Journalism
Tom Sanders
Writer
United Kingdom
I am a writer, editor and freelance journalist.
You can find samples of my work below.
I can be contacted at [email protected].
United Kingdom
I am a writer, editor and freelance journalist.
You can find samples of my work below.
I can be contacted at [email protected].
Journalism
When New Jersey native Art Hongpong married into one of Myanmar's prominent business families and moved to the country's commercial capital Yangon in 2012, the future of his ice carving business seemed as fragile as one of his legendary sculptures.
Our journey took shape in the small hours of one morning in January. Dom, our de facto leader, had spent a week staying up until dawn, obsessively scrolling through Google maps, firing coloured pins into lakes and rivers that could be potential destinations.
Dressed in traditional Chin textiles, a cup of tea in one hand, Anna Sui Hluan cuts a demure and impressive figure. In the refined interior of Le Planteur Restaurant & Lounge, we sat down to discuss her life, faith, and her many projects, all with the same fundamental goal - improving the lives of disadvantaged ...
By TOM SANDERS | FRONTIER Two figures in white cotton suits are locked together, limbs interlaced. The only sound is heavy breathing, and the mat is soaked through with sweat. With a sudden twist, one is tossed to the ground. As he falls, he pulls his opponent forward and wraps a leg over his head.
San Zarni Bo’s destiny was foretold. At the tender age of six, a traveling astrologer read his horoscope and informed him that he would become a fortune teller himself.
Director Tran Anh Hung 's 1995 film Xích Lô is widely regarded as his masterpiece. It's a seminal piece of filmmaking, presenting a lurid and picture of an under-documented stage in the country's history, beauty and ugliness both in abundance in every oversaturated frame.
Bouhinga are recording in Myanm/art, a white-walled, high-ceiled art gallery in downtown Yangon. Outside, heavy rain is falling, and dirty water is bubbling up from the sewers. Occasionally, the music is interrupted by a car horn, dogs barking, or the wail of a street hawker, ambient noises par for the course in this part of the city.
This piece is really two things: a eulogy for three places in Saigon that will soon be gone, and a commentary on trends in the city that are emerging. Saigon does not need misty-eyed nostalgia any more than it needs sneering expat dismissal.
Two hours after meeting Mr Sharky in the restaurant that shares his name, I find myself nose deep in a barrel of half fermented fish guts. Behind me, the man himself moves from shelf to shelf, snatching down jars of wheat grain and honey like a Burmese Willie Wonka, waxing lyrical about the fermentation processes that set his restaurant chain apart from the rest.
If you're white, racist and fed up with the grinding oppression of living in the West, where you're forced to rub shoulders with a small proportion of people who are not the same race as you, there's a new solution: move to Africa.