feel a mix of brightness, grief, and nostalgia. What kind of emotions did you aim to evoke in these two works?

I think those emotions were intentional. It also ties in with my personal life. Like I said, most of my friends are on the opposite political side now. We grew up together. Back then, they were all very liberal. We’d hang out together at Lang Suan. They were modern, open-minded—all fascinating people. But when it comes to politics—why have they ended up supporting authoritarian power? Supporting killing is the same as supporting power. It doesn’t resonate with them. It doesn’t suit 90s kids nor those who listened to Radiohead. So there’s a sense of nostalgia, a longing. I guess I miss my friends.

(Pauses) What troubles me is that I’ve lived through the October 14, 1973, Uprising, the October 6, 1976, massacre, Black May in 1992, and the events of 2010. And I’m certain that sooner or later, your generation will go through something similar. If we don’t, it’s because we’re so terrified of it. How afraid must we be? How much fear must we live with? And do we even realize that we are petrified of it? Do we know that we shouldn’t be living like this?

You may have noticed that the character ‘Jongsawang’ was a son in the story, but he wasn’t treated as part of the family. Even though the narrative focuses on a Chinese family, it’s truly about all of us. We are outsiders in our own country, outsiders in our own political system.

Does this mean that being a writer in this era requires being a mouthpiece for what’s happening?

No, no, not necessarily. But this issue goes beyond politics, whether in parliament or elsewhere. It’s everywhere in our lives because it trickles down like this (makes a downward triangle gesture). You don’t have the freedom to choose the grocery store you want. You don’t have the right to choose another brand that might be better. Monopolization exists everywhere. You have just what you require. For instance, there are five universities and ten hospitals in town, and they will remain that way forever, never changing. You get exactly this much, no more, no less. And you wouldn’t even know if there’s something better, because you have no other options to explore. We work hard, earn our money, and go enjoy a salmon buffet. But is this really a good life? When we were younger, did we ever ask ourselves what a truly good life looks like?

And for you, what is a good life?

(Whispering) Welfare state. A good life is a life that’s supported when you fall. It’s as simple as that. The moment you live in a welfare state that supports you well enough—not even perfectly—you’ll have the courage to act, to dream. You’ll become a quality citizen. But without that, you’ll end up stuck in a job you hate, simply to care for your parents when you can’t even afford it. That’s something the state should be responsible for.

You’re forced to make decisions about your future at 18, and you have to finish your education by 25 because your parents can’t support you any longer. Then it’s up to you to take care of yourself and go back to supporting your parents. The cost of education is too high, and parents spend half their resources just getting their kids to graduate. Once they do, the cycle begins again. What can you do? You work to support your parents. But can you still become the person you want to be? What about your dreams, your passions? Can you travel the world? Everything is so limited.

Even worse, you’re stuck in a job you don’t like. One day you’ll look up and find yourself as the boss you once despised, as the person you never wanted to be. And what does life amount to then? At best, you can afford to eat salmon, have a partner, and own a house. You start off living near your office when you first take on the mortgage, but as time goes on, you find yourself unable to leave your job due to financial commitments. Even though you’ve bought a house, you realize you can’t move there because the cost of transportation is too high. Everything feels locked in. It’s suffocating.”

So, what should we live for? What should being human mean?

That’s a difficult question. It’s very individual. I’m a boomer, so, of course, we are always preoccupied with the importance of being good citizens and fulfilling our duties to the state. But with the indie generation, the meaning changed. It became more about finding ways to make your mark on the world. I think Generation X was like that, though I’m not entirely sure. But for your generation, the idea of what it means to be a complete person is more fragmented—there’s no single model of what the world needs you to be.

I’m pretty sure that many people, from my generation to yours, are all searching for meaning in life. Living a meaningful life—that includes creating art, cooking great food, finding someone to share your travels with, and getting to know the world.

If you could go back in time and talk to your younger self, what would you say?

If I were younger, I’d tell that guy I loved him. And if he thinks little of my love, that’s on him.

Do you have any other regrets?

If I had known life would be this short, and that being human was this fragile, I would’ve done everything I wanted. When I was younger, I carried the weight of the world. I worried about doing the right thing, about not making anyone sad, including myself. But in the end, no one truly cared the way I expected them to. (Pauses) Isn’t that heartbreaking? I really believed they would care so much, but I was mistaken.

(Pauses) I spent a lot of time with my child, but even then, it feels like it wasn’t enough. I guess that’s just how it is for mothers—it never feels like enough.

What makes you happy now?

Waking up each morning brings me joy. The simple act of breathing in and out, realizing that I’m still alive today, is enough for me. Lately, I’ve begun to see things differently. For instance, when it rains, I find myself gazing at it as if it’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed rain. There’s a certain uncertainty that accompanies this; perhaps it could be the last time. I might not wake up tomorrow.

Throughout my work, I’ve gained everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ve learned about myself, come to understand life, the world, and the people around me. I’ve grasped the nuances of fragility and strength, and what it truly means to be human. These realizations are so significant that I feel fortunate that at the age of 50, I chose to become a writer. I won’t be spending my 60s sending out stickers or images on messaging apps to say, “Hello Monday, Hello Tuesday,” trying to insert myself into others’ lives with a message that simply says, “I’m still alive.”

I still wake up early, like a 12-year-old, jumping down the stairs ready to write. If I can’t write on a particular day, that’s another story. There are certainly days when I delete everything I’ve written. But I believe that, like any profession, writing requires practice. I consider myself lucky that my work has reached a level of acceptance that allows it to be a viable career. That’s all there is to it. But am I one of the greatest writers of all time? I wouldn’t say so.

Last question, how do you finish writing a book?

Typically, Thai writers produce one book a year. I take an average of three years per book, and I’ve been working on my latest for four years without significant progress. But I think once I’ve started, it has to come to an end eventually, right? If not, just eliminate all the characters. Once they’re all gone, it naturally concludes, doesn’t it? Because they’re all dead. (smiles)

(At this point, the camera stops recording, the wireless ceases to function, but the memories continue to record.)

The rain tree sways gently under the sunlight that dapples its leaves. The light caresses the people who emerge to sit, play, relax, strum guitars, run, and engage in conversation.

Veeraporn adjusts her glasses as she shares her impressions of the film Aftersun (2022), reflects on the joys of reading and rereading The Little Prince, invents phrases like “muttering rain,” and recounts the story of her son who moved to Canada. We bid farewell just before the sun sets.

Weeks later, the feelings stirred by our conversation still linger, unsettled. Perhaps it’s because we paused to reflect and were then prompted with deeper questions: What is life, and why do we exist in such an indifferent society?

During these days, we occasionally muse that our cruel fate might cause the past to repeat itself—both in terms of political events and personal experiences. We may find ourselves unable to care for our loved ones, eating the same brand of food for the rest of our lives. Or perhaps those in power will distort our memories time and again, a scenario that seems ripped from the pages of a dystopian novel.

Yet life is not confined to the writer’s draft, and we are not characters in someone else’s story, are we?