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Sunday, June 22, 2008

Inside a 9/11 Mastermind’s Interrogation - Series - NYTimes

Inside a 9/11 Mastermind's Interrogation - Series - NYTimes.com

Inside a 9/11 Mastermind's Interrogation

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Published: June 22, 2008

WASHINGTON — In a makeshift prison in the north of Poland, Al Qaeda's engineer of mass murder faced off against his Central Intelligence Agency interrogator. It was 18 months after the 9/11 attacks, and the invasion of Iraq was giving Muslim extremists new motives for havoc. If anyone knew about the next plot, it was Khalid Shaikh Mohammed.

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Janet Hamlin/Associated Press, Pool

A courtroom artist's sketch of Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, the primary suspect in the 9/11 attacks.

Cracking a Terrorist

An Ad-Hoc Program
Janet Hamlin

A sketch of Khalid Shaikh Mohammed, standing, during his arraignment this month.

Piers Benatar for The New York Times

THE PATH TO GUANTÁNAMO The house in Faisalabad, Pakistan, where Abu Zubaydah was seized in 2002.

Associated Press

The Szymany Airport in Poland near a C.I.A. "black site."

Pool photo by Brennan Linsley

The media operations hangar at the detention center at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.

Associated Press

INFORMATION Ramzi bin al-Shibh, seized as a terrorist suspect in 2002, soon cooperated with his interrogators.

The interrogator, Deuce Martinez, a soft-spoken analyst who spoke no Arabic, had turned down a C.I.A. offer to be trained in waterboarding. He chose to leave the infliction of pain and panic to others, the gung-ho paramilitary types whom the more cerebral interrogators called "knuckledraggers."

Mr. Martinez came in after the rough stuff, the ultimate good cop with the classic skills: an unimposing presence, inexhaustible patience and a willingness to listen to the gripes and musings of a pitiless killer in rambling, imperfect English. He achieved a rapport with Mr. Mohammed that astonished his fellow C.I.A. officers.

A canny opponent, Mr. Mohammed mixed disinformation and braggadocio with details of plots, past and planned. Eventually, he grew loquacious. "They'd have long talks about religion," comparing notes on Islam and Mr. Martinez's Catholicism, one C.I.A. officer recalled. And, the officer added, there was one other detail no one could have predicted: "He wrote poems to Deuce's wife."

Mr. Martinez, who by then had interrogated at least three other high-level prisoners, would bring Mr. Mohammed snacks, usually dates. He would listen to Mr. Mohammed's despair over the likelihood that he would never see his children again and to his catalog of complaints about his accommodations.

"He wanted a view," the C.I.A. officer recalled.

The story of Mr. Martinez's role in the C.I.A.'s interrogation program, including his contribution to the first capture of a major figure in Al Qaeda, provides the closest look to date beneath the blanket of secrecy that hides the program from terrorists and from critics who accuse the agency of torture.

Beyond the interrogator's successes, this account includes new details on the campaign against Al Qaeda, including the text message that led to Mr. Mohammed's capture, the reason the C.I.A. believed his claim that he was the murderer of the Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl and the separate teams at the C.I.A.'s secret prisons of those who meted out the agony and those who asked the questions.

In the Hollywood cliché of Fox's "24," a torturer shouts questions at a bound terrorist while inflicting excruciating pain. The C.I.A. program worked differently. A paramilitary team put on the pressure, using cold temperatures, sleeplessness, pain and fear to force a prisoner to talk. When the prisoner signaled assent, the tormenters stepped aside. After a break that could be a day or even longer, Mr. Martinez or another interrogator took up the questioning.

Mr. Martinez's success at building a rapport with the most ruthless of terrorists goes to the heart of the interrogation debate. Did it suggest that traditional methods alone might have obtained the same information or more? Or did Mr. Mohammed talk so expansively because he feared more of the brutal treatment he had already endured?

A definitive answer is unlikely under the Bush administration, which has insisted in court that not a single page of 7,000 documents on the program can be made public. The C.I.A. declined to provide information for this article, in part, a spokesman said, because the agency did not want to interfere with the military trials planned for Mr. Mohammed and four other Qaeda suspects at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.

The two dozen current and former American and foreign intelligence officials interviewed for this article offered a tantalizing but incomplete description of the C.I.A. detention program. Most would speak of the highly classified program only on the condition of anonymity.

Mr. Martinez declined to be interviewed; his role was described by colleagues. Gen. Michael V. Hayden, director of the C.I.A., and a lawyer representing Mr. Martinez asked that he not be named in this article, saying that the former interrogator believed that the use of his name would invade his privacy and might jeopardize his safety. The New York Times, noting that Mr. Martinez had never worked undercover and that others involved in the campaign against Al Qaeda have been named in news articles and books, declined the request. (An editors' note on this issue has been posted on The Times's Web site.)

The very fact that Mr. Martinez, a career narcotics analyst who did not speak the terrorists' native languages and had no interrogation experience, would end up as a crucial player captures the ad-hoc nature of the program. Officials acknowledge that it was cobbled together under enormous pressure in 2002 by an agency nearly devoid of expertise in detention and interrogation.

"I asked, 'What are we going to do with these guys when we get them?' " recalled A. B. Krongard, the No. 3 official at the C.I.A. from March 2001 until 2004. "I said, 'We've never run a prison. We don't have the languages. We don't have the interrogators.' "

In its scramble, the agency made the momentous decision to use harsh methods the United States had long condemned. With little research or reflection, it borrowed its techniques from an American military training program modeled on the torture repertories of the Soviet Union and other cold-war adversaries, a lineage that would come to haunt the agency.

It located its overseas jails based largely on which foreign intelligence officials were most accommodating and rushed to move the prisoners when word of locations leaked. Seeking a longer-term solution, the C.I.A. spent millions to build a high-security prison in a remote desert location, according to two former intelligence officials. The prison, whose existence has never been disclosed, was completed — and then apparently abandoned unused — when President Bush decided in 2006 to move all the prisoners to Guantánamo.

By then, whether it was a result of a fear of waterboarding, the patient trust-building mastered by Mr. Martinez or the demoralizing effects of isolation, Mr. Mohammed and some other prisoners had become quite compliant. In fact, according to several officials, they had become a sort of terrorist focus group, advising their captors on their fellow extremists' goals, ideology and tradecraft.

Asked, for example, how he would smuggle explosives into the United States, Mr. Mohammed told C.I.A officers that he might send a shipping container from Japan loaded with personal computers, half of them packed with bomb materials, according to a foreign official briefed on the episode.

"It was to understand the mind of a terrorist — how a terrorist would do certain things," the foreign official said of the discussions of hypothetical attacks. Thus did the architect of 9/11 become, in effect, a counterterrorism adviser to the American government he professed to despise.

A Break in Pakistan

When Mr. Martinez flew to Pakistan early in 2002, he was joining an increasingly desperate campaign to catch and question anyone who might know the plans for the next terrorist attack.

Months had passed since Sept. 11, 2001, without a single senior Qaeda figure being taken alive. Intelligence agencies were alarmed by the eavesdropping "chatter" about threats. But without a high-level terrorist in custody, the government had few sources to warn of plots in progress.

Then, in February 2002, the C.I.A. station in Islamabad, Pakistan, learned that Abu Zubaydah, Al Qaeda's logistics specialist, was in Lahore or Faisalabad, Pakistani cities 80 miles apart with a combined population of more than 10 million. The hunt for the terrorist's electronic trail grew intensive.

Armed with Abu Zubaydah's cellphone number, eavesdropping specialists deployed what some called the "magic box," an electronic scanner that could track any switched-on mobile phone and give its approximate location. But Abu Zubaydah was careful about security: he turned his phone on only briefly to collect messages, not long enough for his trackers to get a fix on his whereabouts.

That was when Mr. Martinez arrived, beginning what would be an unlikely engagement with the world's worst terrorists.

The son of a C.I.A. technician who worked on the agency's secret communications and eventually became a senior executive, Mr. Martinez grew up in Virginia, majored in political science at James Madison University and went directly into the C.I.A. training program not long before his father retired. He wound up in the agency's Counternarcotics Center, learning to sift masses of phone numbers, travel records, credit card transactions and more to search for people.

"Deuce had a reputation as one of those eggheads who could sit down with a lot of data and make sense out of it," said one former C.I.A. officer who knew him well. In the agency's great cultural divide, he was a stay-at-home analyst, not an "operator," one of the glamorous spies who recruited foreign agents overseas. His tool was the computer, and until the earthquake of 9/11 his expertise was drug cartels, not terrorist networks.

After the attacks, officials recognized that tracking drug lords was not so different from searching for terrorist masterminds, and Mr. Martinez was among a half dozen or so narcotics analysts moved to the Counterterrorist Center to become "targeting officers" in the hunt for Al Qaeda.

Colleagues say Mr. Martinez, then 36, threw himself into the new work with a passion. On a wall at the American Embassy in Islamabad, he posted a large, blank piece of paper. He wrote Abu Zubaydah's phone number at the center. Then, over a week or so, he and others added more and more linked phone numbers from the eavesdropping files of the National Security Agency and Pakistani intelligence. They excluded known institutions like mosques and shops and gradually built a map of the network of contacts around Abu Zubaydah.

"It was a spider's web," said one person who saw the telephone chart. "Aesthetically it was quite pretty."

Using the numbers, and premises linked to them, Mr. Martinez and his colleagues sought to identify Abu Zubaydah's most likely hide-outs. They could not reduce the list to fewer than 14 addresses in Lahore and Faisalabad, which they put under surveillance. At 2 a.m. on March 28, 2002, teams led by Pakistan's Punjab Elite Force, with Americans waiting outside, hit the locations all at once.

One of the SWAT teams found Abu Zubaydah, protected by Syrian and Egyptian bodyguards, at a handsome house on Canal Road in Faisalabad. It held bomb-making equipment and a safe loaded with $100,000 in cash, according to a terrorism consultant briefed on the event. Photographs of the raid reviewed by The Times last month showed Abu Zubaydah, a cleanshaven 30-year-old Palestinian, shot three times during the raid, lying face down in the back of a Toyota pickup before he was taken to a hospital.

At first, Abu Zubaydah fell in and out of consciousness, emerging occasionally to speak incoherently — once, evidently imagining himself in a restaurant, ordering a glass of red wine, a C.I.A. official said. The agency, desperate to keep him alive, flew in a Johns Hopkins Hospital surgeon to consult. Within a few days, Abu Zubaydah was flown to Thailand, to the first of the "black sites," the agency's interrogation facilities for major Qaeda figures.

Thailand, which had long faced Muslim insurgents in its south, became the first choice because C.I.A. officers had a very close relationship with their counterparts in Bangkok, according to one American intelligence official. At first, the official said, "they didn't even tell the prime minister."

Inside a 'Black Site'

It was at the Thai jail, not far from Bangkok, that Mr. Martinez first tried his hand at interrogation on Abu Zubaydah, who refused to speak Arabic with his captors but spoke passable English. It was also there, as previously reported, that the C.I.A. would first try physical pressure to get information, including the near-drowning of waterboarding. The methods came from the military's SERE training program, for Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape, which many of the C.I.A.'s paramilitary officers had themselves completed. A small version of SERE had long operated at the C.I.A.'s Virginia training site, known as The Farm.

Senior Federal Bureau of Investigation officials thought such methods unnecessary and unwise. Their agents got Abu Zubaydah talking without the use of force, and he revealed the central role of Mr. Mohammed in the 9/11 plot. They correctly predicted that harsh methods would darken the reputation of the United States and complicate future prosecutions. Many C.I.A. officials, too, had their doubts, and the agency used contract employees with military experience for much of the work.

Some C.I.A. officers were torn, believing the harsh treatment could be effective. Some said that only later did they understand the political cost of embracing methods the country had long shunned.

John C. Kiriakou, a former C.I.A. counterterrorism officer who was the first to question Abu Zubaydah, expressed such conflicted views when he spoke publicly to ABC News and other news organizations late last year. In a December interview with The Times, before being cautioned by the C.I.A. not to discuss classified matters, Mr. Kiriakou, who was not present for the waterboarding but read the resulting intelligence reports, said he had been told that Abu Zubaydah became compliant after 35 seconds of the water treatment.

"It was like flipping a switch," Mr. Kiriakou said of the shift from resistance to cooperation. He said he thought such "desperate measures" were justified in the "desperate time" in 2002 when another attack seemed imminent. But on reflection, he said, he had concluded that waterboarding was torture and should not be permitted. "We Americans are better than that," he said.

With Abu Zubaydah's case, the pattern was set. With a new prisoner, the interrogators, like Mr. Martinez, would open the questioning. In about two-thirds of cases, C.I.A. officials have said, no coercion was used.

If officers believed the prisoner was holding out, paramilitary officers who had undergone a crash course in the new techniques, but who generally knew little about Al Qaeda, would move in to manhandle the prisoner. Aware that they were on tenuous legal ground, agency officials at headquarters insisted on approving each new step — a night without sleep, a session of waterboarding, even a "belly slap" — in an exchange of encrypted messages. A doctor or medic was always on hand.

The tough treatment would halt as soon as the prisoner expressed a desire to talk. Then the interrogator would be brought in.

Interrogation became Mr. Martinez's new forte, first with Abu Zubaydah; then with Ramzi bin al-Shibh, the Yemeni who was said to have been an intermediary between the 9/11 hijackers and Qaeda leaders, caught in September 2002; and then with Abd al-Rahim al-Nashiri, the Saudi accused of planning the bombing of the American destroyer Cole in 2000, who was caught in November 2002.

Mr. bin al-Shibh quickly cooperated; Mr. Nashiri resisted and was subjected to waterboarding, intelligence officials have said. C.I.A superiors offered Mr. Martinez and some other analysts the chance to be "certified" in what the C.I.A. euphemistically called "enhanced interrogation methods."

Mr. Martinez declined, as did several other C.I.A. officers. He did not condemn the tough methods, colleagues said, but he was learning that his talents lay elsewhere.

Another Suspect Is Seized

The hunt for Khalid Shaikh Mohammed involved the entire American intelligence establishment, with its billion-dollar arrays of spy satellites and global eavesdropping net. But his capture came down to a simple text message sent from an informant who had slipped into the bathroom of a house in Rawalpindi, near the Pakistani capital, Islamabad.

"I am with K.S.M.," the message said, according to an intelligence officer briefed on the episode.

The capture team waited a few hours before going in on the night of March 1, 2003, to blur the connection to the informant, a walk-in attracted by the offer of a $25 million reward. The informant, described by one American who met him as "a little guy who looked like a farmer," would later get a face-to-face thank you from George J. Tenet, then the C.I.A. director, at the American Embassy in Abu Dhabi, intelligence officials say, and he was resettled with his reward money under a new identity in the United States.

Within days, Mr. Mohammed was flown to Afghanistan and then on to Poland, where the most important of the C.I.A.'s black sites had been established. The secret base near Szymany Airport, about 100 miles north of Warsaw, would become a second home to Mr. Martinez during the dozens of hours he spent with Mr. Mohammed.

Poland was picked because there were no local cultural and religious ties to Al Qaeda, making infiltration or attack by sympathizers unlikely, one C.I.A. officer said. Most important, Polish intelligence officials were eager to cooperate.

"Poland is the 51st state," one former C.I.A. official recalls James L. Pavitt, then director of the agency's clandestine service, declaring. "Americans have no idea."

Mr. Mohammed met his captors at first with cocky defiance, telling one veteran C.I.A. officer, a former Pakistan station chief, that he would talk only when he got to New York and was assigned a lawyer — the experience of his nephew and partner in terrorism, Ramzi Yousef, after Mr. Yousef's arrest in 1995.

But the rules had changed, and the tough treatment began shortly after Mr. Mohammed was delivered to Poland. By several accounts, he proved especially resistant, chanting from the Koran, doling out innocuous information or offering obvious fabrications. The Times reported last year that the intensity of his treatment — various harsh techniques, including waterboarding, used about 100 times over a period of two weeks — prompted worries that officers might have crossed the boundary into illegal torture.

His cooperation came in fits and starts, and interrogators said they believed at times that he gave them disinformation. But he talked most freely to Mr. Martinez.

An obvious chasm separated these enemies — the interrogator and the prisoner. But Mr. Martinez shared a few attributes with his adversary that he could exploit as he sought his secrets. They were close in age, approaching 40; they had attended public universities in the American South (Mr. Mohammed had studied engineering at North Carolina A&T); they were both religious; and they were both fathers.

Mr. Mohammed, according to one former C.I.A. officer briefed on the sessions, "would go through these emotional cycles."

"He'd be chatty, almost friendly," the officer added. "He liked to debate. He got to the stage where he'd draw parallels between Christianity and Islam and say, 'Can't we get along?' "

By this account, Mr. Martinez would reply to the man who had overseen the killing of nearly 3,000 people: "Isn't it a little late for that?"

At other times, the C.I.A. officer said, Mr. Mohammed would grow depressed, complaining about being separated from his family and ranting about his cell or his food — a common theme for other prisoners, including Abu Zubaydah, who protested when the flavor of his Ensure nutrition drink was changed.

Sometimes Mr. Mohammed wrote letters to the Red Cross or to President Bush with his demands; the letters went to C.I.A. psychologists for analysis.

And there were the poetic tributes to Mr. Martinez's wife, scribbled in Mr. Mohammed's ungrammatical English and intended as a show of respect for his interrogator, according to a colleague who heard Mr. Martinez's account.

But as time passed, Mr. Mohammed provided more and more detail on Al Qaeda's structure, its past plots and its aspirations. When he sometimes sought to mislead, interrogators often took his claims immediately to other Qaeda prisoners at the Polish compound to verify the information.

The intelligence riches ultimately gleaned from Mr. Mohammed were reflected in the report of the national 9/11 commission, whose footnotes credit his interrogations 60 times for facts about Al Qaeda and its plotting — while also occasionally noting assertions by him that were "not credible."

The interrogations the commission cited began just 11 days after Mr. Mohammed's capture and ended just days before the commission's report was published in mid-2004. Together they amount to a detailed history of Mr. Mohammed's initiation into terrorism along with his nephew, Mr. Yousef; his plotting of mayhem from Bosnia to the Philippines; and his alliance with Osama bin Laden, to whom the egotistical Mr. Mohammed was reluctant to defer.

Mr. Mohammed also claimed a role in a long list of completed and thwarted attacks. Human rights advocates have questioned some of Mr. Mohammed's claims, including the beheading of Mr. Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter, suggesting that they may have been false statements made to stop torture.

But Mr. Martinez told colleagues that Mr. Mohammed volunteered out of the blue that he was the man who killed Mr. Pearl. The C.I.A. at first was skeptical, according to two former agency officials. Intelligence analysts eventually were convinced, however, in part because Mr. Mohammed pointed out to Mr. Martinez details of the hand and arm of the masked killer in a videotape of the murder that appeared to show it was him.

"He was a leader," said a foreign counterterrorism official briefed on the episode. "He wanted to demonstrate to his people how ruthless he could be."

Divergent Paths

On June 5, Mr. Mohammed made a theatrical return to the public eye at his Guantánamo Bay arraignment, with a long, graying beard and a defiant insistence that the American military commission could do no more to him than give him his wish: execution and martyrdom.

His interrogator has moved on, too. Like many other C.I.A. officers in the post-9/11 security boom, Mr. Martinez left the agency for more lucrative work with government contractors.

His life today is quiet by comparison with the secret interrogations of 2002 and 2003. But Mr. Martinez has not turned away entirely from his old world. He now works for Mitchell & Jessen Associates, a consulting company run by former military psychologists who advised the C.I.A. on the use of harsh tactics in the secret program.

And his new employer sent Mr. Martinez right back to the agency. For now, the unlikely interrogator of the man perhaps most responsible for the horrors of 9/11 teaches other C.I.A. analysts the arcane art of tracking terrorists.

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Saturday, June 21, 2008

Rise in Renters Erasing Gains for Ownership - NYTimes.com

Rise in Renters Erasing Gains for Ownership - NYTimes.com

Published: June 21, 2008

WASHINGTON — Driven largely by the surge in foreclosures and an unsettled housing market, Americans are renting apartments and houses at the highest level since President Bush started a campaign to expand homeownership in 2002.

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David Ahntholz for The New York Times

Debbie Suber outside the house in Cleveland she and her husband had for 11 years. After foreclosure, they now rent nearby.

The percentage of households headed by homeowners, which soared to a record 69.1 percent in 2005, fell to 67.8 percent this year, the sharpest decline in 20 years, according to census data through the end of March. By extension, the percentage of households headed by renters increased to 32.2 percent, from 30.9 percent.

The figures, while seemingly modest, reflect a significant shift in national housing trends, housing analysts say, with the notable gains in homeownership achieved under Mr. Bush all but vanishing over the last two years.

Many of the new renters, meanwhile, are struggling to get into decent apartments as vacancies decline, rents rise and other renters increasingly stay put. Some renters who want to buy homes are unable to get mortgages as banks impose stricter standards. Others remain reluctant to buy, anxious that housing prices will continue to fall.

The confluence of factors has largely derailed what Mr. Bush called "the ownership society," his campaign to give millions of people — particularly minority and lower-income families — a shot at homeownership by encouraging lenders to finance more home purchases.

"We're not going to see homeownership rates like that for a generation," said Mark Zandi, the chief economist at Moody's Economy.com, a research company.

For many minority and lower-income families who viewed homeownership as a stepping stone to building wealth and passing it on to their children, the transition from owning to renting has been the unraveling of a dream. Burdened now by debt and bad credit, some of these families are worse off than they were before they bought.

"The bloom is off of homeownership," said William C. Apgar, a senior scholar at the Joint Center for Housing Studies at Harvard University who ran the Federal Housing Administration from 1997 to 2001. "We're seeing more dramatic growth in renters and a decline in the number of owners. People are beginning to understand that homeownership can be a very risky venture."

Mr. Apgar said the Joint Center had predicted an increase of 1.8 million renters from 2005 to 2015, given expected population trends. Instead, they saw a surge of 1.5 million renters from 2005 to 2007 alone. In the first quarter of this year, 35.7 million people were renting homes or apartments, census data show.

"Even though we're only looking at a short period, these trends are pretty powerful," Mr. Apgar said.

Mr. Zandi said he believed that minority and lower-income homeowners had been hardest hit. Nearly three million minority families took out mortgages from 2002 to the first quarter of this year, housing officials say. Since minority families were more likely to receive subprime loans, economists believe these families account for a disproportionate share of foreclosures.

Tony Fratto, a White House spokesman, said that officials had hoped the homeownership gains would stick. "We're disappointed that conditions in the housing market didn't allow those gains to be sustained," he said. "But we're optimistic that they can return."

The new renters include people like Tina Williams, a 43-year-old medical assistant who lost her three-bedroom colonial in Cleveland to foreclosure in March after her adjustable rate mortgage spiked and she struggled to find work.

Ms. Williams slept at a homeless shelter and at the homes of friends after five apartment complexes rejected her, citing her bad credit and history of foreclosure.

Finally, someone offered to rent her the third floor of their house. Her new $300-a-month rental has a bedroom, a living room and a bathroom, but no kitchen.

"People say, 'Tina, how are you living?' " said Ms. Williams, who has cobbled together the semblance of a kitchen with a microwave, a minirefrigerator and an electric frying pan.

"I say, 'I'm living on God's grace and mercy,' " said Ms. Williams, who had dreamed of passing on her first home, bought in 2001, to her two grown daughters.

"My daughter says I'm living in a hole in the wall," she said. "But I can eat every day. I have a roof over my head. When I found this place, I started shouting for joy."

Nationally, rents have increased about 11 percent since 2005, when homeownership rates started to decline, though that growth is slowing, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. In 2005, vacancy rates for rental properties in Cleveland hovered around 10 percent, according to the Northeast Ohio Apartment Association, which represents landlords in the Cleveland area. Today, the rate stands at 5.2 percent.

Christopher E. Smythe, the association's president, said the collapse of the housing market had improved the economic climate.

"Our apartment traffic is up, people are renting again and occupancies are up," he said in a letter to members this year.

In other places, like Los Angeles, the slump in the housing market has begun to push up vacancies as condominiums are converted into rentals, according to Raphael Bostic, the associate director at the Lusk Center for Real Estate at the University of Southern California.

But those new apartments are often out of reach of struggling families. And since many owners of rental properties are also going into default, the foreclosure wave has resulted in fierce competition for affordable apartments in some cities.

In Rhode Island, 41 percent of the state's foreclosed properties are multifamily dwellings, which would most likely have housed tenants, a recent study by the National Low Income Housing Coalition concluded.

"We're seeing the displacement of tenants at the same time that we're seeing former homeowners enter the rental market," said Raymond Neirinckx, a coordinator at the Rhode Island Housing Resources Commission, which handles housing policy.

Meanwhile, some people who have lost their homes find that landlords view them with suspicion.

Steve Allen, 51, a Vietnam veteran in Seattle, was repeatedly rejected when he and his wife, Lesa, started searching for an apartment this month. Some apartment managers said no because they had lost their home to foreclosure. Others said their credit scores were too low.

Debbie Suber, 46, who lost her home in Cleveland last year, said she and her husband were lucky to find a landlord who was willing to consider their income, not their credit scores. "By the grace of God, that's why I have a place," she said.

Times are also tough for renters hoping to buy. Banks have tightened mortgage standards, insisting on good credit scores, proof of income and sizable down payments. Lez Trujillo, the national field director for Acorn Housing, a nonprofit group that helps lower-income families get mortgages, said a third of their applicants ended up with houses just a few years ago. Now, it is one in 10, she said.

Barbara O'Leary-Hatfield-Liberace, a 68-year-old retiree and an Acorn member, encountered such difficulties when she and some friends decided to buy a $340,000 house in Seattle.

The mortgage company they consulted said they needed to clean up their credit and come up with a $45,000 down payment, money they do not have.

So on most nights, when Ms. O'Leary-Hatfield-Liberace thinks about her dream house, she reaches for the rosary that she keeps under her pillow.

"I pray a lot and hope to heck we'll win the Lotto," she said.

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Wednesday, June 18, 2008

The New York Times > > Image >

The New York Times > > Image >
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Monday, June 9, 2008

Inside Gate, India’s Good Life; Outside, the Slums - NYTimes.com



 
 

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via www.nytimes.com on 6/8/08

Inside Gate, India's Good Life; Outside, the Slums

Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

A child walking in a trash-strewn lot near the gated community of Hamilton Court in Gurgaon, India.

Published: June 9, 2008

GURGAON, India — When the scorch of summer hit this north Indian boomtown, and the municipal water supply worked only a few hours each day, inside a high-rise tower called Hamilton Court, Jaya Chand could turn on her kitchen tap around the clock, and water would gush out.

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Related

Thirsting for Energy in India's Boomtowns and Beyond (March 2, 2008)

 Madan Mohan Bhalla, president of the Hamilton Court Resident Welfare Association (mp3)
Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

Because his house has no running water, Ajit Das must take a bucket bath in Gurgaon, India.

Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

Inside the nearby gated community of Hamilton Court, Aditya Chand has modern amenities.

Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

A woman with her child in the Chakkarpur shantytown, with Hamilton Court in the background.

Ruth Fremson/The New York Times

Inside Hamilton Court, a child watched television.

The New York Times

Gurgaon is booming for some, and squalid for others.

The same was true when the electricity went out in the city, which it did on average for 12 hours a day, something that once prompted residents elsewhere in Gurgaon to storm the local power office. All the while, the Chands' flat screen television glowed, the air-conditioners hummed, and the elevators cruised up and down Hamilton Court's 25 floors.

Hamilton Court — complete with a private school within its gates, groomed lawns and security guards — is just one of the exclusive gated communities that have blossomed across India in recent years. At least for the newly moneyed upper middle class, they offer at high prices what the government cannot, at least not to the liking of their residents.

These enclaves have emerged on the outskirts of prospering, overburdened cities, from this frontier town next to the capital to the edges of seam-splitting Bangalore. They allow their residents to buy their way out of the hardships that afflict vast multitudes in this country of more than one billion. And they reflect the desires of India's small but growing ranks of wealthy professionals, giving them Western amenities along with Indian indulgences: an army of maids and chauffeurs live in a vast shantytown across the street.

"A kind of self-contained island" is how Mrs. Chand's husband, Ashish, describes Hamilton Court.

India has always had its upper classes, as well as legions of the world's very poor. But today a landscape dotted with Hamilton Courts, pressed up against the slums that serve them, has underscored more than ever the stark gulf between those worlds, raising uncomfortable questions for a democratically elected government about whether India can enable all its citizens to scale the golden ladders of the new economy.

"Things have gotten better for the lucky class," Mrs. Chand, 36, said one day, as she fixed lunch in full view of Chakkarpur, the shantytown where one of her two maids, Shefali Das, lives. "Otherwise, it is still a fight."

When the power goes out, the lights of Hamilton Court bathe Chakkarpur in a dusky glow. Under the open sky, across the street from the tower, Mrs. Das's sons take cold bucket baths each day. The slum is as much a product of the new India as Hamilton Court, the opportunities of this new city drawing hundreds of thousands from the hungry hinterlands.

In China, the main Asian competitor to which India is often compared, the state managed early on to harness economic expansion for huge public works projects and then allow more and more Chinese to partake of the benefits. There, the poor are far less likely to be deprived of basic services, whether clean water or basic schooling.

In India, poverty has also dropped appreciably in the last 17 years of economic change, even as the gulf between the rich and poor has grown. More than a quarter of all Indians still live below the official poverty line (subsisting on roughly $1 a day); one in four city dwellers live on less than 50 cents a day; and nearly half of all Indian children are clinically malnourished.

At the same time, the ranks of dollar millionaires have swelled to 100,000, and the Indian middle class, though notoriously hard to define and still small, has by all indications expanded.

For those with the right skills, the good times have been very good. Mr. Chand, 34, a business school graduate who runs the regional operations for an American manufacturing firm, has seen his salary grow eightfold in the last five years, which is not unusual for upper class Indians like him.

The Chands are typical of Hamilton Court residents: Well-traveled young professionals, some returnees to India after years abroad, grateful for the conveniences. Some of them are also the first in their families to live so comfortably.

Mr. Chand attended an elite but government-financed school. His father was in the military. Mrs. Chand's father was a civil servant; her mother, a teacher. Some of their expenses, Mr. Chand said, their elders consider lavish.

Gurgaon, a largely privately developed city and a metonym for Indian ambition, has seen a building frenzy to satisfy people like the Chands. The city's population has nearly doubled in the last six years, to 1.5 million. The skyline is dotted with scaffolds. Glass towers house companies like American Express and Accenture. Not far from Hamilton Court, Burberry and BMW have set up shop.

State services, meanwhile, have barely kept pace. The city has neither enough water nor electricity for the population. There is no sewage treatment plant yet; construction is scheduled to begin this year.

India has long lived with such inequities, and though a Maoist rebellion is building in the countryside, the nation has for the most part skirted social upheaval through a critical safety valve: giving the poor their chance to vent at the ballot box. Indeed, four years ago, voters threw out the incumbent government, with its "India Shining" slogan, because it was perceived to have neglected the poor.

It is little wonder then that the current administration has seized on "inclusive growth" as its mantra, and as elections approach in less than a year, it is spending heavily on education, widely acknowledged as a key barrier to upward mobility for the poor.

That the bottom of the pyramid votes became obvious to the Chands when they last went to the polls. "I didn't see too many people like us," Mr. Chand recalled.

Hamilton Court, meanwhile, is rarely courted at election time. Inside its gates, the Chands have everything they might need: the coveted Sri Ram School, a private health clinic and clubhouse next door, security guards to keep out unwanted strangers and well-groomed lawns and paths for power walks and cricket games.

"Women and children are not encouraged to go outside," said Madan Mohan Bhalla, president of the Hamilton Court Resident Welfare Association. "If they want to have a walk, they can walk inside. It's a different world outside the gate."

For the Chands, the school was one of the building's main draws. They bought their apartment just after the birth of their eldest, Aditya, who is now in first grade. Next year, they hope to enroll their youngest, Madhav.

The school recently hosted a classical music concert. The business school guru C.K. Prahalad gave a lecture the following week. Mr. Chand called Hamilton Court a community of "like-minded people."

Some 600 domestic staff members work at Hamilton Court, an average of 2.26 per apartment. The building employs its own plumbers and electricians. At any one time, 22 security guards and 32 surveillance cameras are at work.

"We can't rely on the police," Mr. Bhalla said. Gurgaon has one policeman for every 1,000 residents — lower than the national average — and a surfeit of what Mr. Bhalla calls official apathy. "We have to save ourselves," he said.

The guards at the gate are instructed not to let nannies take children outside, and men delivering pizza or okra are allowed in only with permission. Once, Mr. Bhalla recalled proudly, a servant caught spitting on the lawn was beaten up by the building staff.

Recently, Mr. Bhalla's association cut a path from the main gate to the private club next door, so residents no longer have to share the public sidewalk with servants and the occasional cow.

The Gurgaon police chief, Mohinder Lal, said the city's new residents had unrealistic expectations of the Indian police. If a police officer does not arrive quickly, Mr. Lal rued, the residents complain. "They say, 'You're late. Come back tomorrow.' "

He, too, said that the police could not cope with the disorder of Gurgaon's growth. "Development comes, mess comes, then police come and infrastructure," he said.

Gurgaon's security guards, most of whom live in Mrs. Das's slum, likewise have little love for law enforcement. They accuse the police of raiding their shanty, hauling men to the local stations and forcing them to clean and cook before releasing them back to their hovels, often without a single charge. The police say migrant workers are a source of crime.

One afternoon, Mrs. Das returned from her duties at Hamilton Court, cleaned up the lunch plates that her sons had left on the floor and took her plastic water jugs to stand in line under the acacia tree, only to discover that there was a power failure, which meant the water pump could not be turned on. Next to the water line, workers were ironing a pile of orange janitors' uniforms from a neighborhood mall; the laundry service is one of Chakkarpur's many thriving private enterprises.

Mrs. Das already had two of her sons in a charity-run school nearby, but much to her shame, she missed the registration deadline for her youngest, now 6, who will now be a year behind his peers.

Her biggest regret is being unable to check her sons' homework. Mrs. Das has worked in other people's homes since she was 7. She cannot read. "If they are educated," she said of her boys, "at least they can do something when they grow up."

Next door to Mrs. Das's brick-and-tin room, a 2-year-old lay on a cot outside, flies dancing on his face. His mother, Sunita, 18, said the child had not been immunized because she had no idea where to take him, and no public health workers had come, as they are supposed to. The baby is weak, Sunita reckoned, because she cannot produce breast milk.

During repeated visits in recent months, a government-financed childhood nutrition center was closed. The nearest government hospital was empty.

Mrs. Chand, a doctor who decided to stay home to raise her children, trained in a government hospital. Her other maid told her recently that her own daughter had given birth at home, down there in the slum.

Sometimes, Mrs. Chand said, she thinks of opening a clinic there. But she also said she understood that there was little that she, or anyone, could do. "Two worlds," she observed, "just across the street."


 
 

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McCain Extends His Outreach, but Evangelicals Are Still Wary - NYTimes.com



 
 

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McCain Extends His Outreach, but Evangelicals Are Still Wary

Mary Altaffer/Associated Press

Senator John McCain and his wife, Cindy, left, with Gov. Bobby Jindal of Louisiana behind him, in New Orleans in April. Mr. McCain has begun reaching out more aggressively to evangelicals.

Published: June 9, 2008

Lori Viars, an evangelical activist in Warren County, Ohio, essentially put her life on hold in the fall of 2004 to run a phone bank for President Bush. Her efforts helped the president's ambitious push to turn out evangelicals and win that critical swing state in a close election.

But Ms. Viars, who is among a cluster of socially conservative activists in Ohio being courted by Senator John McCain's campaign through regular e-mail messages, is taking a wait-and-see attitude for now toward Mr. McCain, the presumptive Republican nominee.

"I think a lot of us are in a holding pattern," said Ms. Viars, who added that she wanted to see whom Mr. McCain picked for his running mate.

Ms. Viars's hesitation illustrates what remains one of Mr. McCain's biggest challenges as he faces a general election contest with Senator Barack Obama: a continued wariness toward him among evangelicals and other Christian conservatives, a critical voting bloc for Republicans that could stay home in the fall or at least be decidedly unenthusiastic in their efforts to get out the vote.

To address this, Mr. McCain's campaign has been ramping up its outreach to evangelicals over the last month, preparing a budget and a strategic plan for turning them out in 18 battleground states this fall.

The campaign has been peppering over 600 socially conservative grass-roots and national leaders with regular e-mail messages — highlighting, for example, Mr. McCain's statement criticizing a May 15 decision by the California Supreme Court overturning the state's ban on same-sex marriage, or his recent speech on his judicial philosophy. It has also held briefings for small groups of conservative leaders before key speeches. Charlie Black, one of Mr. McCain's senior advisers, recently sat down with a dozen prominent evangelical leaders in Washington, where he emphasized, among other things, Mr. McCain's consistent anti-abortion voting record.

Mr. McCain's outreach to Christian conservatives has been a quiet courting, reflecting a balancing act: his election hopes rely on drawing in the political middle and Democrats who might be turned off should he woo the religious right too heavily by, for instance, highlighting his anti-abortion position more on the campaign trail.

"If McCain tried Bush's strategy of just mobilizing the base, he would almost certainly fall short," said John C. Green, a senior fellow at the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life. "Because the Republican brand name is less popular and the conservative base is restive, McCain has special needs to reach out to independent and moderate voters, but, of course, he can't completely neglect the evangelical and conservative base."

The instrumental role of evangelicals in Mr. Bush's victory in 2004 over Senator John Kerry is an oft-repeated tale at this point. Mr. Bush's openness about his personal faith and stances on social issues earned him a following among evangelicals, who represented about a quarter of the electorate in 2004. Exit polls in the 2004 election found that 78 percent of white "born again" or evangelical Protestants had voted for Mr. Bush.

In contrast, Mr. McCain's relationship with evangelicals has long been troubled. In 2000, when he was running against Mr. Bush for the Republican nomination, Mr. McCain castigated Pat Robertson and the Rev. Jerry Falwell as "agents of intolerance."

In a sign of the lingering distrust, Mr. McCain finished last out of nine Republican candidates in a straw poll last year at the Values Voter Summit in Washington, a gathering for socially conservative activists.

James C. Dobson, the influential founder of the evangelical group Focus on the Family, released a statement in February, when Mr. McCain was on the verge of securing the Republican nomination, affirming that he would not vote for Mr. McCain and would instead stay home if he became the nominee. Dr. Dobson later softened his stance and said he would vote but has remained critical of Mr. McCain.

"For John McCain to be competitive, he has to connect with the base to the point that they're intense enough that they're contagious," said Tony Perkins, president of the Family Research Council. "Right now they're not even coughing."

The balancing act Mr. McCain faces in appealing to both moderate voters and evangelicals was starkly illustrated last month when he rejected the endorsements of the Rev. John Hagee and the Rev. Rod Parsley, prominent evangelical leaders, after controversial statements by the two came to light. Mr. Parsley has been vocally anti-Islam and Mr. Hagee, in a sermon, said Hitler and the Holocaust had been part of God's plan to drive the Jews to Palestine.

Mr. McCain's actions complicated his relationship with evangelical leaders, some of whom said in interviews that the senator's actions contributed to the impression among some evangelicals that he did not know or understand them. They argued that he should have stood by them, while making clear that he did not necessarily agree with all of their views.

"I think that was a stumble that will add to the challenges here," said Gary Bauer, president of the group American Values, who in February became arguably the most visible evangelical leader to begin actively working on Mr. McCain's behalf. "Those are both very influential men and it will just make things more challenging to accomplish between now and November."

Unlike Mr. Bush, Mr. McCain is decidedly reticent about religion on the stump. Mr. McCain grew up Episcopalian and shifted to a Baptist church after marrying his second wife, Cindy, but has not been baptized into the denomination. When asked about his personal faith at town hall forums, he often relates a familiar story. When Mr. McCain was a prisoner of war in Vietnam, a guard who had once loosened his bonds while he was being tortured sidled up to him on Christmas Day and drew a cross on the dirt in front of them. But some evangelical leaders say the account sheds more light on the guard's faith than on Mr. McCain's.

Nevertheless, a small group of McCain staff members and surrogates have begun stepping up, largely behind the scenes, his outreach to evangelicals and other social conservatives.

The group includes Marlys Popma, a prominent socially conservative leader in Iowa who has been with the campaign since the beginning but about a month ago took on the title of national coordinator for evangelical and social conservative outreach; Robert C. Heckman, the campaign's director of conservative outreach who was the political director of Mr. Bauer's presidential campaign in 2000; and Brett O'Donnell, the campaign's director of messaging who was a debate coach at Liberty University, Mr. Falwell's institution.

Former Senator Dan Coats of Indiana, a graduate of Wheaton College, an evangelical school, is also playing an active role, as is Senator Sam Brownback, a Kansas Republican and a longtime social conservative stalwart.

The initial outreach plans call for replicating the campaign's approach in the Republican primary, creating "Family Issues Leaders for McCain" committees for each state made up of key social conservatives who have endorsed him.

About a dozen people, including staffers and socially conservative leaders who are advising the campaign, have begun a weekly conference call to plot strategy.

Mr. McCain's advisers said they were in a talking and listening mode with evangelical leaders, as opposed to seeking endorsements aggressively, in part out of recognition that many Christian conservatives remained suspicious of him.

Mr. McCain may be aided by Mr. Obama's own problems lately among religious voters. Mr. Obama, who speaks comfortably about his own Christian faith, was once seen as the kind of candidate who could help Democrats close the gap with Republicans among weekly churchgoers, who voted for Mr. Bush in droves in 2004. But those efforts have been complicated by the incendiary remarks by Mr. Obama's former pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah A. Wright Jr., and the comments by Mr. Obama at a fund-raiser in the Bay Area about people in small towns clinging to guns and religion.

Nevertheless, the Obama campaign plans to add a full-time evangelical-focused staff member to its existing religious outreach team and is rolling out an effort over the summer to organize over a thousand house parties built around an hour-and-a-half-long curriculum on faith and politics. With the broadening of the evangelical agenda to include issues like poverty, global warming and AIDS, Mr. Obama's advisers hope to peel off more moderate evangelical voters.

David Brody, a political correspondent for the Christian Broadcasting Network, said he believed Mr. Obama's comments had hurt his chances among evangelicals, but he added, "I think Obama has a great opportunity still, with the Jeremiah Wright controversy behind him, to re-introduce himself with the American people, especially with his spiritual walk."

To make Mr. McCain's case, his supporters highlight his speech on his judicial philosophy, in which he vowed to appoint judges with a "commitment to judicial restraint," as well as his anti-abortion voting record, though his critics argue he has hardly been passionate about the issue over the years.

In 2006 Mr. McCain was featured in television advertisements supporting a constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage in Arizona, but he argued vigorously against a federal ban on the Senate floor that year, breaking with Mr. Bush and the Republican leadership, citing his belief that states should decide the issue.

Many conservative activists revile Mr. McCain for his sponsorship of the McCain-Feingold campaign finance overhaul measure. Similarly, his support for federal financing of embryonic stem cell research puts him at odds with many conservatives.

Mr. McCain's supporters, however, contend that if they simply outline Mr. McCain's policy stances on issues that matter to social conservatives and make clear where Mr. Obama stands, the choice will be obvious.

"It's my job to make sure the people out there in the leadership and the grass roots get a chance to know John McCain for what he really is," Ms. Popma said.


 
 

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Sunday, June 8, 2008

For English Studies, Koreans Say Goodbye to Dad - NYTimes.com



 
 

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For English Studies, Koreans Say Goodbye to Dad

Stacy Arezou Mehrfar for The New York Times

To allow Amy Park, a Korean, to study English in New Zealand, her parents decided to live apart.More Photos >

Published: June 8, 2008

AUCKLAND, New Zealand — On a sunny afternoon recently, half a dozen South Korean mothers came to pick up their children at the Remuera Primary School here, greeting one another warmly in a schoolyard filled with New Zealanders.

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Stacy Arezou Mehrfar for The New York Times

Park Jun-woo, 8, right, attends a school in Auckland, New Zealand, where he lives with his mother and older brother. His father stayed behind in South Korea. More Photos »

Seokyong Lee for The New York Times

Amy Park's father, Kevin Park, agreed that she should leave South Korea to study abroad. But, he said, "I miss my family." More Photos >

The mothers, members of the largest group of foreigners at the public school, were part of what are known in South Korea as "wild geese," families living separately, sometimes for years, to school their children in English-speaking countries like New Zealand and the United States. The mothers and children live overseas while the fathers live and work in South Korea, flying over to visit a couple of times a year.

Driven by a shared dissatisfaction with South Korea's rigid educational system, parents in rapidly expanding numbers are seeking to give their children an edge by helping them become fluent in English while sparing them, and themselves, the stress of South Korea's notorious educational pressure cooker.

More than 40,000 South Korean schoolchildren are believed to be living outside South Korea with their mothers in what experts say is an outgrowth of a new era of globalized education.

The phenomenon is the first time that South Korean parents' famous focus on education has split wives from husbands and children from fathers. It has also upended traditional migration patterns by which men went overseas temporarily while their wives and children stayed home, straining marriages and the Confucian ideal of the traditional Korean family. The cost of maintaining two households has stretched family budgets since most wives cannot work outside South Korea because of visa restrictions.

In 2006, 29,511 children from elementary through high school level left South Korea, nearly double the number in 2004 and almost seven times the figure in 2000, according to the Korean Educational Development Institute, a research group that tracks the figures for the Ministry of Education. The figures, the latest available, did not include children accompanying parents who left South Korea to work or emigrate, and who could also be partly motivated by educational goals.

South Koreans now make up the largest group of foreign students in the United States (more than 103,000) and the second largest in New Zealand after Chinese students, according to American and New Zealand government statistics. Yet, unlike other foreign students, South Koreans tend to go overseas starting in elementary school — in the belief that they will absorb English more easily at that age.

In New Zealand, there were 6,579 South Koreans in the country's elementary and secondary schools in 2007, accounting for 38 percent of all foreign students.

"We talked about coming here for two years before we finally did it," said Kim Soo-in, 39, who landed here 16 months ago with her two sons. "It was never a question of whether to do it, but when. We knew we had to do it at some point."

Wild geese fathers were initially relatively wealthy and tended to send their families to the United States. But in the last few years, more middle-class families have been heading to less expensive destinations like Canada, Australia and New Zealand.

Now, there are also "eagle fathers," who visit their families several times a year because they have the time and money. Those with neither, who are stuck in South Korea, are known as "penguin fathers."

The national experience is considered enough of a social problem that an aide to South Korea's president recently singled out the plight of the penguin fathers.

President Lee Myung-bak said he would start to address the problem by hiring 10,000 English teachers. "This is unprecedented," he said. "Korea is actually the only country in the world undergoing such a phenomenon, which is very unfortunate."

South Korean students routinely score at the top in international academic tests. But unhappiness over education's financial and psychological costs is so widespread that it is often cited as a reason for the country's low birthrate, which, at 1.26 in 2007, was one of the world's lowest.

South Korean parents say that the schools are failing to teach not only English but also other skills crucial in an era of globalization, like creative thinking. That resonates among South Koreans, whose economy has slowed after decades of high growth and who believe they are increasingly being squeezed between the larger economies of Japan and China.

It could take years to see how well this wave of children will fare back in South Korea, especially since they are now going overseas at the elementary level. But earlier this decade, when the wild geese children tended to be high school students, many succeeded in plying their improved English scores to get into colleges in the United States or other English-speaking countries, education experts said. For others, their years overseas was a roundabout way to get into top South Korean colleges, like Yonsei University in Seoul, which increasingly offer courses or entire programs in English.

For New Zealand's public schools, which charge foreign students annual tuition of $8,700, South Koreans provide an important source of revenue. The economic benefits have helped offset resentment toward an Asian influx that has remade many schools in Auckland, the country's largest city, lending an Asian character to the business district and raising home prices in the wealthier suburbs.

At Remuera Primary, Ms. Kim said she believed that English fluency would increase her sons' chances of gaining admission to selective secondary schools in South Korea and ultimately to a leading university in Seoul. Her husband, Park Il-ryang, 43, graduated from a little-known Korean university, and he said that the resulting lack of connections had hampered his own career.

Before coming here, the parents had sent one son, Jun-sung, now 10, to evening cram schools and their other son, Jun-woo, now 8, to an English preschool. Parents in their apartment building talked incessantly about their children's education.

Even so, the sons were not making sufficient progress in English, the parents said. They hired a private English tutor to supplement the supplementary cram schools. "We didn't think the cram schools were doing any good, but we were too insecure to stop sending them, because the other parents were sending their children," Ms. Kim said.

At their house recently, the sons peeked through the living-room blinds to see whether their neighbor, Charles Price, was free to play. In no time, the boys were coming and going, barefoot, between the houses, carrying "Bionicle" action figures.

The parents were pleased that their sons had integrated well into the neighborhood and school, and were now even speaking English to each other. But Ms. Kim was worried that her younger son was making shockingly simple mistakes in his spoken Korean and might not form a solid "Korean identity."

Striking the right balance would be critical to the brothers' re-entry into South Korea, with its fierce competition to get into the best schools.

South Korean women's rising social status and growing economic power have fueled the wild geese migration, according to education experts like Oh Ook-whan, a professor at Ehwa Womans University who has studied the separated families. Conservatives have criticized the wild geese mothers for being obsessed about their children's education at the risk of destroying their marriages. The women's real intention, they say, is to get as far away as possible from their mothers-in-law.

The mothers say they are the modern-day successors to one of the most famous mothers in East Asia: the mother of Mencius, the fourth-century Chinese Confucian philosopher. In a story known in South Korea, as well as China and Japan, Mencius's mother moved to three neighborhoods before finding the environment most favorable to her son's education.

"I don't know why Mencius's mother is so revered and why we wild geese mothers are so criticized," said Chang Soo-jin, 37, who moved here with her two children nearly two years ago. "Our coming out here is exactly the same as what she did."

Here, the English skills of her 6-year-old daughter, Amy, have improved so much that she now has the reading abilities of an 8-year-old, said her teacher at Sunderland, a small private school where all 16 foreign students come from South Korea.

Yet Amy's father, Kevin Park, 41, was not totally convinced that the benefits had been worth splitting up the family. He had reluctantly agreed with his wife's decision to come here with the children and then extend their stay, twice.

After his family left Seoul, Mr. Park, an engineer, moved into what South Koreans call an "officetel," a building with small units that can be used as apartments or offices. Hearing about wild geese fathers becoming dissolute living by themselves, he stopped drinking at home.

"I'm alone, I miss my family," Mr. Park said grimly in an interview in Seoul. "Families should live together."

Living apart for years strains marriages and undermines the role of a father, traditionally the center of the family in South Korea's Confucian culture, education experts and psychologists said. Some spouses have affairs; some marriages end in divorce.

"Even if there are problems, some couples choose to ignore them for the sake of their children's education," said Choi Yang-suk, a psychologist at Yonsei who has studied wild geese families in the United States and Canada.

Here, Park Jeong-won, 40, and her husband, Kim Yoon-seok, 45, an ophthalmologist who was here on a visit, said their marriage had grown stronger despite living apart for four and a half years. Every reunion, they said, was like a honeymoon.

But while Ms. Park said she talked to her husband a couple of hours daily by phone, she said her son and daughter never asked to talk to their father. He, in turn, never asked to talk to his children, the couple said.

"We may be a strange family," Ms. Park said.

Dr. Kim said his own father had always been too busy with work to spend much time with the family, and on weekends woke up at 4 a.m. to play golf.

"Maybe that's why, now that I'm a father, I have a similar relationship with my son," he said.

Asked whether she missed her father, Ellin, 11, said: "I don't miss him that much. I see him every year."

"Do you think that's enough?" her mother asked, a little surprised.

Ellin corrected herself and said she saw him twice a yea


 
 

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Daily Sex, and Writing About It, Helps 2 Couples Bond - NYTimes.com



 
 

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Yes, Dear. Tonight Again.

By RALPH GARDNER Jr.
Published: June 8, 2008

LET'S say you and your spouse haven't had sex in so long that you can't remember the last time you did. Not the day. Not the month. Maybe not even the season. Would you look for gratification elsewhere? Would you file for divorce? Or would you turn to your mate and say, "Honey, you know, I've been thinking. Why don't we do it for the next 365 days in a row?"

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Mitchell Funk/Getty Images

Stephen Collector for The New York Times

FRESH START Doug and Annie Brown. The quest was her idea.

Armando Bellmas for The New York Times

SO HAPPY TOGETHER Brad and Charla Muller.

That's more or less what happened to Charla and Brad Muller. And in another example of an erotic adventure supplanting married ennui, a second couple, Annie and Douglas Brown, embarked on a similar, if abbreviated journey: 101 straight days of post-nuptial sex.

Both couples document their exploits in books published this month, the latest entries in what is almost a mini-genre of books offering advice about the "sex-starved marriage." The couples, though, are hardly similar. The Mullers are Bible-studying steak-eating Republicans from Charlotte, N.C. The Browns are backpacking multigrain northerners who moved to Boulder, Colo. The Mullers' book, "365 Nights," is rather modest and circumspect in its details. The Browns' book, "Just Do It," almost makes the reader feel part of a threesome, sharing everything they used to stimulate sexual desire (it's hard to visualize and even harder to explain).

To many spouses, "married sex" may sound like an oxymoron. And "married-with-children sex" may sound like that elusive antimatter. Indeed, reigniting a couple's desire for each other has fueled an entire therapeutic industry — from Kinsey to Dr. Ruth to Redbook. According to a 2004 study, "American Sexual Behavior," by the National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago, married couples have intercourse about 66 times a year. But that number is skewed by young marrieds, as young as 18, who couple, on average, 84 times a year.

Either way, those statistics put the Mullers and Browns in Olympic-record territory. That they thought a sex marathon would reinvigorate their marriages might say as much about the American penchant for exercise and goal-setting as it does about the state of romance.

But the couples may also be on to something. "There's a strong relationship between rating your marriage as happy and frequency of intercourse," said Tom W. Smith, who conducted the "American Sexual Behavior" study. "What we can't tell you is what the causal relationship is between the two. We don't know whether people who are happy in their marriage have sex more, or whether people who have sex more become happy in their marriages, or a combination of those two."

Do these couples provide any answers? Did sex every single night make them happier in their marriages and in life?

Charla apparently had no intention of writing about "the gift," as she euphemistically refers to it. She was simply a homemaker and marketing consultant, who in 2006 wanted to give her husband a special 40th birthday present.

"This is something no one else would give him," she said in an interview. "It didn't cost a lot of money. It was highly memorable. It met all the criteria for a really great gift."

Brad was less than fully enthusiastic, mostly because, he says, his wife often has big ideas and poor follow-through. After all, she hadn't been especially generous in that department since they'd had their two children. He paid closer attention when he realized that she was serious.

The book idea came up serendipitously. Charla had lunch with a friend, Betsy Thorpe, a former book editor and her eventual collaborator, who had relocated to Charlotte. She saw the stuff of literature in the couple's nightly trysts (the women met three-quarters of the way through the Mullers' annus mirabilis).

While "365 Nights" was written from the women's perspective, "Just Do It" was written by the guy, Douglas Brown, a 42-year-old reporter at The Denver Post. Yet the change in gender doesn't seem to affect the point of view, perhaps because Doug comes across as a sensitive male, and because the sexual marathon in 2006 was his wife's idea, a way to banish suburban boredom after they moved to Boulder two years earlier from the East Coast.

"I thought we don't have anything else going on," Annie said in an interview. "It might kick-start our marriage."

They changed venues frequently — a cabin on an ashram, a yurt in the Colorado Rockies, and in a hotel room in Las Vegas, where Doug was covering the annual adult-entertainment industry convention. "That's why we scheduled all these little trips," Annie said. "We knew it had the potential of getting monotonous."

And were it not for her competitive zeal, their streak might have died well short of 100 days. Annie even forced her husband to have sex during a bout of vertigo. "I'm not a quitter,' she said. "The night he had vertigo, I said, 'I'm sorry, guy, but you've got to keep going.' "

Doug said in an interview that on their 101st day, he felt "sort of like you had some long-forgotten appointment to hear some tax attorney talk about estate planning."

After that, he said, "I think we didn't do it for a month."

The Mullers, or at least Charla, hit a wall somewhere around the 10th month. In her book, she describes the gift then as "my stupid idea" and "a hidden cross to bear." But they say they dropped out only a few days a month, mostly because of Brad's business travel. They averaged 26 to 28 times a month.

"The spirit of the gift was not to keep score," Ms. Muller said. "When he was traveling, we tried to make up for it, but it wasn't mandatory."

The women are regarded with admiration, if not always envy, by their girlfriends. "My first reaction was please don't tell my husband," said Sydney Coffin, a friend of Charla's.

Annie Brown is now viewed as a de facto sex therapist by her peers. Her adventure even inspired her friend Diane Elliston to turn off the television in the bedroom. (The Browns had draped tasteful fabric over theirs.)

"We did it every day for three days in a row," Ms. Elliston said.

APPROACHING sex as a marathon, with its own version of Heartbreak Hill, may not be the solution for every stagnating marriage. Lois Braverman, the president of the Ackerman Institute for the Family, cautioned against couples trying to keep up with the Mullers and Browns. "Some couples are totally satisfied with being sexual one night a week, some twice, some twice a month," she said. "There's no number of times that's right."

Shoshana Bulow, a psychotherapist and certified sex therapist in Manhattan, pointed out that sex is a lot more complicated than frequency. "There's all sorts of reasons people lose interest in sex with their partner — disappointments, life cycles, financial issues," she said. "Just having it isn't going to resolve those."

Nonetheless, sex every day seems to have worked for the Mullers and Browns. Charla Muller and Annie Brown both talk about how mandated physical intimacy created more emotional intimacy. "It required a daily kindness and forgiveness, and not being cranky or snarky, that I don't think either of us had experienced before," Charla said.

Annie said that she and her husband reached a place in their relationship that they have seldom approached since. "It was just this intense closeness," she said. "We were so aware of wherever the other person was mentally and emotionally and physically."

Today, the Browns report they have sex approximately six times a month, or double their frequency before their adventure. The Mullers decline to discuss their habits, except to say that they fall well within the national average. And, Brad said, the sex is better. "It made it much easier to be open to the idea, more spontaneous," he said, "So you don't go back to that always gaming for it and always trying to get out of it."

Charla agrees: "It's a lot better than it used to be. I may be slow to the take, but it was a really meaningful lesson."

Douglas Brown suffers less stage fright than he once did. "There's much less of a sense of having to perform," he said. "After 100 days, that kind of melted away."

All the same, he doesn't recommend the experience to everyone.

"I'm glad we did it," he said. "But as far as a practical message, nobody needs to do it 100 days. You don't have to climb Mount Everest to understand alpine sublime."


 
 

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