The Karen Camps
Myanmar
1990–1995
In the early somnolence of the dawn, the village on the hill looked quiet and pristine—its huts blending with the milieu, and at peace with the mist that was still in the air. Desultory spirals of smoke twirled hazily upwards from some of the thatched roofs, communing discreetly with the dew, suggesting that there were early risers in the community preparing the first meal of the day.
Palm and banana groves swayed in verdant grace, delicately dancing with the gentle breeze that was humming around the village, welcoming a spell of dry sunshine while the dense teaks kept their vigil for a familiar intruder.The vigil was not in vain. The teak trees—tall and formidable in their knowledge of the matters of men—knew that with the end of the rains, the expected offensive of the Burmese Army would be here.
General Sein Lwin scrutinized the village with his impassive binoculars. The high-powered lens scoured the ground around the village, leaving to the pair of aggressive eyes of the general the vexing task of determining a path his troops would take for the assault. The irked general found none except a narrow gorge that led to the village. As a military commander, he knew the implications of an uphill assault, and had never favoured the odds against his troops in such a situation—especially when the foe was a battle-hardened body of the tenacious Karens.
He didn’t consider the Burmese students sheltering in the village undergoing training in warfare of any consequence, but fretted instead about the guerrillas and their field of fire. Of the withering fire that would descend upon his troops, he had no doubt. A fire fight had to be expected, but his chief concern was the gorge that would lead him to the hill. The docile appearance of the torpid hill on which the village hibernated in slumber did not deceive him. This was Hill 4044, the gateway to Manerplaw— a sprawling base where thousands of fleeing Karen civilians were sheltered. It was also the political headquarters of the Karen National Union. The fall of the hill would spell the doom of the Karens, for it would throw Manerplaw wide open to capture by the Burmese Army; an irresistible target that presented opportunities to an ambitious army. The general’s wistful mind returned to his present distasteful task.
The gorge.
‘Mines!’ he thought aloud. There would be mines. He couldn’t risk a probe for that would alert the village on the hill, he reasoned, and consoled himself with the card up his sleeve.
Surprise!
He thought of the village itself. It, in fact, was a well-fortified camp with trenches and bunkers lined with strong teak on their seams and roofs. The bunkers were buffeted further with sandbags and caked mud of the rains. Camouflaged with stems and leaves from the palm and banana by the grateful Burmese students and an industrious team of Karen women and children of the camp, it was one of the last bastions of defence left for the Karens.
Most identified camps had fallen one after another, their survivors fleeing to Thailand, just across the Moei River, to become refugees or dissolve into the remote density of the jungle beyond the immediate reach of the Burmese Army. General Sein Lwin considered the political implications of the successful outcome of this battle, and knew how important it was to the generals in Yangon that the village be taken. This was a command he hadn’t wanted, a command that was thrust upon him and an order he couldn’t refute. He was a dead man either way, he thought cynically, and cursed the day he had decided to become a soldier.
General Sein Lwin promptly put aside his infamous past in Rangoon and the personal unease that some knew him as the Butcher, and summoned his leading officers to deliver his pre-battle exhortation. ‘Officers of the Tatmadaw,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, fearing that the teak had ears and would steal from him his advantage of surprise.
‘This is the last enemy camp to stand in our way, and I don’t have to remind you of the importance of its capture.
‘With this camp removed, nothing will stand in our way to Manerplaw. It will be ready for the plucking. The Karens, as an army, will not have any more tangible presence on our soil after that. They’ll have to scatter onto the hills, making it easy for us to take them piecemeal at our leisure, or they will have to withdraw deep into the jungle where they will perish from starvation and disease. I’m not quite sure they will survive as guests of the Thai government when the Thais see the new military of our country.
‘It is for the glory of Myanmar, your fathers and mothers, your sweethearts, your wives and children that this camp is to be destroyed.
‘So, no matter what the cost, you cannot fail when your other comrades have succeeded elsewhere,’ summed up the general, reminding his officers of the recent successes the Burmese Army have had against the Karens.
The officers nodded in quiet unison. Morale was high and confident of a victory, they were prepared to lead their men. They were not to know, however, that the teak jungle that hid them had already sent whispers of warning of the impending attack to the village.
‘Get your men into position,’ he ordered his officers. ‘We will commence attack in one hour.’
General Sein Lwin’s officers moved agilely, deploying their troops at the tree line and bringing up the artillery: mortars, grenade launchers and the howitzers that they had lugged across for the attack. The army was well-armed as never before against this astute enemy, and was sanguine that this time the enemy would taste a bit of their own medicine. The soldiers of the Tatmadaw felt invincible.
*
Commander Solomon eyed his lieutenants while sipping a cup of plain tea, and cogitated upon the information his scouts had brought.
‘How many?’ he enquired again, hoping that he had heard it wrong.
‘Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands,’ estimated one of the scouts agitatedly. This was by far the largest body of Burmese troops to ever approach the Karens for battle in a decade.
‘This must be a combined force,’ conjectured another scout, informed of the simultaneous attacks that had taken place on different camps a few days ago. ‘But how did they get here? So many of them?’ questioned one of his aides. ‘We would have known about it.’
‘I’ll tell you how. It’s the Buddhist faction that must have shown them the way,’ a lieutenant offered in explanation. ‘They know the jungle tracks as well as we do.’
‘They’re Karens, damn it!’ exclaimed a guerrilla.
Commander Solomon raised his hand, and the gesture stilled the command bunker immediately.
‘It doesn’t matter now whether they’re Karens, Christians or Buddhists or who brought the Burmese here,’ he said, looking at his men. ‘It’s an army out there and they plan to annihilate us. We have a big fight coming our way now.’
Years of fighting had eroded the spirit of his people, diluting the commitment to their cause and bringing to the surface their individual differences. Intrigue, insolence and intransigence had culminated in an ugly factionalism that had disintegrated the Karen National Army (KNA) as a cogent force, a force the Burmese Army had never got the better of in half a century. He didn’t mind those who left, tired of the fighting and just wanting to live a peaceful and normal life with their families across the border, but was aggrieved with the faction that had aligned themselves with the Burmese authorities. Was it just the issue of religion, or a perceived political advantage that could be attained in the future, or was it just greed for power that knifed through a common bond and prompted the faction that was now conniving with the enemy and leading the Burmese Army to this camp? Solomon no longer cared. He cared only about the camp, and the enemy hidden in the tree line that was going to obliterate it along with its women and children.
‘We have less than 300, not counting the students. I hope by now they have learnt to shoot; it’s their war as well,’ declared a lieutenant in a tone of finality. Some of the fugitives had their own volition, and had voiced their desire to fight the army.
Commander Solomon shook his head.
‘Don’t count on them now. This is not a drill but the real thing,’ he cautioned his men.
Commander Solomon was a realist and had some scruples about involving the students in a fire fight. He personally foresaw only confusion amongst the students when the shooting started; a confusion that would prove a handicap and diffuse the focus he needed in his men. He could do without the confusion. Besides, he considered, he needed to conserve his ammunition.
‘Send the women and children across now,’ he ordered a scout and grasped a twig lying by his feet. He hastily delineated on the ground his defences, and positioned the twig where the narrow gorge was.
‘They’ll have to come up here,’ he stated without hesitation. ‘The path’s mined and we have the machine guns in position. Bring up the mortars here,’ he said pointing to a spot on his makeshift map.
‘Shoot only when I give the order,’ he continued. ‘They will start with a barrage any time now.’
He knew what to expect, now that the enemy possessed artillery. Of late, the Burmese Army was increasingly deploying artillery and the calibre was getting heavier, he noted with unhappiness.
‘I want everyone down in the bunkers and when the barrage ceases, the men on our flanks should be alert just in case they try flanking us…but that will be difficult for them. Nevertheless, let’s not exclude the possibility. Their morale has improved since their recent victories.’
‘I’ll be here,’ he said, positioning himself at the mouth of the gorge.
Commander Solomon’s lieutenants hurried about their tasks swiftly, and in less than half an hour had positioned their defence according to plan. The men displayed remarkable courage; an attestation to their battle-readiness and to their skill in repelling superior forces over innumerable encounters. He was satisfied that they would give a good account of themselves in the coming clash as they had always done in the past. Their spirit had not sagged, despite the knowledge that they would be killing some of their kind.
They had trained well, Commander Solomon observed, and was proud of their discipline. This was not the flamboyant KNDO of the old, he mused. No dilettantes like the sea princes and arrogant generals like Alexander, but just simple men with a votive dedication to preserve the heritage of their people.
They were also educated like him, and had been driven to this out of frustration: teachers, civil servants, university students, musicians, artisans and Bible scholars. They even had a veterinarian in the camp! But they were now unfortunate veterans of a gun culture with one consuming passion: to live their birth right as Karens, Solomon believed. He was also gratified that there were others, too, who recognized their right to liberty, equality and justice.
He missed Guillaume now, the red-haired Frenchman who had become a legend amongst them. The Frenchman had sympathized with their plight and had fought fiercely along with them until a Burmese sniper’s bullet had prematurely inscribed his epitaph. He had terrorized the Burmese troops for a short while before paying the final price with his life for his belief, Solomon recollected with a saddened heart. He wished there were more like the Frenchman in the world who would accord the Karens their rights as human beings.
Commander Solomon surveyed his position meticulously. He had the river to his back, and beyond the river was Thailand. He was indebted to the Thais; but for them, his people and the Burmese fugitives would have perished a long time ago. Here, on Burmese territory, he had the gorge in front of him and steep slopes on his flanks, a hard and discouraging climb for the soldiers in the trees. The thought evoked a smile in Solomon.
He held the high ground.