All language subtitles for Scared.2004.LiMiTED.DVDRip.XviD-CRDS

We need
to understand the darkness.

Mostly, we're facing
the light.

If we turn around,
there's just darkness.

That's not to say that
the light doesn't balance it,

but it needs to be balanced.

It's hard the other way,

but that's where
the nourishment is.

That's the womb of potential.

When I was a child,

I would choose my dreams
each night.

It was like creating
my own movie

where anything was possible.

My favorite dream brought
me on a journey

to wondrous lands,

with a pet chipmunk

that liked to sit
in my shirt pocket

as we traveled.

Nowadays, my subconscious
is running the show,

and my dreams are getting
darker and darker.

I live on a paradise island
off the west coast of Canada.

It's the year 1999.

The millennium is approaching,

and though I'm not expecting
the apocalypse,

every week, there seems
to be a new war,

another extinct species,

diseases running wild,
more hungry people.

I've been struck with
an underlying sense of fear

that I just can't shake.

One night, I dream

that I'm awakened
with shouts and cries.

Then I'm pushed and shoved
into a cattle car

filled with starving people.

An old woman
sitting next to me sighs,

"it's finally happened.

"We're on our way
to the camps.

"So it's our turn now.

"I always thought,

"it's happening to them,
not to me, to them.

Always to them."

In the light of day,

I realize that it's impossible
to run away.

So I've decided to take
the opposite approach,

I'm running towards.

I'm setting out on a journey

that will eventually consume
five years of my life

and take me to the ground
zeroes of the world,

searching for possibility
in the darkness,

for the sacred
inside the scared.

The first time
I flew in an airplane,

I was a nine-year-old Baha'i,
on a pilgrimage with my family

to the Baha'i holy places
of Israel.

I was a little holy roller,

with that sparkling, unsullied
devotion of the child.

As a Baha'i, I was taught

that humanity is on a path
of spiritual evolution,

similar to the growth
of the individual.

Right now,
we're in the adolescent phase.

It's 25 years later,

and I no longer belong
to any one belief system,

but as I head out
into the world,

I can't help feeling that,
like so many kids these days,

the planet might not get
the chance to grow up.

They are laughing, you know.

They are kids, laughing.

How do you say that?

What's that mean?

Move a bit.

No, no, no, no, no.

I evade the kids,
slip past the the guards,

and crawl under
a barbed-wire fence

into the toxic site

of the world's worst
industrial disaster,

the union carbide
pesticide factory.

One night back in 1984,
a valve ruptured,

releasing a cloud
of pesticide gas

into the sleeping community.

As many as 8,000 people
were killed on the spot,

and thousands more
continue to die

as the years pass.

My husband used
to work in union carbide,

and he knew that there
was something deadly

going to happen one day.

I remember
the day before on the Sunday

we went very happily

because all our family
was together.

We were all feasting,

and we went in a happy way.

That day,
everyone was stopping us

in Bairagarh on Sunday night,
and they kept telling us,

"don't go back, stay behind,
go tomorrow morning,"

but my husband had to go
to union carbide for his work.

When we came back from there,
we went off to sleep.

I put all the children to bed.

I couldn't sleep somehow.

I was very, very restless
that night.

I don't know what it was,

but something just
didn't let me sleep all night.

In the middle of the night,
we woke up choking.

I started coughing,

and my eyes started watering,

and I heard voices
outside the house.

People were screaming, "run!

"Run for your life.
There's a deadly gas."

And we could not run away

because all our children
were very small.

I remember that morning,
when I woke up,

and I had my dead son
in my arms,

I couldn't even open my eyes
to see him,

to see the last of him, because
my eyes were so swollen,

that I had to force them
with my fingers.

I remember that there was
a tree outside my house

which had lovely fruit,

and that one tree had gone
black the next morning.

I came in the train,

and I went out
of the train station,

and there were all over,
people groaning in pain,

and people falling down
and fainting.

Hundreds and hundreds
of people like this, in pain,

and there were
some volunteers

who were giving some medicine,
some food, some water,

so I came out of the station,
and I joined these volunteers.

After working for a week
in trying to provide relief,

what was very clear was
it was too big.

There were too many people

crying out for medical relief
and care,

and it was impossible
for private bodies,

or non-governmental bodies
to do this,

and what was very clear
was that...

by that time,
it was becoming clear...

that the government

would not help people
on its own

unless it was pressured
into doing this,

and the third thing
that was very clear

was that
the Indian government

and the multi-national
union carbide

were together.

After the disaster,

Union Carbide
focused its resources

on evading responsibility.

When doctors asked

for the ingredients
of the pesticide

so they could find a way
to treat the wounded,

the company said
it was a trade secret...

And even as the graveyards
and crematoriums

were filling with bodies,

they insisted
it was nothing more

than a potent tear gas.

A phase the survivors call
"revictimization" began.

I'm sure my husband watches me

from somewhere,

and his soul must be in pain.

He was an educated man,

and we wanted us to grow up
in a certain way.

There's not a day that goes by

when I don't think about
the people who I've lost.

This is my youngest,

and every time I look at him,

and I feel
that maybe there is hope,

maybe the world isn't that bad,

but then my memory
keeps going back

to the people I have lost
in this world.

When you first came here,

in that really desperate time,

if you can think about
a single, sacred moment

that comes to mind.

I think, for me,

the collective spirit is sacred.

The times, like when
we set up the first clinic.

Because what had happened
was there was 100, 150, 200,

a slowly growing
number of people

who gathered
at the Union Carbide gate,

and this was one place
that was...

people were forbidden
to enter,

but that day,
something happened,

some magic happened.

Wives singing songs
and chanting slogans.

Simple women,

who maybe wouldn't cross
the threshold of their house,

they came into the gate
and broke the damn gate,

broke this old big iron gate,

and they just went in,

and immediately, it was like...

You could see,
there was not

a single person
who was crying.

Everyone was so happy
that they finally entered.

It had become symbolic.

It didn't mean nothing.

I mean, it didn't affect
Union Carbide shares

or anything,

but just in terms
of assertion of power,

it was magic,

and what,
I think the same evening,

someone brought wood,

someone brought
these sheets of iron,

and the whole clinic was ready
before you could...

you could even come to terms
with what was happening around.

So that was the first clinic

in occupied zone
inside the factory campus.

Did you have any idea

that, 15 years later,
you would still be here?

No, not at all.

Today,
Satyhu and the survivors

have created
the Sambhavna Clinic,

their most ambitious project
so far.

It's a center that offers
holistic medical care

for the gas survivors,
at no charge.

For the first time,

a combination
of ayurvedic medicine, yoga,

massage therapy,
and western medicine

is being used to treat victims
of chemical exposure,

and it's working.

This is the happiest
time I've had in Bhopal,

actually doing something,

actually doing something new
that's really helping people,

and also, at the same,

making an impact on this whole
area of chemical exposure.

It's not at all a question
of leaving Bhopal.

"Sambhavna"
means similar feelings,

which is compassion.

The name of
our clinic suggests

that there is possibility
if there is compassion.

You can talk to the simplest
Bhopal person,

and the person will say
if you ask him,

"What is your fondest wish?"

And she will say,
"What I have undergone

shouldn't happen to anybody."

80% of them are people living
on physical labor,

who are not today
in the new globalized world,

neither in
the production stream

nor in the consumption stream.

They're not in the market,

so they're expendable.

What we're trying to do,
again, in our small way,

is to assert the right
of the expendable to live.

We have a right to live.

A man plunks himself down

into my train compartment
and says,

"Hey, why aren't you happy?
You seem unhappy."

I smile,
"I'm just tired, that's all,"

but he has picked up
on something.

I'm sad to be leaving.

Two months ago, Bhopal
was just a toxic wasteland.

Now I see a city

populated
with the inspiring faces

of people
who refuse to give up.

The plane to Cambodia
is deserted.

It's an old Russian model

that fills with a thick cloud
of odorless white smoke

while we sit on the runway.

Apparently this is normal.

I mutter the prayers of all
the different faiths I know

as we begin our decent
towards Phnom Phenh,

but we touch down

on the cracked pavement
of the tiny airport

without event.

And I arrange a ride into town.

"Why not go
to the killing fields, too?"

My driver suggests
nonchalantly,

as if it were just another
tourist attraction.

I reply, "Sure. Why not?"

A dark mood descends upon me

as we scooter down
the crowded road

towards the horror
and genocide

of the Khmer Rouge regime,

which terrorized Cambodia
throughout the '70s.

We pull up
outside a muddy field.

Inside is the Toul Sleng
concentration camp,

where hundreds
and thousands

and thousands of people

were tortured, disappeared.

I find myself
questioning my journey.

"What kind of person
would travel the world

in search of these places?"

The driver asks me
how long I'll be.

I can't say.

How long
do most tourists spend?

My mood brightens
as I ride my rented bicycle

through the sprawling ruins
of Angkor Wat.

There's no place on earth
like this.

The giant stone faces
of the Buddhas of compassion,

crusted with lichen,
split by roots,

patiently eroding.

Can she tell me why?

A sudden sun shower
sends me to seek refuge

in a dark sanctuary.

Two monks slip in
to share my shelter,

fluorescent orange
robes glowing.

They soon run out of English

as they attempt to explain
enlightenment.

They laugh,

and with sweeping gestures
with the head and to the sky,

paint their quests as monks.

It's only recently

that they could openly
practice their beliefs.

These monks survived
the years of Pol Pot,

though their families did not.

Even the statues
were tortured.

Buddha was considered
a counter-revolutionary.

The fact that most people
in the country were Buddhist

was easily dealt with.

Most people in the country

were also deemed
counter-revolutionaries.

One young monk reaches
into his robes

to produce a cigarette.

Puffing cheerfully,
he explains

that they're skipping out
of their afternoon meditation.

The sound of music leads
to me to a grassy plateau

atop the temple complex.

I find a group of musicians

who've all lost limbs
through land mines,

the lasting legacy of war.

There are an estimated
three million land mines

scattered
throughout Cambodia.

Just outside the temple
gates of Angkor Wat,

I follow a sign that reads
"Land Mine Museum."

There, I encounter
the proprietor

of the homespun museum,

a man named Aki Rah.

Aki was only five years old

when he captured
by the Khmer Rouge.

He was taught to fire guns,
rocket launchers,

to make simple bombs,

and because he was small
and light, to lay land mines.

When they kill,

like, they kill my friend,

they kill my family,

I cannot do anything.

If I angry, they kill me too,

so I have to keep quiet.

Make my life safe,

and they want me...

you laugh.

I laugh.
Ha, ha, ha, you know.

We cannot say,
"no, you not kill my brother,

sister, or my father."

No, we cannot say.

We can look and smile,

and just like that, they want.

They say you can't cry.

No.

Aki's father was killed

for the crime of being
a high school teacher.

His mother was killed

for giving extra rice rations
to a hungry old man.

Yeah, they make die.

They kill.

Just a little bit do
something wrong, they kill.

When the Vietnamese invaded,

Aki switched sides

and fought against
the Khmer Rouge.

When the U. N. Finally arrived,
he joined them,

disarming the very land mines

that he himself
might have planted.

Today, the international
peacekeepers have left,

but the job
of de-mining Cambodia

is far from finished.

Some army, some soldier,

they tell me
they lay mines around here.

They tell me they started
from here and here...

Have mines, yeah.

They just bury in the ground
a little bit.

Not so deep.

Just like this here.

Yeah.

Yeah, you hear, "click, click."

Maybe...

Yeah, plastic.

Slowly,

take the mine like this.

You can do like this...

Yeah, no problem, like this.

No?

Yeah, and be careful
on the top,

but we can do like this,
no problem,

a little bit, yeah.

Hmm.

And...

Here, the fuse.

We take the fuse off,
and it's safe.

Some days,
I clear 50 mines a day,

and some days, we clear
a hundred mines a day.

Many, many mines.

Aki remains committed

to ridding his ravaged country
of the deadly devices.

With a simple wooden stick,

he wanders the dangerous
fields and jungles

decommissioning
thousands of land mines

each year.

It's become his life's work,

a way of healing both himself
and his broken country.

On my way to the airport,

the moto-rickshaw driver
asks me

if I had a good
"holiday in Cambodia."

I think for a moment
before responding.

"You know,
I wouldn't call it a holiday,

but yes, it was good."

The sacred did appear.

It was just buried
next to a land mine

in the jungle.

A man notices me filming
the bones of war.

Pointing to the pavement,
he says,

"This is where 22 people
were killed by a bomb.

"They were simply
waiting in line

"for a few crusts of bread.

"One of our artists
has filled in the places

"where the bombs fell,

because we need to remember."

Amina still lives
in that same apartment

bordering the infamous
snipers' alley

with her husband Nejadad.

They're both artists
who never stopped creating

throughout the four years
of the siege of Sarajevo.

Serbs, they're always shooting
in one rhythm, you know.

Tum ta-ta-ta tum,
tum ta-ta-ta tum.

It's one music phrase,
their nation song, you know,

and after three times,
tum ta-ta-ta tum,

they've spent 30 bullets,
and their magazine is empty,

and I know that
they have to put this magazine,

to take a new one
to put in the rifle,

to, you know, to find...

And it's a few seconds,
you know,

and this was a chance for me
to run across the street.

Throughout my life,

I've tried to make sense
of the world by making art.

For Amina and Nejadad,

trapped inside
a crumbling city,

making art became
a tool of survival.

When one grenade

is thrown
on a roof or building,

or museum,

I was running to collect
some interesting pieces...

And, in fact, my idea
was to transfer, you know,

to exchange negative images
of the war

into a positive celebration
of the human soul.

If I just hide against,
you know, snipers,

against shells,

I'm not sure
shall I stay normal,

and my work was something
as my therapy.

We were in a space as a prison.

You know,
we didn't have freedom,

but inside your mind,
you were free,

without rules,
without any borders,

and you had the chance
to use this freedom.

During the war,

there was only one way
to escape Sarajevo,

through a secret
800-metre-long tunnel

that took you to the airport,
controlled by the U. N.,

and out of range
of Serb snipers.

From there,

if you had the right papers
and enough money,

it was only a short flight
to freedom.

Today, the guns
on the hillsides are gone,

but you still need
the right papers

to get out of here.

A few hours
after leaving Bosnia,

I'm already deep
in the London underground.

It feels, somehow, too easy.

Mind the gap.

Mind the gap.

I buy a car in London.

As soon as my foot
hits the gas,

I'm seized
with a nervous fervor,

a sense that
the world is too big,

and I have
to go everywhere, now.

I begin racing around Europe,

a day in Auschwitz,

half a day in Flanders Fields,

a few hours at the spot

where Joan of Arc
was burned at the stake.

I stop in for a quick
miracle at Lourdes.

As is often the case,
it takes me a while

to recognize
the miracles I receive.

First, my video camera
is stolen from the car,

and then, a few day later,
the car itself is stolen,

and I'm left on the street

without even
a coat on my back.

My frantic rushing has been
brought to a sudden stop.

In the silence that emerges,

I realize that I had become
a tourist of darkness.

I was filling my pockets
with images

while leaving my heart
untouched.

The Sufis would say
I had lost my grace.

Then they might add,
"die, before you die."

I need to go inwards.

I begin studying
with the Sufis of Turkey,

and the Tibetan Buddhists,
exiled in India.

From the outside,

meditation can look
like escapism.

I soon discover
that it's the opposite.

As the weeks pass,

every demon I've tucked away
comes up to say hi.

I learn not to push them away

or feed them
or become them

or studiously ignore them.

In Buddhism, everything
that happens in life,

even death,

is seen as an opportunity
for awakening.

The Tibetans I live with

embody this spirit
of resilience.

Chased from their homeland
by the Chinese occupiers,

many of them have spent
over 40 years

in the refugee camps of India,

yet they have managed
to recreate their culture

in exile,

keeping it alive and vibrant.

After a day of meditating
under the Bodhi tree,

I go out to get my shoes,

only to discover
that they're gone.

Naturally.

I walk out
of the temple complex

onto the dusty streets,

embarrassed by my bare feet.

The locals will probably think

I'm some kind of
gringo renunciant,

trying to lead a pure life
unburdened by shoes.

When I arrive
back at the monastery,

the monks laugh
and tell me a story.

Ryokan was a hermit
who lived a simple life

in a simple hut
at the foot of a mountain.

One night a thief broke in,

only to find
there was nothing to steal.

Ryokan said, "You may have
come a long way to visit me,

"and you shouldn't return
empty handed.

Please, take my clothes."

The thief was bewildered

but took the clothes
and slunk away.

Ryokan sat naked,
watching the moon.

"Poor fellow," he mused,

"I wish I could give him
this beautiful moon."

So, uh...

I lost this sentence.

Oh, uh...

The next sentence... no. No.

After six months,

I decide it's time
to get off the cushion

and back into the world.

Humans are the only creatures
that know we will die...

As much as we try
to avoid the thought.

We used to be able
to find a measure of comfort,

a sense of immortality

in the marks we might leave
in the world,

through our works,
or our children.

At 8: 15 a.m.
On August 6th in 1945,

humanity lost its illusion
of immortality.

It's dawn,
August 6th, 2000.

In a few hours,

it will be
the anniversary

of the day we dropped
the first atomic bomb.

The Hibakushas,
the A-bomb survivors,

arrive early,

memories flooding back
as they sit in silent prayer.

For a decade after the blast,

they were denied the right
to tell their stories,

shamed into silence.

It was a second
act of violence.

Kae Goh Ogura was just
a little girl

playing in the streets
of Hiroshima

on that awful day.

She was also told to be quiet.

"You shouldn't complain.

"Many people
had the same experience.

You are not special,"
they said.

Then we tried to forget,

not to tell our story.

10 years later,

when we had the bikini atoll
nuclear test, too...

And we were so surprised,

and we became so desperate.

That was the end...

Japan was the end
of nuclear war,

but, oh, they are still
producing nuclear weapons.

Do they know what a dreadful,
miserable day that we had?

We need to tell our story.

As darkness falls,

lanterns of memory are
released on the Otogawa River.

Hiroshima
no longer tries to forget.

For Kae Goh Ogura,

the act of telling
and retelling her story

has become a way
to transform her tragedy

into a force of change.

I was eight years old.

I clearly remember that...

The steps I climbed up once.

I tried to see the whole city,

and behind my house
there was a shrine on the hill

and stone steps.

Each step, people were dying.

Those dying people
squeezed my leg,

caught my ankle.

I was so scared.

Everybody was shouting,
"help, help."

I saw the city.

The city was just dark.

Black and red.

In flame.

Trees were burning.

People were asking,
"Water, get me water."

So I wanted to give
those dying people...

to give water,

but as soon as they
drank water,

died...

In front of me.