A Politician’s Residence
Rangoon
Liberated Burma, 1947
The short and savage chapter of Japanese oppression during World War II had ended, and the long history of colonial conquest by the British was at an end. The country was soon to be freed from its shackles of foreign occupation. General Aung San, the legatee of the independence—bequeathed to him by the departing British— had assumed the reins of the provincial government and the responsibility of rebuilding a nation that the war had devastated. Burma was heaving a sigh of relief that the terrible war had ended and the mood of a people had transformed from silent docility to that of eager volubility. Tasting the elixir of freedom, the people now voiced the roles that they would play in the reconstruction of the nation and claim the rewards of riches and recognition.
Audible above the din of the clamorous nation were the shrill and raucous voices of the politicians of the land, and in particular, that of one who was known as the Garuda—named after a devouring mythical bird-like creature—more commonly called Galon among the Burmese. The entry in Galon’s diary on the morning of 19th July that precipitous year indicated that Aung San was to have an important meeting at the secretariat. The general was to present a draft of a new Constitution to his cabinet members that would govern the independent country and make them signatories to implement his policies with the voice of unison. But Galon had a far more pressing matter on his agenda at his residence that morning, which made Aung San’s meeting pale in significance. Galon was holding a meeting of his own, albeit covertly, and it was as voluble as it was concerned with the indelible change of the politics of the land.
‘Well, my dear comrades,’ Galon addressed the group of men who sat with him in secret, ‘the time has come for us to put an end to the ambitions of our friend Aung San. He has become the general of the new republic army now and despite of his talk of democracy, I dare say that we will have a fascist amongst us shortly. And we will have only ourselves to blame for want of courage in preventing it.’
‘We agree,’ said the leader of the group in response.
‘Neither the people nor Aung San’s ministers realize it yet but by endorsing Aung San, they will be betraying the independence of this country to a demigod,’ Galon asserted.
‘Yes,’ the leader of the group agreed, ‘the people worship him as if he is the only one who fought for the independence of this country. They’ve forgotten the others who have laid down their lives!’
‘His photographs are everywhere and it’s disgusting to see how he’s been idolized!’ sneered one of them.
‘This worship of him will turn him into a monster and he will enslave the country with his power,’ Galon said. ‘And when people wake up from their euphoria, it will be too late for they will not be able to confront his army by then.’
‘We’ve had the British and the Japanese yoking us; we don’t want our own kind to do the same thing,’ the leader of the group declared passionately.
‘Precisely,’ Galon agreed shrewdly, adding fuel to the fire that was now burning in the patriotism of the men around him.
‘Also, we should not underestimate the communists,’ said one of the men.
‘Yes…absolutely right,’ Galon acknowledged promptly. ‘They could spring anytime onto the stage with their rather captivating ideology and make things even more calamitous for the country.’
The men who sat in conspiracy with the politician that morning were his most trusted followers and, like him, despised the communists as much as they did Aung San. And like Galon , they were also aware and wary of the emergence of Asian personalities like Mao Tse Tung and Ho Chi Minh, who were indomitably swaying the thinking of a generation of oppressed, and who were putting to question the issue of patriotism beyond their national considerations and borders. With the impending evacuation of the British from their erstwhile colonies and the decline of the French in the Indochina, these new giants of the East certainly made Aung San diminutive in stature, and his ideology, vulnerable. What the group of men sitting with him did not realize then was that beyond the geopolitical considerations of the time, Galon had a personal motive in the denigration of Aung San’s ascendance in the country. The general had rudely trampled upon the politician’s personal aspiration for power, and had destroyed any opportunity he might have had in the governing of the new republic.
‘We’ll put a stop to this immediately before he fools the nation with his charisma,’ they affirmed their conviction to the delight of the renegade politician.
‘Yes, Japanese imperialism is dead and the British Empire is on the wane,’ observed the leader of the men. ‘It’s either us who do the job or the communists will.’
‘I have faith in you, my dear comrades,’ announced Galon. ‘I admire your courage and dedication to the higher ideals we pursue for the country because they are truly democratic, and I foresee Burman and our ethnic people on the hills sharing a future of peace and tranquillity. The time for Thakin Aung San’s nationalist prejudice and duplicity is over.’
‘We will discharge our duties faithfully,’ stated the leader of the group as he turned to look at the men who nodded their heads resolutely. ‘Thank you for your confidence in us.’
‘Your equipment is in the jeep and will not fail you. It has cost me a tidy sum. So, do use it well,’ Galon said. ‘Follow the plan accordingly and no harm will come to you. I will get in touch with our allies once you’ve returned safely.’
The meeting was adjourned and the group of men left the politician’s residence in an old rattling jeep to keep their tryst with a destiny that was to change the dream of a leader and his people. Galon watched the car disappear from his driveway and glanced at his watch. Aung San would have just commenced his cabinet session and, within the hour, the politician expected his returns from his little vindictive investment. Galon then turned, immensely pleased with himself, and faced a man in uniform who stepped out agilely from behind the curtain of an adjoining room.
‘For a big man, you walk as lightly as a cat,’ commented Galon.
‘Soft paws usually have sharp claws,’ the big man quipped. ‘I think a whisky will be just fine?’
‘Yes, whisky it shall be,’ replied Galon. ‘A toast to friends of the hills? I’d rather drink to your end of the bargain, now that I’ve done mine.’
‘So you have,’ observed the man, and watched his host who seemed at ease with the familiar uniform of the liberators of the land. It amused Galon that all uniforms were not necessarily loyal to their flags, and that they had minds of their own which sometimes went beyond the call of duty. It was convenient, thought Galon as he filled two glasses with good scotch, that this was just a time.
*
The Secretariat, Rangoon
One Hour Later
19 July 1947
The sky over the capital that morning was clear, with a trace of a wispy white cloud—like a shred of cotton—lacing the stratosphere and changing form from moment to moment over the city by a cajoling wind. It would last for a while before its big brother, the dark gigantic cumulonimbus, in consort with the wind that had lost its patience, would drive it away from the sky and rumble indignantly at the city that had pampered its adolescent brother.
‘The union of Burma would not be a true union unless we involve our ethnic peoples in the political, economic, and social process of this nation,’ announced Aung San in his opening statement, voicing his vision of an independent Burma to be a union in which all the ethnic groups in the country would be represented by his government.
‘I don’t believe that we can realize the full potential of this nation unless we open our doors to these people. We must have their elected representatives in our government,’ Aung San continued. He was promising an electoral process becoming of a democracy. He had, in 1946, given assurance to the ethnic minorities that, as a people, they would be able to preserve their distinct identity and culture while participating in the development of the nation and equitably share the abundant wealth of the land.
‘And unless we do that, this nation will never be able to have any significant or lasting peace and harmony. Remember, the ethnic people are all around us and we can no longer keep them away from claiming their rights to national integration and recognition,’ he said.
‘Furthermore, we have to bear in mind that the seemingly inhospitable terrain that they occupy is rich in minerals, precious gems and a vast amount of other natural resources that would become unexploitable should we fail to strike an accord with them. But with peace, we can together build a nation of responsible people who will not divert their energies in exacerbating the prejudice and animosity that has existed between us for ages, but work together for the common, mutual good of the nation,’ he stated, expressing to the gathering the need to bury the lingering mistrust and hostility latent in the land, and his desire to foster a strong national life for all under his government.
‘We have been the dominant people of this land and will remain so, but I ask you: how can we, as a people, prosper when we have to constantly watch our backyard? The army is still young, let me remind you, and it is still a nebulous entity at the moment. And rather than dissipate its potential growth in an attenuating conflict within our borders that will benefit none, I think it will be wise to resolve the differences the ethnic peoples have had with us now and give our Bamar people the opportunity to live freely without fear,’ he said.
The Burmese were a larger people with a history that had its origins in India, who had settled in the plains of the country, leaving the mountainous regions to the ethnic peoples—many of whom were believed to have inhabited the land prior to the appearance of the Burmese. But, better organized and better positioned for trade and culture and more sophisticated in political evolution, the Burmese had dominated the land over centuries, alienating the diverse ethnic groups in their hill tracks of the west, the fearsome Kachins and red Karens; north-east and east, the war-like Shans, and south-eastern regions of the country where the redoubtable white Karens settled.
The colonial conquest of the British, World War II and the subsequent occupation of the Japanese had removed the lid of isolation off these more predominant of the ethnic peoples, exposing their significance and aspiration to a stake in the country which was on the threshold of independence. Racial distrust, cultural prejudice and the consequent inevitability of alliances that were formed with either of the occupying superior masters —the British or the Japanese—had left a trail of atrocities amongst the indigenous populace in their bid to obliterate the treat of the other, while seeking indemnity of their heritages with either one of the occupying powers.
A man with foresight, Aung San had become sensitive to the needs of these peoples and had come to realize that unless the interests of these people were represented on the national forum, the nation would be besieged with hostilities within most of its borders.
‘Once we have settled these issues, we can only look ahead to an era of great wealth, for the land is rich enough for everyone, but I must also warn you that there will be forces in the country, hungry for power, who will try to wrestle from us this opportunity for their own selfish ends,’ he declared.
Aung San’s colleagues listened with rapt attention, mesmerized as much by the cascading charisma as they were overwhelmed by the truth that was uttered by their leader. A few of them squirmed uncomfortably in their chairs, disturbed by their recent memories of the nationalists’ attack on the ethnic communities under the patronage of the occupying Japanese—a backlash to the loyalty of the ethnic communities to the British, particularly the Karens who, apart from helping the British in their three colonial wars against the Burmese, had formed a partnership with Force 136 operating behind Japanese lines with telling effect.
The Karens were formidable; they knew, having had the benefit of rigorous training in guerrilla warfare and with the Japanese gone, that the Karens could now train their guns on their old favourite enemy—the Burmese. Aung San’s voice then drifted towards them, parting the screen of thoughts that isolated them individually with their own fears.
‘I speak of the communists as well. Regardless of their ideology, their tools speak differently. They speak of terror and violence. They speak of a total power in the hands of a few. They speak of deprivation of individual freedom of thought and the suppression of individual will.
‘It is a new kind of enslavement of people and I will not tolerate this happening in our country,’ Aung San emphasized. He had closely followed the developments of the curious new emerging force on the Asian continent, politically driven by a fanatical and powerful force that defied any existing ideology that he knew. He himself was swayed by that power in his student days, helping to form the Burmese Communist Party and organizing protests against British colonial rule. But in the Japanese promise of independence from the British and the opportunity of self-governance, the ideology had completely failed to appeal his nationalist determination.
Having braved the gauntlet between the British and the Japanese for the hard-earned reward of independence for his country, Aung San was not ready to enslave his people again in bondage to an ideology that controverted the principles of freedom and self-expression. Independence for the country meant to him the freedom to evolve a system of government suited best to the temperament of its people without importing a new set of masters, whether they are Russian or Chinese. Instead, Aung San was ready to evolve a system that he thought would best embrace the interests of the nation’s eager people.
But on that morning, unsuspecting of the evil that hovered in the sky and the ominous howling wind bearing down upon the city, no one paid the slightest of attention to a blue sedan that pulled into the portico of the secretariat. Nor did Aung San have the premonition of the sinister motive of the men who were stealthily climbing the flight of stairs leading to the assembly of men he was addressing that morning. He heard briefly the heavy drops of rain steadily pelting the roof of the building as if in code, warning him of the imminent danger, before the cumulonimbus above burst in outrage and, in a flash of lightning, the assassins crashed into the meeting and discharged thunderously their violent downpour of dissent.
It was a sad day for the young nation, for a curtain had descended upon an incumbent democracy still in its foetal stage. Aung San now lay dead, his body riddled with a score of bullets. And with him died six of his colleagues who were to shoulder the burden to rule a land that he had laboured to set free. A young nation had lost its founding father and hero, and the fledgling army, its beloved general; but a family had lost its head and an important member. A lady was widowed prematurely and a little girl child was to grow up in an environment of independence, deprived of the strength of a father’s guidance…and an answer to her consternation that death was the reward for being a hero.
*
Elsewhere in Rangoon
The big guns of the war had fallen silent over Burma, and civilian life was reacquainting itself with the bustling chores of livelihood. After the Japanese defeat in Burma, Immanuel Stanley David, a disbanded soldier of the Indian National Army (INA), had set himself up in the city as a businessman of sorts with a canteen. Paradoxically, he did so with the help of the British, trading in tea and supplying their soldiers with merchandise until evacuation. He entered his canteen that morning, propping his wet umbrella at the doorstep and greeting his manager and trusted assistant, U Maung Shwe.
‘Mr David, have you heard the news?’ Maung Shwe asked, his voice betraying a sense of urgency.
‘What news? I read nothing unusual in the papers this morning,’ answered Stanley.
‘No, no. Not the papers, the radio,’ corrected U Maung Shwe.
‘Oh! I’m afraid I’ve not heard the radio. I hope they’ve not forecast worse weather,’ replied Stanley. ‘It’s bad as it is. I’m concerned about the tea. We’ll have to find better storage soon.’
‘It’s worse than that, Mr David. They’ve…they’ve…some murderers have assassinated General Aung San!’ stammered the young manager.
‘My God!’ Stanley exclaimed. The news shocked him nastily.
‘Whilst in a cabinet meeting…shot down like a…about 13 bullets in his body!’ Maung Shwe said, choking with emotion.
‘Thirteen?’ Stanley shivered in disbelief.
‘Yes, Mr David,’ confirmed the young manager. ‘Thirteen. They used Sten guns.’
‘This is frightful, U Maung Shwe,’ observed a disturbed Stanley.
‘How could they do this to him? Our hero…our benefactor…’ U Maung Shwe’s voice trailed off in consternation. Aung San was his life and his embodiment of self-respect and Burmese pride, as it was to many in the country.
‘What now?’ Stanley groaned, his mind inundated by frightening visions of chaos and civil strife across the land.
Stanley had pinned his hopes on General Aung San’s government to establish Burma as an important member of the British Commonwealth and emerge as a prosperous nation, enabling the likes of him who had shared a common history with the Burmese as subjects of a colonial past, and who had chosen to remain in the country to establish an identity. He had hoped to secure a comfortable livelihood. Stanley had also anticipated an atmosphere of peace and harmony amongst its diverse ethnic peoples. But with the death of Aung San, Stanley was certain that a strong leadership would also die in the nation. He could not see a leader forthcoming in the arena of Burmese politics who could match Aung San’s stature.
‘The small guns will start now,’ he said aloud.
‘Yes, Mr David. The ethnic groups will take this opportunity to confront us,’ U Maung Shwe postulated in fear. ‘They won’t trust us.’
‘The Karens will fight…that’s for certain,’ Stanley said without a doubt, now fearing a civil war. He could already hear the chatter of dissenting fire ricocheting in his ears.
The peace had lasted for a short two years from the day the British had released him from the Insein Prison as a prisoner of war, Stanley reflected. It had been a gruelling time for him since 1942, when the war had caught up with him in Malaya, enmeshing him with the Japanese advance that had denied him any volition in his odyssey of the Orient that had culminated in Burma. He had arrived in Burma in a uniform, but with the end of the war, he thought his association with it would be terminated permanently. But now, his troubled mind meandered to the battlefields that lay far away in his mind—to the north of Rangoon—reviving his memories of the conflict that had savaged humanity beyond his comprehension.
*
Burma, 1945
‘Take cover! Jump into the ditches!’ yelled Captain Stanley David as a menacing flight of three British fighter bombers, like pterodactyls, appeared low over the horizon. The small column of soldiers, elements of the INA, was returning to their camp from an errand in the countryside. The skies over Burma were seeing British aircrafts again after a spell of Japanese dominance, and they were making their sorties with increasing frequency—clawing and plucking Japanese valour off the Burmese skies with their talons of death.
Caught in the open countryside, they dismounted hurriedly from their bicycles; an expedient Japanese innovation for mobility and speed during the War. The men scattered and sought refuge in the shallow craters and ditches along the road. Except for their outdated rifles, they had nothing to defend themselves with—no Japanese anti-aircraft guns puffing the sky in defiance or a Japanese machine gunner trying to pepper the aircraft with bushido contempt as the predators swooped down on them with their lethal wings spread for attack.
They bled from their ears with the rising crescendo of exploding bombs. While some, for a terrifying moment, felt the sharp searing heat of shrapnel knifing through their fragile bodies, shredding life away from them, others gasped their last breath incredulously as staccato bursts of machine-gun bullets tattooed eccentric patterns of death upon them. That some received only merciful showers of dust and stone accentuated the randomness of war in Stanley’s mind. He came out alive but injured. A lone stray fragment, hot from a blast, had impacted flatly upon his left shoulder and slid down his arm, peeling away skin till his wrist— a small due he paid as a soldier in the war.
The aircrafts above were on a reconnaissance mission, probing for Japanese strongholds in the path of the advancing army. The raid was merely precursory and had identified a large enemy military base in the area. They had wreaked enough havoc on this run, blasting their machine guns and jettisoning their bomb loads, and were returning to rearm for another mission.
As the flying patrol receded to the horizon, Stanley and the survivors of the attack straggled to the Japanese base. The camp had received full attention from the British pilots and the medical staff was patching the wounded, neglecting the lives that could not be saved and discharging those deemed able to fight another day. For the medical personnel, it was routine that was mounting and becoming difficult to cope with as the months on a frayed calendar leafed over rapidly. The medicine was getting scarcer as most of it was appropriated by Japanese soldiers for themselves, with little left for civilians and the INA soldiers.
Stanley slouched in a corner of a first-aid tent with his arm dressed perfunctorily, and thanked God for the miracle of being alive. He was going to live through this war, he strongly believed now, and thought of the Japanese Army that was losing its belligerence and impetus, and in the process, denuding an aspiring juvenile army of its self-esteem and morale.
This nebulous army had an inherent flaw which was proving fatal, Stanley deduced. It was an army that did not have the nourishment of its native soil, nor did it have the sustenance for self-reliance. For the men, it had depended largely on the Indian soldiers captured in British uniform, numerically small in strength, by the Japanese and on those who had sought livelihood in British colonies. For arms and equipments, it used captured British and Dutch arms initially, and woefully lacked heavy weapons. It depended on Japanese logistics and had no autonomy in planning operation and battle strategy. Although the Japanese high command had a regard for the INA, the ground commanders weren’t about to give their best to this unproven army. The INA was thus spawned under this disadvantage, inducting into his ranks Stanley and many like him, who had the misfortune of being caught on the other side of the war.
Stanley, therefore, found himself in Burma now, between an army that was fleeing and an army that was marching towards him. He thought ironically that this kind of perilous wanderlust was not what he had in mind when he had forsaken the safe shores of his motherland, India. But here he was, in another Asian country, a soldier of a vague army, scratched in battle and very likely to be accused as a traitor by the British. He reflected unhappily on how he had become embroiled in this unrelenting circumstance in his life.
It had started with his fascination with the Orient East many years ago.