Rangoon, 1962
The death of Aung San had receded in the national consciousness as a memory to be rekindled once a year with solemnity. A statue was erected to be adulated by the people while framed photographs adorned government offices and private dwellings, but beyond the frame of the photographs and the ornamentation, the benign smile of Aung San had lost its charisma over the political process of the country.
Rivalry and corruption amidst Buddhist piety was taking its toll on the government, turning it unstable and weaker by the month; the avaricious manipulated the circumstances to their benefit, spreading an atmosphere of disillusionment among the educated and the common folk.
They were now looking for a change.
They desired a strong government that could control the soaring prices in the marketplace and contain the insurgencies that made living and travelling in the far regions mortally dangerous. The army had to lead the trains with armoured cars, which didn’t deter the insurgents who blew them up along with the trains, and the bridges.
The people wanted peace in the land and a rightful opportunity for prosperity, which was now held mostly in foreign hands. And in some quarters, they wanted the erosion of Buddhist values to stop. The land had its share of gallivanting amorous monks who hadn’t entirely forsaken the way of the flesh.
But they did not have an answer to an alternative. They didn’t trust the communists, nor did they have faith in the many parties that promised political reform. They had only U Nu—a devout Buddhist—a factor they had no problem with, except that he was not delivering. The years had dragged on until their deliverance came, and it came in the uniform of a general.
Ne Win!
Now a general, Ne Win had, on a previous occasion, briefly taken control of the country’s affairs under the initiation of U Nu. After sorting out the political chaos, he had then returned the country to civilian rule. General Ne Win was again ready to give the country the change it wanted, and took the initiative without an invitation from the government of U Nu.
This time, the general staged the coup!
The general’s sudden swoop and deposition of U Nu’s government was widely hailed by the people as a refreshing prelude to a stable civilian government in the near future, just as he had done in the past for them. Foreigners and citizens alike were jubilant that their way of life could continue—the accumulation of wealth unhindered under the protection of a forceful presence of law, while the local citizenry looked forward to the percolation of prosperity.
The people had no inkling at the time of the general’s real intentions of creating a republic—a republic quite different from the one their imagination could have conceived. This time, the general was keeping the country for himself. The general and his junta would reveal their intentions to the unsuspecting public in the ensuing days, taking them to a new vista of fear and suppression.
*
Rangoon, 1962–1966
‘Dora,’ exclaimed Stanley, ‘there’s beef in the market. It’s amazing!’
It was Stanley’s habit to visit the market on certain days when returning home from work and, on that day, he brought a quantity of the meat home.
Known as the dark meat, the Buddhist shied away from it and it was banned during U Nu’s rule. Soon after the general and his junta legitimized their government, it became available in the open market. Stanley was surprised at the unique phenomenon. In a land where the cow was venerated as a sacred animal and in deference to the prevalent Buddhist sentiment, the meat was never sold in the markets. And those who ate the meat seldom had an opportunity to procure it.
Strangely, the presence of raw beef fresh from the slaughter had not provoked any noticeable outrage from the public. The meat sold! That was the first visible change Stanley and the rest of the country were to see.
‘And it’s cheap,’ said a visibly excited and happy Stanley, for he could now supplement the nourishment of a growing family with inexpensive nutrition.
‘Ne Win is turning this country around,’ Stanley said, with admiration for the general. The general, he thought, was pulling the country out from the dark ages of superstition and religious zealotry, and making a modern state of it.
Then, very shortly, Stanley was to notice the unprecedented raise in the standard of living of the army. Young army officers were driving Japanese cars—quite likely part of the war reparation from Japan, while most senior officers in larger neighbouring armies pedalled on bicycles. It was evident to Stanley that it did well for their morale and certainly assured their loyalty. It seemed natural enough that many a young man joined Ne Win’s army for the status and the glamour.
Next, on a quiet morning, the streets of Rangoon bore witness to an unaccountably large number of soldiers boarding army trucks, and were converging onto predetermined positions. Most residents presumed that it was preparation for a military parade and gave no further thought to the matter as they went about that morning attending to their business.
*
47th Street
Rangoon
7:30 AM
It was Jimmy’s street.
Jimmy felt supreme that morning when he woke up. He stretched his body and vigorously shook the traces of languor that had crept over him during the night in anticipation of the new day’s chores to earn a living. He would strut on the street again and entertain passers-by with his usual bag of tricks, unlike most of his mates who preferred to scavenge and laze about during the day.
Just then, his keen ears picked up the distant steps of ammunition boots crunching steadily towards him. Jimmy’s instincts warned him that something was afoot in the vicinity. It had been years since he had seen so many soldiers on his street, and experience helped him distinguish between soldiers on furlough and soldiers ready for an act of war. His instincts urged him to flee from the approaching soldiers, but his curiosity betrayed his better judgment, for he had fond memories of soldiers.
They had always fed him.
Jimmy could not believe his eyes when he saw a soldier levelling his rifle at him. ‘No! Don’t shoot!’ Jimmy winced and whined, but felt a searing pain surging through his body when suddenly, without warning, the indolent neighbourhood exploded into gunfire. It caught Jimmy by complete surprise—the image of the soldier who shot him receding in his clouding canine eyes as life seeped out of him.
‘They’re shooting!’ screamed the unnerved residents. The sharp report of the guns raked them with terror and confusion, for they couldn’t fathom the reason for the gunfire. While most recoiled to the safe interiors of their windows, a few curious ones peeped out of their windows, trying to comprehend the commotion outside.
‘The dogs! They’re shooting the dogs….Oh my God!’ exclaimed Stanley. Rangoon, at the time, was swarming with dogs—pariahs, mongrels and some with nobler antecedents like Jimmy; pets or mascots—it was anyone’s guess but the canine population had mostly been left by their masters from the evacuating army to breed unrestrainedly on the streets of Rangoon. Ne Win’s soldiers were shooting stray dogs on sight. Then military trucks rolled down the streets, dispensing poisoned bones for the ones that had managed to dodge the bullets. The poisoned dead would be collected the next day.
Rangoon was being rid of the dogs and would be a cleaner city, Stanley grudgingly acknowledged, but he sensed that the subtlety of the general’s exercise was as loud as the gunfire. It was the general’s brilliant psychological manoeuvre to acquaint the public with his army. It was time, thought the general, that the people understood him as a decisive man; to understand well that he was not a man with the qualities of a monk, like U Nu, who would be squeamish to find a solution to a vulgar epidemic that plagued his capital. He was a military man and his army was a shooting army. The shooting of the dogs was his subliminal message to the people, but the people soon recovered from their shock and returned to their routine and preoccupation with daily living, feeling sorry for Jimmy and the children who would miss Jimmy’s bag of tricks. They had, however, overlooked the significance of the general’s message.
*
Scot’s Market, Rangoon
11:00 AM
Scot’s Market was a modern and fashionable shopping arcade in Rangoon, patronized by the wealthy and the well-to-do among the citizenry of the city where the best of the branded commodities could be purchased. But the atmosphere of affluence that exuded from the commercial complex also attracted its share of mendicancy in the city that preyed upon the Buddhist disposition towards compassion and the general sympathy of the shoppers. Worse still were the lepers who, unfortunate as their circumstance was, aggressively exploited the ugliness and repulsiveness of their aliment to the terror and revulsion of the shoppers.
‘Alms! Alms!’ shouted Tin Win one such morning, boldly approaching a group of well-dressed shoppers escorted by Stanley, confident that they would voluntarily part with a few kyats to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Tin Win was a leper who thrived unabashedly on the squeamish gentry who thought money was the only ablution they had in distancing themselves from the horror of his disease. It suited Tin Win if they absolved themselves of the blame by their token of charity, for their weakness was the guarantee of his profession.
‘Here, take this and be gone,’ Stanley said, dropping a few kyats into the outstretched bowl in the ulcerated hand of Tin Win.
‘Cheyzu tin ba dae, saya gee(thank you, Big Master),’ Tin Win responded with the grin of a winner. He was never wrong with his judgement of human weakness or character. ‘May God bless you with many children and may you have a place for your family in heaven.’
‘Damned nuisance,’ muttered Stanley, not flattered or moved by the beggar’s expression of gratitude. He had just been called saya gee(Big Master), and Stanley wondered whether the beggar suspected that he already had a swollen family.
‘It’s quite a menace, isn’t it?’ remarked one of Stanley’s guests as he shepherded the group of visitors from the head office on a tour of the country away from the accosting Tin Win.
‘Shouldn’t the government be doing something about it?’ asked another.
The government was indeed planning on a course of action. Warnings had been issued to the lepers in particular to report to the centre for internment, but Tin Win and his associates had been obstinate. It was this morning that the government decided to make good the warning. To the utter surprise of Stanley and his group of visitors, military trucks appeared suddenly from nowhere, unloading armed soldiers who surrounded the market and cordoned off the area. A detachment of soldiers with rifles unslung, and led by a grim-looking officer, marched into the complex—creating a stir among the shoppers and shopkeepers alike.
‘Run! The soldiers are coming,’ Tin Win frantically hollered at his leprous mates.
‘ Payaa! Payaa(God! God!)!’ screamed the lepers in fright.
What followed next was a sight, both comical and pathetic, that Stanley would long remember. The lepers were running helter-skelter, shouting and cursing—some collapsing on their crutches and crying out to God, beseeching divine intervention. Some tucked in their longyis to enhance their mobility, discovering in their fright a strength within hidden by years of beggary as they bounded—their begging bowls askew, spilling their morning’s rake in their flight straight into the net of the soldiers waiting outside the market.
With no avenue for escape, the lepers were prodded by the rifles of the soldiers and herded towards a large van parked alongside the military trucks. The immunity of the untouchable that Tin Win and the likes of him shielded themselves with was inadequate armour in the presence of the cold steel of the guns pointing at them. Meekly, they boarded the van and as the van began to pull out from Scot’s Market, Tin Win—now deprived of his immunity—looked at the complex forlornly with a premonition that he would never enjoy his reign of terror again, nor would he live to nurture its memory.
Stanley heard a hushed rumour a few days later that the lepers had been administered with poison injections, and later cremated en masse. He wasn’t sure of the veracity of the whisper but he did notice that the lepers had disappeared, and with them, the beggary that had thrived on Buddhist benevolence had disappeared, too.
The cleansing of Rangoon had begun in earnest.
By this time, unease had set in amongst the people. The people, predominantly Buddhists, were shocked. Their sense of piety found the extremity of the army revolting, while for the others, it was the beginning of fear and insight. This was not a foreign army that was flouting the tenets of Buddhism but their own, and it had shown its abject disregard for life—or for that matter, the serious issue of reincarnation and the laws of cause and effect.
*
The Campus
Rangoon University
July 1962
The university was founded in 1878. The campus looked relatively new, exuding a vibrant aura of fresh scholarship and erudition; its lawn green with regularly mowed grass and evenly spaced trees, radiant with their spring bloom. The campus had endeavoured to produce a generation of alumni like U Thant, the first UN secretary general, Aung San, U Nu and General Ne Win. Many lead illustrious lives in various capacities in the country and abroad, while it had hoped to retain some from the younger generation who would choose to remain and bolster the portals of enlightenment.
Maung Baa Kyi was a final-year student on the campus, majoring in political science. Though he was an erudite student, and his professors and lecturers initially took great pleasure in tutoring him, they would soon discover that he was not the protégé they had expected. Maung Baa Kyi was a popular breeze that was blowing through the campus, frowned upon by the conventional among the teachers as a contagion and a threat to the sacred portals of their cherished institution, while most others were stimulated with curiosity and warmth by his outspokenness and fearlessness.
Maung Baa Kyi was not certain that the policies of the military government augured well for the country. He had sensed a tightening of the military fist around the free spirit of learning and enquiry in the country, and had debated with his fellow scholars and peers the issue of rights in a democracy. He had argued vehemently with visiting military officials to the faculty the difference between a rightfully elected government and the imposition of a military dictatorship upon a nation, depriving it of a voice in the rule of its people.
Maung Baa Kyi was a patriot at heart in the tradition of Aung San, and his intellect was outraged by the strangulation of his nation by a totalitarianism that was not intrinsically Burmese but Russian or Chinese. He began to organize innocuous meetings— initially on the campus—putting forth his views, but they soon caught the attention of a larger number of students and some of the teaching staff. The meetings gradually grew in number until they could no longer be kept a secret. And within no time, his activity blossomed into a movement, much to the concern of the heads of the university. They now feared a movement that would take the university to the precipice of a major tragedy unless they acted fast. They had to ban Maung Baa Kyi’s student union.
‘Hey, Baa Kyi,’ called out a classmate as he entered the campus one morning. ‘The professor wants to see you urgently.’
‘Yeah? What about?’ parried Maung Baa Kyi. ‘I have to attend a meeting now.’
‘It’s about the meeting he wants to see you.’
‘Oh. What’s up?’ Maung Baa Kyi asked, but was unable to elicit an answer as the student had wriggled into the crowd of aspiring undergraduates.
‘Hey, wait!’ he called out and realized that his classmate had vanished. There were only the few curious faces staring at him and distancing him as a rebel.
‘What are you looking at, you imbeciles!’ he yelled at them and stormed into the professors’ chamber.
‘So, Professor San Yu, I have been told that you wanted to see me regarding my meeting,’ confronted Maung Baa Kyi, ignoring the conventional code of bowing in Burmese society that elders expected of their youngsters.
‘Oh! Baa Kyi, come…come. Take a seat please,’ Professor San Yu greeted his student and sighed heavily, having noticed the agitation in the student’s voice.
‘Yes, Baa Kyi,’ replied Professor San Yu. ‘Your meetings will have to stop. I’ve just received orders from the vice-chancellor.’ Professor San Yu met the confrontation head-on, intuiting that it was the best way to defuse the simmering tension in his student.
‘Why, professor? This is a centre of learning and education. How can I, as an educated person, stop these meetings? We all know that very soon this country will be another country like the Soviet Union or China. And the people have a right to know that.’
‘Baa Kyi, please listen to me,’ entreated Professor San Yu. ‘I can understand your concerns and the fire in you, but do remember that you are still a student and not a politician, and you owe it to me as my best student to heed the voice of common sense and caution.’
‘I have a great regard for you, sir. And that won’t change, whatever may happen. But the fact is that our generation, apparently, is the only one left with a voice,’ Maung Baa Kyi retorted. ‘I can’t imagine how this generation will take up responsibilities of building the nation in the near future if we can’t be allowed to reason and exercise our minds. Or is it that this education is about how to be mindless mutes?’
Professor San Yu reddened at Maung Baa Kyi’s rhetoric. It pained him that his brightest student had questioned the purpose of the haloed portals of the institution, and the challenge annoyed him ever more, for he did not have an answer as to how one could alienate expression from an intellectual process.
‘Are you sure you are voicing your intellect or are you just being a pawn of some scheming ex-politician? I know you have been hobnobbing with a few of them of late,’ Professor San Yu shot back, the rebuttal silencing Maung Baa Kyi for a moment.
‘Professor, please believe me. I speak from the depth of my conscience only,’ he answered. ‘Unless we voice our thoughts loudly and demonstrate our conviction, this country will remain in the hands of military dictators for all our lives.’
‘Baa Kyi, I share your view and I’m proud that a student of mine has the courage to live up to his convictions, but please do not continue with these meetings on this campus. Take them elsewhere. And for you own sake, I hope you know what you are up against,’ said Professor San Yu, hoping that his student could take a hint.
Maung Baa Kyi rose from his chair and left the professors’ chamber without further comment, and walked towards his appointment. He felt guilty that he was betraying a greater trust placed on him by his professor. The Rangoon University was no exception in that like most universities, it was a hotbed for political activists, budding revolutionaries and reformers who would question authority. It did just that on that fateful morning. The students, led by a determined Maung Baa Kyi, staged a vociferous and reckless agitation in the campus, demanding a return to democracy.
*
‘Dora,’ an unnerved Stanley said when he returned home that evening, ‘a terrible thing has happened today. I can’t believe this is happening in the country, but we’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow morning, I’m sure.’
Stanley’s disposition provoked instant alarm in Dora.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked. He then told her the sordid story.
‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is horrible news.’
‘Yes. It’s very sad,’ Stanley replied, shaking his head sadly.
‘What will they do next?’ he asked himself woefully, and remembered what Murray had told him.
Most people knew that university students had been fomenting a confrontation with the army for over a week. They were denouncing the military government of General Ne Win. Stanley learnt that morning that the military had swung in instantaneously and surrounded the university campus. Insanely, the few warnings given were ignored by the riotous students who, incensed by the presence of the military, flung back insults at the guns pointing at them. The guns were not just meant to scare them. The general had said, ‘Guns are not meant for pointing upwards!’ The soldiers needed no further instigation. They opened fire, mowing down the students and snuffing out the voices that had dared to cry out for democracy. Maung Baa Kyi fell with the first volley, his fragile body broken by six bullets. His body was not released to his parents but was buried in an unmarked grave, his dreams to die with him in anonymity. The army had shot to kill that day. And to further ensure the omnipotence of the regime, army engineers blew up a section of the university building where the student union was located, where they suspected the remnants of the rabble was hiding.
That day, in the year 1962, was another dark day in the modern history of the country since the assassination of Aung San, a bewildering day that astounded and traumatized parents and citizens—a violent day that finally awoke the people from any delusion of their new reality. The army was now shooting human beings; their children and future citizens of the country. It was not a benevolent general who sat at the helm of the nation’s affairs, but a belligerent dictator who was insensitive to any language other than the one spoken in the dialect of the gun.
*
Satisfied with the effect he had achieved, the general and his junta then embarked upon an economic policy that was to have severe consequences for the country, its people and the foreigners who had elected to settle down in Burma. The general announced to the country that he was introducing economic reforms for the betterment of the country. The national economic programme espoused by the regime as ‘The Burmese Way to Socialism’ was ostensibly to distribute the wealth of the nation amongst its citizens. In reality, it meant dispossessing foreigners of their property and businesses with immediate effect.
‘The Burmese Way to Confiscation’ saw former landlords and proprietors of businesses subdued and humbled for a change on the streets of Rangoon, which most thought was justifiable punishment. Landlords and moneylenders who were unmerciful with their victims were discreetly begging and borrowing now.
‘Damned good! The fellows deserve it, Murray,’ remarked Stanley while discussing the subject with his neighbour one evening, returning from work.
‘Mostly your chaps, Stanley,’ said Murray with a grin.
‘It would appear so, Murray,’ conceded Stanley. ‘But I’m sure the Indians are not the only ones; they have their own, you know.’
The lieutenant who had taken in Stanley and his men during the war as prisoners had remained in post-war Burma like some of his countrymen, and had settled down, marrying a Burmese lady and spawning the last generation of Anglo-Burmese. Murray now worked as a journalist for a local English newspaper called The Burma Star.
‘It’s a good thing that you’re not a businessman now,’ commented Murray. ‘The loss would have been more mournful.’
‘Quite right, Murray,’ replied Stanley grudgingly, recollecting that the total personal wealth he could have ever claimed as his own had become ashes in his memory now.
But Stanley was indebted to the lieutenant, for it was him who had helped Stanley set up a canteen for the soldiers until the evacuation with the approval of Colonel MacIntyre, retired since in the United Kingdom. The great irony of his life, Stanley reflected. It was the British who imprisoned him, and then helped him after the war to start a business; and when the business had suffered a disaster, it was the Japanese again who had given him a job until he found better opportunities with an American company, for which he was now working.
‘It was bound to happen,’ Murray commented.
‘What?’ asked Stanley, recovering from the wistful knowledge that fate had denied him success in becoming the prosperous businessman that he had wanted to be.
‘The disparity in wealth is too visible,’ Murray said.
‘Oh that! Yes, Murray. Most of the country’s commerce is either in the hands of the Chinese or our chaps,’ agreed Stanley.
‘Yes,’ observed Murray. ‘Few Burmese have any say in the economy of the country.’
‘I realized that and I do sympathize with them,’ Stanley said.
‘But not any more from what I see,’ said Murray. ‘It appears to me that the Burmese are going to have the only say now.’
‘Oh! The general’s doing okay, Murray,’ Stanley responded. ‘It’s only natural that he restores a balance of some sort.’
Stanley himself had detested the greed of his countrymen who had little regard for the honour of the Burmese, and he saw the general’s policies as a natural consequence. He had no sympathy for the moneylenders, the land-grabbers and the building owners, whether they were countrymen of his or not. There had to be the question of honour and fairness in life which he cherished, and he was not about to surrender his beliefs despite the looming threat of his own survival in the political atmosphere that was getting more and more unpredictable.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be here long enough to find out,’ informed Murray. ‘The family and I have decided to move far away, to Australia, in a month’s time.’
‘Why not the UK?’ enquired Stanley.
‘I believe I’ll have better opportunities in Australia, Stanley,’ replied Murray. ‘Britain’s pretty beat up at the moment, you know; what with practically giving away the empire and all that!’
‘Ha! Ha!’ laughed Stanley at Murray’s wisecrack.
The war had left them with a sense of humour and they enjoyed sharing it between them. It also reflected the strength of their relationship.
‘Oh no, Murray, what about the wealth of the colonies you chaps have drained from them?’ Stanley rebutted.
‘Ha! Ha!’ It was Murray’s turn to laugh. ‘You don’t expect to get the railways, the telegraph, the postal services and a whole administrative service for free, do you now?’
‘And I suppose you’d say we got it cheap?’ chided Stanley in rebuff.
‘Yes, believe me, Stanley,’ Murray said, seemingly serious. ‘Yes, you have, unless you folks want to carry on with bullock carts. We’d charge you the sky for every motor car or locomotive you import from us, you know.’
‘Very imperialistic, isn’t it? Or is it capitalism? Anyway, quite soon you are going to see a whole lot of us in Britain, returning the favour,’ Stanley said.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it? We give you the independence to leave you alone so that you can enjoy it, and what do you do? You land in England and take away our jobs, not allowing us to enjoy our memories of having been your masters,’ Murray remarked with a wide grin.
‘That’s the way of the world,’ answered Stanley. ‘It’s karmic, you know.’
‘Ah! You keep saying that. Karma! I’m inclined to believe in the here and now…in what you sow and reap in one lifetime. Not in something a few births away which I won’t recognize. Anyway, what about you, Stanley?’ asked Murray, returning to the topic of the general’s junta. ‘Plan to stay on here?’
‘Yes,’ replied Stanley confidently. ‘I’m sure things will level down once the general’s through with the balancing act.’
‘In that case, you’d better do something about your citizenship,’ advised Murray. ‘I don’t think it’s going to stop here. There’s an ill wind blowing, as the saying goes, but take it from me as a newspaper man, it’ll get worse.’
‘Oh, it won’t be that bad, Murray,’ Stanley answered. ‘It’s principally just the matter of trade and labour that has to be resolved and after that, I’m sure things will be just fine. I’m married to a national after all.’
‘Sure. But she’s a Karen. You would be quite stupid to ignore it,’ cautioned Murray.
Stanley was certain that once the economic balance was restored in the country, life would return to normalcy again. He was wrong. In the following months, he was to see how wrong he was, and began to feel disturbed by the zealous extent to which the general’s policies were implemented.
*
THE ECONOMIC REVOLUTION
Kamayut
A Suburb of Rangoon
8:00 AM
Mohamed Ibrahim was a second-generation Indian in Burma. Belonging to a community called the Kha Khas, his ancestors came from a southern state in India commonly known as Malabar. Surprisingly for a Kha Kha, he spoke Burmese fluently and, but for his skin, was as Burmese as the locals. He went to a local school with the Burmese and wore his lungi as the Burmese did. He read the news in Burmese and wrote his accounts in Burmese. His nativity in India was as remote to him now as it was to many of his kind who had settled in the country and practiced a business in which the community excelled. They ran utility and provision stores all around Rangoon and its suburbs, and provided a service that the native Burmese were yet to perfect. Credit without interest.
The store he owned was his pride and, like his father who had started the business, he was known to be fair in his dealings. His dream was to find someone capable of looking after the business, which would allow him an opportunity for a holiday and passage to India, where he would seek a wife and bring her back with him to this land of abundance. Little did he suspect that morning when he woke up that his dreams would end prematurely, and that in a few months’ time he would be on-board a refugee ship on a one-way journey to his ancestral home.
That morning, Mohamed Ibrahim saw his provision store sealed and numerically marked. It had a new board in place of the old one, and was now identified as ‘People’s Stores No. 178’. He panicked and couldn’t understand what had happened. He had heard a rumour that the government had plans to abolish private enterprise in the land, and he had presumed it meant the big private sector. His was a small business; far too small for the government to take an interest in. He went about the neighbourhood to determine the facts.
To his horror, he saw that smaller endeavours than his had suffered the same fate. The corner sugarcane juice shop, the tea shop, the barber, the bakery and the small kiosks that dished out snacks to schoolchildren were all now out of business. In a state of destitution now, Mohamed Ibrahim could determine only one common factor that linked his business with all those in the neighbourhood that had ceased to exist. They were all owned by Indians. These petty businessmen who represented the commerce of the country at the bottom level had lost the only asset they had in their lives without recourse to any compensation from the government. Nor did their debtors deem it appropriate to alleviate their state of indigence by honouring the credit given to them.
*
Guhan Singh & Company
Rangoon
9:00 AM
Guhan Singh & Company was a large private enterprise that catered to the department stores and smaller dealers of the city, electrical and electronic merchandise imported from Japan, sewing machines from America and Britain, sports equipment from China and a host of other modern articles from many other countries that Burma was not manufacturing. Demand from the affluent citizenry had been ecstatically encouraging, and Guhan Singh was making a tidy profit from his operation. But that morning, he was nervous. He had been tipped that an all-out operation was underway in the city, and that the junta was making good its threats of abolishing private enterprise.
‘We’re getting caught at a most unfortunate moment,’ he said to his brother. ‘What is the value of our current stocks?’
‘Over three million kyats,’ his brother replied.
‘Outstanding?’ Guhan Singh asked.
‘Around a quarter million due from the local dealers,’ answered his brother. ‘Thank God, we’ve diverted the last shipment to our Singapore operation.’
‘Thank God, indeed. We would have sunk otherwise,’ confirmed Guhan Singh, but as a businessman, he could not bear the prospect of losing an asset that was worth over five million kyats, considering that the three-storied building where he situated his operation was his as well.
‘Sir, soldiers have surrounded the building!’ a flustered office boy announced, blustering into Guhan Singh’s office.
‘What!’ exclaimed the two brothers, jolted by the mention of soldiers, and rushed to the window.
‘Oh my God!’ Guhan Singh gasped, looking down at the pavement of his building. There were scores of soldiers— a full company of them, he assessed, their rifles pointing at all the windows of the building.
‘What is this for?’ he blurted out, recoiling from the window instinctively, and from the glint of the muzzle of a rifle that had stared at him.
‘The bastards! Why, we’re not criminals!’ exploded his brother, the warrior gene in him incensed by the vulgar display of unnecessary force by the regime.
‘Please be quiet, Brother,’ cautioned Guhan Singh. ‘Just play along with them. It’s their country, don’t forget that. And let me do the talking. Get the accountant because they’ll want to see our books.’
No sooner than he instructed his brother, a brigadier of the junta swaggered into his office.
‘This company is hereby proclaimed the property of the people. Surrender your books immediately and no one is to leave the building without my permission,’ the brigadier declared unceremoniously.
The inquisition had begun with the acquisition of the assets of Guhan Singh and his company. The few big department stores in the city—including the ones in Scots Market—vanished next, along with the stocks and the book-keeping.
A few refrigerators, some electrical appliances, a few sets of radios, an iron or two and several fans left these books and found their way into the homes of the commanders. All of this and more followed in the name of the people. What the people didn’t see then was the direction in which these actions were leading. It was the beginning of an ideology getting corrupted.
*
23 February 1963
Rangoon
The Central Bank of India—including 14 foreign and 10 local banks—were nationalized and renamed People’s Banks in numerical order 1 to 24. Military officers were installed as general managers of the banks.
‘God!’ exclaimed Stanley. ‘They’re targeting the Indians.’
Stanley was dismayed to see the anguished run on the banks in a futile attempt at recovery of jewellery and personal savings by his countrymen. Severe restrictions were imposed. Foreign banks were paid the extent of capital originally brought to the country when establishing, but interest earnings since were not reimbursed. ‘People’s sweat,’ claimed the junta. ‘It belongs to the people!’ Deposits could be kept only in one account in one bank. Only 10,000 kyats per month not exceeding 50,000 kyats per year could be deposited; no more than two withdrawals per week and not exceeding 10 per cent of the account could be made.
The junta comprised of some bigots who, under absolute power, seized the opportunity to carry out their personal vendetta—which most did. The vendetta against the Indians allegedly originated from a brigadier whose rabid hatred of the Indians finally culminated in the exodus of the Indians from the country.
Further nationalization followed, its tentacles strangling the multinationals and corporations that operated in the country. The petroleum industry, the tobacco industry, the hospitality industry, the entertainment industry, road transport, etc. became state-owned operations. Cinema houses in Rangoon discontinued the screening of Western movies. A genre of Russian movies extolling Soviet virtues assaulted the psyche of the moviegoers. Local studios stopped the production of movies that the junta considered decadent and the industry, impoverished as it was by the lack of adequate equipment, struggled to stay alive with the few state-directed propaganda films.
The face of the country had changed dramatically since 1962; in Rangoon, one now saw jack-booted, armed motorcycle policemen patrolling the streets of the city.
But there were leaders who were better educated and held the country’s interest in proper perspective. These leaders disapproved of some of the regime’s unsound policies and believed that the abolition of private enterprise at the basic level would paralyse the economy of the country. They advocated a gradual transition to complete nationalization and abolition of private enterprise, which would give the state the time to evolve an apparatus that could take over the smooth running of the nation’s economy proficiently.
These few leaders were to pay a price for voicing their finer thinking and conscience. Dissent over policy—economic, political or social—was expeditiously contained.
The Insein Prison—acquiring now an insatiable appetite from a diverse cuisine of a prime minister, petrified politicians, senior abbots, student leaders—was more than glad to oblige the general and his junta by listing a brigadier on its menu.
Aung Gyi!
‘Aung Gyi’s in jail,’ spread the word, and gained credibility because he was considered a moderate among the brigadiers. Substantiation of the rumour came when the papers indelibly reported that Brigadier Aung Gyi had resigned from the army. The paper showed a picture of the brigadier having his head shaved and embracing monkhood. A threat to the oligarchic policies of the regime was isolated felicitously with the veneer of religious sanction.
*
The Cushing High School
Ahlon, Rangoon
1965
The Christian school in the city was well-known for its cadre of dedicated teachers who, under the administration of an able principal, ensured outstanding results from their students year after academic year. Founded by American missionaries, the school fielded a large ground, from the centre of which rose a tall edifice that towered over massive stone buildings three storeys high, that housed the classes and the hostels. This tall edifice chimed the hour and monitored the progress of timetables and the rotation of teachers during the day, while at night it kept watch over the boarders who thronged the school from other parts of the country. Stanley’s eldest son, Simon, studied in the school and had expected to graduate from it the following summer.
‘Hey Solomon, look,’ Simon said, tugging at the sleeves of his friend’s shirt, noticing a car and a few jeeps parked outside the principal’s office as they entered the gates of the school that morning. A pennant fluttered from the bonnet of the car and the colour of the vehicles was jungle green. The insignia on the pennant suggested high rank.
‘It’s military!’ Solomon exclaimed in surprise.
‘What’s the army doing here?’ Simon wondered aloud in surprise. ‘They’re probably after you,’ he quipped. ‘They’re catching the Karens, I hear.’
‘Oh yeah? They’re actually after you. In addition to Karen blood, you’ve got Indian as well. Double trouble for them…. They’ve been after half-breeds, you know!’ jested Solomon in his repartee.
‘Oh. Go on, will you….Wait, they’re after the principal,’ uttered Simon, somewhat shocked and surprised.
‘He’s a harmless man, Simon. He could not even hurt a fly,’ rebuked Solomon.
‘I know. But he’s a Karen,’ remarked Simon.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Solomon. It was true that not only the principal and most of the teachers were Karens, but like him, the school had a large population of Karens—among the other ethnic students.
‘Let’s not joke about this,’ offered Simon in peace. ‘There’s something going on, more than we can imagine. Let’s find out.’
‘Probably getting a son or daughter admitted,’ remarked Solomon. ‘Nothing serious I’m sure.’
‘In midterm?’ questioned Simon.
Simon’s guess was close to the truth. The junta had soon perceived the need to take over the schools to inculcate a generation of students and teachers alike in the values and morals of the dictator’s socialism. The large assembly of students on the school grounds for the morning prayer was disallowed, and the practice was now restricted to classrooms. Christian schools in Rangoon now introduced as morning prayer a propitious word to God for the glory of the regime and its ideals. Wearing of Western dress was banned and national dress was made mandatory. The instruction of subjects in English was discontinued and replaced by Burmese. These schools now had high-ranking military officers entrenched in the principal’s chambers to enforce the new edict. Cushing School now had a colonel, a non-academic, overseeing political indoctrination.
‘Hey, what happened to your Beatle crop, Solomon?’ asked Simon one morning at school.
‘Knocked it off, what else,’ answered Solomon in a foul mood. Solomon had always worn his hair long, like The Beatles, ever since the band from England had became a phenomenon on the air waves and magazines.
‘Yeah, I guess you won’t stand out that way and bother His Master’s Voice,’ sympathized Simon. Solomon had been chastised in the presence of the entire class a morning ago for aping the West by the colonel, whom they alluded to as His Master’s Voice— a pompous man who now sat in the erstwhile chamber of their principal, downgrading the poor man to an assistant.
‘Poor Ginger, she got a mouthful as well,’ Simon remarked, noting Solomon’s silence. ‘All because she’s got a pair of prominent boobs,’ he added.
Much to the embarrassment of Ginger—an attractive Christian, ethnic Chin girl from the north boarding at the school and a classmate of them—the colonel had reprimanded her for not wearing a loose blouse that would tone down the protrusions from her chest which nature had endowed upon her.
‘Shut up, will you Simon?’ admonished Solomon. ‘You’ll get us both in trouble. Remember, he’s got his cronies around.’
‘I’m sorry, Solomon. The less we talk, the better for us. I guess we’re not invulnerable.’
Simon realized that the atmosphere in the school had indeed changed. The excited laughter, the fraternity between the students, the pop culture and fashion had all dissolved into an invidious environment of suspicion and aloofness. One did not talk to anyone unless he or she was a long-standing friend. Western music disappeared from the school socials altogether. Especially after the general—his sleep disturbed one night by a band playing near his residence—stormed in and kicked the drummer and the drums, putting a stop to the party, not without breaking a few guitars before he strode out.
‘Hee…hee…hee….So you’re the Brahmin of the class now, Simon,’ Solomon laughed uncontrollably one evening as soon as they had cleared the gates of the school. Simon had received his share of ridicule that morning when the colonel had picked him to exhibit to the class what a Brahmin looked like, particularly drawing attention to Simon’s ears and nose. What was galling was that the allusion to ‘Brahmin’ was not complimentary, as it was not associated with scholastic ability but an insinuation of the contempt the regime held for Indians. The Brahmin was usually associated with greed and cunning. The joy of schooling was dampened and, except for Solomon and a handful of friends, ethnic and Burmese, Simon began to stay away from associating with a host of other students.
*
Next on the national agenda was the expelling of foreign press across the border and silencing of the national press.
Those who owned radios now listened to the BBC and the Voice of America for news in the confines of their homes, turning down the volume to its bare minimum audibility, while some tuned into radio Ceylon for Western music. None encouraged gossip, nor did they entertain discussion or voiced their opinions, for the people were beginning to learn a new attitude: a distrust of their neighbours. Except for the summer water festival Thingyan, when the youth would indulge in splashing water on passers-by and courting future brides, or the festivals of lights Thadingyut, when families would illuminate their homes with candles and coloured bulbs and the streets lit by the municipality, displaying ostentation of any sort disappeared from Burmese society. Inconspicuousness became a virtue.
This was thus the epochal change that the general and his junta bestowed upon its people. And while the nationalized and confiscated wealth never reached the people, the army grew aggressively stronger. The general had, in effect, pulled a curtain over Burma—a curtain made of fine green bamboo, sinewy, agile and tough, behind which he could use his army like a whip.
His republic secured and the omnipotence of the Revolutionary Council of Burma now firmly established, the general then turned his attention to the ethnic peoples and their quest for autonomy, for he could now deal with them without interference and distraction. He also turned his attention upon the unfinished work on the foreign companies and the undesirables still in the country. The general’s whip then turned on Stanley and stung him with its lash.
*
Far East American Exploration
Burma Office, Rangoon
1966
Far East American was an American oil exploration company based in California licensed to operate in Burma, and had been running a successful operation until the government decided to revoke its license. It was a measure invoked by the junta where they could not resort to nationalization. Chester G. Wallace, the director of the company’s operations, was in the city and officially terminating the operations in the country. His team of geologists was flying home in a few days and for all practical purposes, the company would cease to exist in the next several weeks. With help from the American embassy, the director was negotiating with the junta the 80 million-dollar equipment now in the regime’s hands. He also needed an arbitrator in Rangoon to follow through the repatriation of funds from the proceeds allowed by the regime.
‘I see no one other than you,’ said Chester G. Wallace, ‘capable of handling the company’s affairs to successful conclusion over here, Stanley.’
‘Does it mean I still have a job, sir?’ asked Stanley. Stanley had been in charge of running the Burma office of the American company since 1960. He had come a long way from his humble beginnings with the Japanese shipping company, and was now drawing a gratifying income. The regime’s decision to invoke the license for operations in the country had terminated his corporate ascent at its pinnacle abruptly.
‘Call me C.G. That’s fine with me,’ said the director. ‘Yes, for some time ahead, I should think.’
‘It could take months, with the way they work here,’ commented Stanley. ‘The office would have to be closed down, C.G.; in fact, soon after you leave.’
‘That I understand,’ nodded Wallace.
‘How do you suppose I’ll function then?’ quizzed Stanley.
‘I’ll have a word with Under Secretary Robert Sullivan from the embassy to provide you with communication facilities. Your reports on developments could be routed through the embassy, as we would your salary.’
‘I see,’ said Stanley. ‘Wouldn’t that arouse suspicion?’
‘Why should it? You’re not a cloak-and-dagger man but a bona fide employee of the company, overseeing pending affairs until satisfactory conclusion,’ C.G. countered. ‘I’ll have you issued with the power of attorney to that effect.’
‘That would be found acceptable,’ acknowledged Stanley. ‘At least for a while.’
‘Until then, you’re okay I suppose,’ observed Wallace. ‘If you’re not planning to return to India, you should look into citizenship soon, Stan. I sense that India would be safer in the long run. We’re all growing old, you know. And Burma will never be an India or allow it to become an America. Remember how the continent became American? My reading is that they aren’t too keen on allowing foreigners to stay on in the country for long.’
The company had, in effect, retained him on a contingency basis to oversee its interest and the repatriation of any convertible asset that the government would allow. For the next several months, Stanley discharged his duties: visiting the American embassy regularly, submitting his reports (typed by Dora at home at night) and collecting his salary. The uneasiness intensified in him as the days progressed, for he became conscious of the fact that he was still a foreigner in the country visiting another foreign embassy to collect pay for his reports, and that a rabid suspicious regime could impute his actions as nefarious.
‘Morning, Mr David,’ greeted the marine sergeant at the gate as he entered the embassy one morning. Stanley acknowledged the sergeant and proceeded to meet Under Secretary Robert Sullivan.
‘Stanley! How’s the family doing?’ greeted Robert. He had come to like Stanley, and had enjoyed Stanley’s parties which he had attended several times when Far East American was operational in the country.
‘They’re fine, Bob,’ replied Stanley, taking the chair that the American official had indicated. ‘Here’s the last report. There’s nothing the government’s going to part with. I had to offer the fleet of the company’s jeeps to our Burmese agent as good will!’
‘Ha! Ha!’ laughed Robert. ‘What do you plan to do now?’
‘It’s probably the end for me here, I gather,’ answered Stanley. ‘It’s unlikely that I’ll get a job in the country even if I become a citizen, being an Indian and all that.’
‘Things have changed dramatically in less than five years, haven’t they?’ Robert introspected pensively.
Burma would hold no future for him, Stanley surmised. And unless he was granted citizenship, he feared that he would have to leave the country soon. Anti-Indian sentiment was at its peak and the realization tormented him; he thought of his wife and children, saddened that he would have to change their lives and disturb them as well.
*
Stanley’s Residence
Insein
9:00 PM
Stanley did not have to wait long to confirm his fears, nor did the state take time to dispel any delusion that he might have entertained in his mind. A week later, just as Stanley and his family had dined, an insistent knock sounded on his door. He wasn’t expecting a visitor, but thought nothing of it as he stepped towards the door.
‘Must be a neighbour,’ commented Dora nonchalantly. It was not unusual for a neighbour to appear at your door in the night to temporarily borrow an urgently needed item. They were still living in a fairly informal neighbourhood of friendly and peaceable folk, composed largely of the ethnic community.
‘Yes, probably for something,’ Stanley agreed and opened the door with a cordial smile, fully expecting to discharge an exercise in generosity when, to his utter surprise, he found two uniformed men staring into his eyes with serious intent.
‘Mr David? Military Intelligence Service.’
A cold shiver raced up Stanley’s spine as he heard the chilling introduction of the two MIS officers. ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ Stanley acknowledged, ‘do come in, please. What can I do for you?’
The officers declined the invitation and said, ‘Please come with us. We’ll wait here while you dress.’
Stanley’s jaw dropped, perturbed with the instruction, but he complied without risking another question. He had not committed any felony whatsoever, and thought it prudent to show courage to these two officers.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told Dora and the children. ‘I’ll probably be late. Don’t wait up on me.’
‘We’ll bring him back,’ comforted the officers to Dora, noticing the fear on her face. The assurance sounded kind and uncharacteristic of the MIS, thought Stanley as he entered the jeep the officers had brought to fetch him.
Stanley returned home in the early hours of the morning. It was still dark, for the sun had not yet risen. He was exhausted and shaken but physically unharmed. They had wanted to know what he, a foreign national, was still doing in the country when the company he was working for had already closed down.
They were also interested in his future plans, and particularly curious about his source of income. He had been observed frequenting the American embassy and although they accepted his explanation, they were curious to know whom he knew in a personal capacity in the embassy.
‘This is a mild warning, Dora,’ Stanley whispered to his anxious wife, not wanting to wake the children up. ‘I think it’s just the beginning. It’s fortunate that they have not insinuated anything as yet on my visits to the embassy,’ he said with a measure of relief.
‘It still means that you are a watched man, Stanley,’ Dora observed gravely.
‘No uncertainty about that now,’ Stanley agreed. ‘It’s curious that they didn’t ask me why I had not applied for citizenship until now, and were only curious about my link with the embassy.’
‘Don’t they know about it? What did you tell them?’ asked Dora after a pensive moment.
‘The truth,’ Stanley replied. ‘I told them that the company was remitting my salary through the embassy for the duration of my contingency employment, and that my tasks were at an end.’
‘Did they believe you?’
‘I don’t know. I hope they did. Anyway, I’ve been filing my income tax returns religiously. So that should at least tell them that I have been earning a legitimate salary over here,’ answered Stanley with uncertainty.
‘Well, even if you happen to be an Indian, they must realize that you’re an honest one,’ chuckled Dora.
‘I think we’ll have to leave the country, Dora. I won’t be able to stand this harassment, and the last thing I want is to be made an example of by some quirk of fate.’
Stanley had raised the subject of leaving the country on several occasions, but had never pressed the matter sensing that Dora had always been unwilling and reluctant to discuss the issue. He understood the sentiment and could appreciate the strength of family bonds, but had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t afford to be delicate or vacillate any more after the interrogation. He was certain that the government knew of the arrangement the company had made with the embassy, and that the visit of these intelligence people was to probe further for any possible clandestine connection he had with it.
‘It has to be now or we will never get out. This country is closing down fast, Dora. I personally think they’re not going to grant citizenship. They’re likely to treat us as aliens…unwanted and probably illegal in due course,’ Stanley told his wife sternly.
‘What do you plan to do?’ asked Dora, half her mind afraid of her husband’s answer and the other half sadly preparing to accept the inevitable.
‘There’s repatriation going on and this will be our last opportunity,’ he said in a sad tone, referring to the mass repatriation of his countrymen that the government of India was undertaking at the moment.
‘You can elect to stay with your people if you wish, although it might not be wise in the long run. The Karens are as unpopular as the Indians here,’ he said, giving her the choice and freedom of will, but also reminding her of her own future prospects in a land where her people were regarded as renegades.
‘I understand, Stanley,’ Dora answered, recognizing the import of her husband’s statement, and knew that the time for a decision had come.
Dora thought of Stanley and the confounding romance that had ignited between them beyond the barriers of culture and creed, beyond the considerations of social politics and racial prejudice to transcend them above such impositions, and reach out at the universality of the species. She thought of him as an unusual man, for it was beyond her understanding how he could reconcile his Christian faith with his perseverance of Hindu philosophy and mysticism. He would sing sonorously with the choir at the Rangoon Baptist Church on Sundays and practice yoga at home in the night when he was not inclined towards copulation. Despite some of his eccentricities and contradictions, she was grateful that he had proven to be an honourable man.
It had taken a few years for her family to recover from their consternation and apprehension over the marriage, she recalled, but had now come to hold him with affection and regard. Even the local pastor who was a Karen had become a frequent visitor at their home, dining with them on many occasions while having long discourses over Christian theology and divergent philosophies. Stanley had also achieved a place of prominence for both of them in Rangoon society, small though it was.
She reminisced fondly about the embassy parties to which both Stanley and she had regular invitations. She particularly enjoyed the evenings when the stream of company personnel from America would occasion Stanley’s hospitality at home. They enjoyed her cooking, especially her pork roast! She had enjoyed playing the gracious hostess. And just when everything seemed to be going well, this circumstance, like a vile creature, had pounced on them, threatening to destroy and devour everything they had achieved.
She also knew that before long the Karens would go under the microscope of the regime. There were already many returning to their villages, especially those who had lost their jobs with the foreign companies that were winding down like a string of bulbs switched off one after another. Even her family who were now in Rangoon had finally thought it best that she follow her husband, despite their willingness to provide for her husband, her and her children.
She considered her family’s offer again. This was a most difficult choice and was tearing her heart asunder. Her mother, sisters and brother, an entire family tree of relatives, would now only be photographs and letters for as long a future she could see. Returning to or visiting her homeland was not even a vague possibility in the foreseeable future, for she would have to renounce her citizenship to follow her husband.
‘Yes. I’ve made my choice,’ she finally said, arriving at a decision after a long, agonizing moment. ‘We’ll go to your embassy tomorrow, Stanley, and get the papers done.’
‘We’ll tell the children later in the day,’ he said as the first light of dawn crept over the tired couple.
‘The younger ones wouldn’t understand, but I think Simon’s going to be very upset,’ murmured Dora as she closed her eyes to the sorrow that was crystallizing in her being.
Her place was with her husband and her children, she decided; for better or worse, in sickness and in health, to honour and to cherish until death did them part. So she had vowed and so she would adhere to it. And with that thought, she rolled down a curtain to veil the attachments of her life in the land where she was born.