Wendy Law-Yone is a Myanmar-born American writer who penned the critically acclaimed The Coffin Tree, The Road to Wanting, Irrawaddy Tango and Golden Parasol: A Daughter’s Memoir of Burma. Her works were banned in her native country until strict censorship laws were abolished in 2012. She discusses her ambivalence towards the issue of piracy and the steps she’s taking to prevent it.
As the author of a number of works which have been pirated on a mass scale in Myanmar, how has this affected you, both personally and as well as in terms of lost revenue?
The first time I came across a pirated copy of one of my books was last year, in a bookshop tucked away deep in a Lashio market. I thought at first I was looking at the UK paperback edition of Golden Parasol. Burmese pirated publications are that good. But when I realised what it was, I thought I’d register my awareness of the infringement with the bookstore owner. I was expecting, I suppose, sheepishness at selling pirated copies of my book. Far from it. The proprietor suggested I should be flattered, because only books that were likely to sell well got pirated. So of course I was flattered.
In Burma, literary piracy is a complicated matter and a special case that can only leave an author ambivalent on the subject. Decades of censorship have deprived the Burmese reading public of books and information in ways that we who live in the West can’t begin to imagine. If it hadn’t been for pirated books, there would have been precious little for the Burmese to read – and by extension to write about. So to denounce piracy in a totalitarian state is to declare, in a sense, a prohibition on books. Then too there is the frisson for a writer like myself – long banned in Burma – on discovering that my books have been deemed worthy of underground printings. One can’t help being moved that people have taken risks to distribute one’s writings in a hostile, threatening world of total government monopoly and censorship. Things are changing now of course, and the arguments in favour of copyright laws in a literate society will inevitably find a foothold among an increasingly enlightened reading public. But I’ll forever consider it a badge of honour to have had my books pirated when they would otherwise have been altogether unread in Burma. As to lost revenue, I’d have more cause for concern if I were a writer living in Burma and dependent on royalties for part of my livelihood. As I live abroad, and am published abroad as well, I have the privilege of tapping sources of income not available to my Burmese counterparts.
The memoir about your father titled Golden Parasol, who was a politician, journalist and political prisoner, was published in 2013 and on March 14 became the first of your books to be translated into the Myanmar language. I understand you took unprecedented steps to protect the Myanmar language version from being pirated – please could you elaborate on this?
There is no copyright law in Burma to date, as you know. But my publisher, Myay Hmone Lwin, was the clever one. He did two things to establish his bona fides as my Burmese publisher. As soon as we agreed on the terms of a contract, he placed a notice in the press announcing sole ownership to the translation and publishing rights for the book. Then, when the book was printed, he took the equally unprecedented step of adding a copyright page. These protective measures don’t of course carry the weight of law, but it’s a start in steering the publishing industry toward safeguards like intellectual property and copyright laws. Also, it somewhat reduces the chances of multiple rogue translations of a same work – a problem besetting many best-selling books on the market. As a writer himself – as well being a publisher – I think Myay Hmone Lwin is keenly aware of the importance of copyright protection to the future of Burmese literature.
There is a shortage of high quality translators in Myanmar, due to English only recently being re-instated in the school curriculum. Did it take some time for you to find the right translator for Golden Parasol?
The problem of translation is related of course to the problem of piracy: both are legacies of sustained and severe censorship, with its ruinous effects on education, literacy, aesthetics, and the life of the mind in general. Being well aware of the paucity of good translators in Burma, I left it in my publisher’s hands to find the right translator for the book. One simply cannot expect too rigorous standards of fluency, or even fidelity to the original, in a society so compromised by years of repression and deprivation.
During the launch of the Myanmar version of Golden Parasol, you said you chose to publish it first because it speaks the most directly to a Myanmar audience. Nevertheless, do you have plans for your other books to be translated, such as The Road to Wanting?
The Road to Wanting is indeed my next book slated for publication, which pleases me no end. In some ways, the novel speaks even more directly to a Burmese audience, I feel, than my memoir. This time I actually have a hand in choosing the translator, and although it’s too early to tell, I may have found just the right one for this book.
Did you delay the translation of your earlier works dating back to the early 1980s due to strict censorship laws in Myanmar?
No, not at all. For most of my writing life, it was simply unthinkable to imagine any book of mine being translated into Burmese – especially my second novel, Irrawaddy Tango, which is clearly set in the Ne Win era. For a long time I wasn’t even aware that pirated copies of my novels existed. Now that the tide has turned, one forgets what it was like back in those desolate days. It was mere chance that Golden Parasol was published in the UK just as the country began to open up, allowing for my first Burmese translation.
The unforgettable story of two Nigerian soldiers hidden by a Rohingya family for eight months during the Second World War went unknown beyond those involved for more than six decades. Nor was it was only these two soldiers who were forgotten. Despite comprising a million men and inflicting a crushing defeat on the Japanese, the Fourteenth Army dubbed itself the ‘Forgotten Army’ because the Allied campaign elsewhere in the world attracted more attention – both then and now.
It was the foreign correspondent Barnaby Phillips who put right the oversight by documenting the extraordinary tale of human fortitude and kindness in a 2011 documentary for Al Jazeera – the material for which was so rich that he went on to write Another Man’s War, which was published in 2014.
But firstly, why did Africans take part in another man’s war – and why so many? Phillips quotes Burma campaign veteran Captain Carfrae, who said the Nigerians “found themselves in a forbidding country pitted against strangers altogether irrelevant to them, a people they hadn’t known to exist and with whom they could have no conceivable quarrel until we made our enmity theirs…”
During an interview with Mizzima at the Irrawaddy Literature Festival on March 30, Phillips said, “They were fighting a war between a fading empire and the Japanese – neither of whom was the rightful owner of the country in which they were in.”
Initially, African men were conscripted, with missionary schools and prisons emptied out by emirs. The high rate of desertions soon proved the strategy ineffective and was replaced by plentiful British propaganda about Hitler, which Phillips described as “pretty effective.”
For Isaac Fadoyebo and David Kargbo, it was less an ideological decision than a practical one; war was seemingly the best option available to them at the time. Soldiers were promised a shilling a day, which was more than a teacher earned in Nigeria, and they were also enticed by the prospect of learning new skills, such as operating a wireless radio. Isaac was only 16 when he signed up in 1943 to become a medical orderly.
“There was no military band, no cheering – they were just shipped out uncelebrated,” Phillips said.
Isaac arrived in Myanmar a year after Yangon had fallen to the Japanese. Yet the British were determined to continue on with the battle, as Phillips writes, because: “A successful offensive would not only remove the threat of a Japanese advance up the Bengali coast to Calcutta, but could also provide a launch pad for the British to make an eventual attack on the Burmese capital, Rangoon.”
Of the 120,000 Nigerians who enlisted, around a third served in Myanmar, with the majority sent to what was then Arakan State. Isaac and David were among them.
“The Africans were sent to an area where malaria, typhoid, dysentery and the like were rife and the vegetation extremely harsh. The theory was that Africans were good at fighting in jungles – even though they’d spent their lives in the dry savannah,” Phillips wryly remarked during his talk at the literature festival.
Conditions were made tougher still by the fact there was zero ground relief. Supplies were dropped haphazardly from the air – sometimes fatally.
On 2 March 1944, the 14th Army was ambushed by Japanese soldiers on the opposite side of the Kaladan River. Isaac was shot in the leg while his comrades fell down dead around him. As he writhed in pain, a medical officer called Captain Brown returned to tend to the wounded and dying at great personal risk. Just as he was reviving Isaac with a mug of water, the Japanese crossed the river and lead Captain Brown out of sight. His coat was found hanging in a tree a week later, but he was never seen again and is presumed to have been tortured and executed. This was one of Isaac’s most painful recollections when Phillips first spoke to him, 67 years later.
Isaac was bleeding profusely and was certain he was about to die, which was why he was left untouched by the Japanese. He told me that “he wasn’t worth a bullet to finish him off,” Phillips explained.
While Rakhine Buddhists supported the Japanese on the basis of ‘Asia for Asians’ and their complete disdain for British colonial rule, Rohingya Muslims had placed their bets on the British – which unbeknown to them, was a dying empire. It was thus extremely lucky that Isaac fell wounded in a Muslim village. Local villagers began feeding Isaac in a makeshift hut and later brought in another wounded soldier from Sierra Leone, David Kargbo – Isaac thought this was most likely for companionship. However Isaac was in insufferable pain as the maggots ate away at the ghastly, infected wound on his femur. The two soldiers were stranded in Japanese-controlled territory and it took some time for it to sink in that a dry offensive and rescue operation wouldn’t be contemplated by the British until the dry season began many months later.
Isaac and David passed themselves off as Muslims in the hope that it would foster a stronger sense of brotherhood in their desperately precarious situation. They were painfully aware that it would take just one local to turn them into the Japanese. They grew more nervous still when a villager robbed them of their military attire, which they assumed would be presented as evidence as to their whereabouts. Then the parcels of food and herbs from villagers, who were themselves poor villagers, dried up altogether. Twelve days passed before a local man called Shuyiman approached them. He took one look at the sorry state they were in and promised to do all he could to care for them. He first tried to repair their leaking shack and later brought them into his family home. Had the presence of David and Isaac been discovered by the Japanese, Shuyiman and his entire family would have been executed; possibly tortured first. There were several close calls, as Japanese soldiers routinely inspected village homes: with one exception, Shuyiman concealed the level of danger he was in from his two guests – whom by now he considered his friends.
Nine months later, Isaac and David were rescued by the British and flown to India for treatment before returning home to a heroes’ welcome. However as Phillips wrote, “The West Africans’ campaigns were barely covered by the Allied war correspondents and photographers, for whom they had no glamour. British soldiers in Burma famously dubbed themselves ‘The Forgotten Army’, but what did that make West Africans? John Hamilton wrote with frustration that they were the ‘forgotten flank of the forgotten corps of the ‘Forgotten Army.’”
Both Isaac and David’s families were convinced they were ghosts, as they’d long been listed as missing in action. It was only when Isaac’s family threw dust on him that their fears were allayed – David wasn’t let inside the family home until he lit up a cigarette on the doorstep.
The fact that Isaac was permanently maimed didn’t dispirit him: he set about building his post-war life with determined enthusiasm.
“What I like about his story is that Isaac moved on after the war – he went on to become a successful civil servant and travelled to the UK in the sixties and seventies. He had a car and nice house, and was able to provide his children with opportunities he’d never had. He wasn’t a victim and he didn’t die a bitter man,” Phillips told Mizzima.
However Isaac did carry certain regrets – chiefly the lack of contact with Shuyiman and his family, for whom he felt intense gratitude. One of the last things he did before his death in 2012 was to build a home in his ancestral village in their memory.
Phillips was BBC’s Nigeria correspondent between 1998 and 2001, during which time he had heard whispers about the ‘Burma Boys’, as they were known locally.
“I was intrigued but didn’t do much about it to be honest – I left Nigeria and later, Africa. It ate away at me until the late 2000s, when I realised it would be great material for a book or a documentary,” he said.
Phillips found Isaac’s 60 page memoir in London’s Imperial War Museum and promptly contacted David Killingray, the historian whose hands it had ended up in.
Killingray told Phillips that the last time he’d spoken to Isaac was a decade ago – both doubted he was still alive. Phillips asked a friend in Nigeria to deliver a letter to the address Isaac was last listed at – and was overjoyed to discover he was alive – and had a phone.
“I called the number and a strong voice came through in fluent English. I explained who I was and he cut me off and said, ‘Mr Phillips, when are you coming?’”
Phillips returned to Nigeria in 2010 to film the documentary and travelled to Myanmar the next year with the faint hope of tracking down Shuyiman’s family to deliver a letter and photographs from Isaac. Once again, Barnaby’s timing had been critical: he arrived in Sittwe before sectarian violence broke out in May 2012, which would have made his mission impossible.
Despite being equipped with the vaguest approximations as to the location of Shuyiman’s village, as Isaac himself was uniformed about where he’d spent those nine months, Phillips succeeded in finding the village. Shuyiman and his wife had passed away several years back, but his children remembered the two African soldiers vividly and recalled how often their parents had spoken about them. They broke down in tears when they saw Isaac’s photo and said that they too had been thinking of him all these years.
Isaac was overjoyed to learn that his letter had been delivered to the family to whom he owed his life. He was finally able to express his emotions when Phillips connected them by phone using a London-based Rohingya translator – though he said the line between Lagos and Rakhine State was expectedly riddled with crackles.
Phillip’s book is also fascinating by way of the surprising parallels he draws between modern day Myanmar and Nigeria, which for decades after the Second World War had been beset by political turmoil and corruption – but for whom much optimism is now held.
The victims of the story, Phillips concludes, is Shuyiman’s family.
“Their lives haven’t changed for the better and they remain a persecuted minority. They continue to live in the same village [whose name Phillips does not disclose] and successive generations live on as poor farmers.”
“Although they didn’t end up in IDP camps, they said they felt imprisoned in their village. When I spoke to them in 2012 they said ‘This is our land we will stay here.’ But by mid-2014, Shuyiman’s grandson was saying that they were going to try to leave – perhaps to Bangladesh, where they are not welcome. That is the sad part of the story,” he said.
‘Another Man’s War’ is available on Amazon and the paperback edition will be released in June.
The documentary Burma Boy won a Golden Eagle award in 2012 and can be viewed on Youtube.
As the third Irrawaddy Literature Festival draws near, I thought it timely to write a post about my favourite books on the fascinating country that is Myanmar. There’s so much good literature around that I won’t even limit myself to a top 10 (I’ll keep adding as I keep reading!). Aside from two exceptions, each of the books listed were published before Myanmar’s political and economic reforms began in 2011. The country has changed a great deal over the past few years, so I’m looking forward to reading new works that depict the “new” Myanmar (insofar as I know, none yet exist) as well as seeing greater literary freedoms utilised by Burmese writers. But of course it goes without saying that becoming familiar with Myanmar’s turbulent and complicated past is necessary to understanding the situation in the present day.
So here, in no particular order, are my favourite books…
1. The Trouser People, Andrew Marshall (2002)
Due to the country’s dictatorial and colonial past, a lot of books on Myanmar are distressing and depressing: this one is too, but there’s also a lot of humour in it. Marshall, a Pulitzer prize winning journalist who currently works for Reuters, retraces the steps of a highly eccentric British civil servant and adventurer called Sir George Scott, who was knocking through Myanmar’s jungles back in the 19th century. The historical research is superbly intriguing and is paired well with what has and hadn’t changed in Myanmar over the last hundred years or so.
For example, the origin of the incredibly popular lotteries (the mobile versions of which play some great disco tunes nowadays) can be traced back to the reign of King Thibaw, who was Myanmar’s last monarch as he was deposed of by the British (FYI – a wonderful account of the king’s exile and life thereafter can be found in Amitav Ghosh’s A Glass Palace).
“Misruled by a feeble, gin-soaked tyrant and his evil queen, the kingdom slid towards anarchy. In a last-ditch attempt to refill the royal coffers, Thibaw’s ministers seized upon the idea of public lotteries. Tickets could soon be bought at booths on every street corner, although many people were bullied into buying them by roving thugs employed by lottery managers.”
2. The Burman – His Life and Notions, Shway Yoe (Sir George Scott), (1882)
Anyone who reads this book will understand Marshall’s fascination with Sir George Scott, who spent three decades of his life in Myanmar and travelled extensively – often with the purpose of “negotiating” deals with the leaders of ethnic minority groups to surrender to the British Empire. Scott was nothing short of obsessed with local customs, geography and history and this book is the product of his extremely copious note-taking skills. As the title suggests, Scott’s approach was simply to record his detailed observations, which makes it more of a book to dip in and out of than to read from start to end. Have a flick through – chapters such as “Ear boring,” “Lucky and unlucky days” and “Wizards, doctors and wise men” certainly piqued my curiosity… As did learning that when it comes to Burmese names, the more it rhymes, the better (hence the popularity of men called Ko Phyo [Ko-Pee-Oo]).
While some of Scott’s commentary strays into the cringe-worthy and antiquated, the Scottish journalist (who is also credited with introducing football to Myanmar) is for the most part entertaining and insightful.
He writes this of the dual education system in place in colonial-administrated Burma:
“In the English school you learned to make money, and in the Burmese school you learned to be happy and contented.”
3. Twilight over Burma: My Life as a Shan Princess, Inge Sargent (1994)
This is an extraordinary and tragic memoir written by the Austrian wife of the prince of Hsipaw in Shan State. It opens dramatically when the couple arrive in Yangon by ship in 1953 – as it is only then that Sargent discovers her new royal role (and the regal name immediately bestowed on her, “Thusanda”). Her husband Sao Kya Seng embarks on a series of reforms to improve health and education and redistribute land in a non-feudal manner and as a result, quickly becomes a popular but “reluctant prince”. The couple have two children and “Thusanda” feels great affection for the mountains and peoples of Shan State – she describes everyday encounters with unabashed girlish delight. Unfortunately, a significant flaw in this otherwise captivating book is that it’s written in the third person – which makes for awkward passages of glowing self-description:
“It was Thusanda in her courtly splendor who stunned the assembled guests into admiring exclamations. As Sao led her through the assembled crowd, ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ were audible from all directions.”
Sargent’s fairytale life is shattered when her husband disappears shortly after a military coup led by General Ne Win takes place in 1962. He is never seen again, despite her desperate efforts to find him in the years that followed, both in Myanmar and Europe. The famed Sao Kya Seng is presumed to have been tortured and killed in prison. It’s simply heartbreaking.
4. Than Shwe: Unmasking Burma’s Tyrant, Benedict Rogers (2010)
Putting a biography together about one of the world’s most notorious and reclusive dictators couldn’t have been anything other than an extremely tough task. Basic information such as Senior General Than Shwe’s date and place of birth are speculated rather than known – which arguably contributed to the aura of fear that surrounds him to the present day. Rogers never met his subject, who took over from Ne Win in 1992 and ruled with an iron fist until his resignation in 2011. However the writer and human rights advocate is clear about presenting rumours as such and acknowledges a natural temptation towards bias – fortunately his efforts to avoid it appear convincing. Nonetheless, Than Shwe’s resignation (just one year after his biography was published) was a stunning move and took many by surprise: general consensus was that power would not be relinquished other than in the event of his death, and certainly not then followed by the ushering in of a more democratic form of governance.
“Most people agree that if Than Shwe were to die tomorrow, Maung Aye would succeed him automatically, because of his position in the hierarchy. But if Than Shwe can transfer power to a person in a manner and timing of his choice, his successor is more likely to be General Thura Shwe Mann.”
Than Shwe ultimately handpicked President Thein Sein as his successor, however many claim that his retirement is partial at best and that he stepped down voluntarily in order to avoid the possibility of being prosecuted for human rights abuses committed under his watch.
5. Nor Iron Bars A Cage, Ma Thanegi (2013)
Ma Thanegi is a fesity, forceful writer: she’s sort of Myanmar’s answer to Germaine Greer. Her irreverent memoir recounts nearly one thousand days spent as a political prisoner under a harsh military junta – her “crime” was serving as Aung San Suu Kyi’s personal assistant. She was arrested in 1989, the year after the opposition leader’s election victory was declared null by authorities and followed by a violent crackdown against the nationwide pro-democracy protests. Ma Thanegi begins by asserting that the international media exaggerated Insein Prison’s reputation for torture and that some female prisoners falsely claimed to have been raped in the misguided belief that it would somehow further the cause of democracy in Myanmar.
“It does not matter to me whether readers believe my accounts or not; they have the right to believe what they want. What disgusts me is the number of people I have met who were actually disappointed or upset that we weren’t raped by the male guards.”
While the quality of writing is sometimes uneven, Ma Thanegi presents an intimate account of life as a female political prisoner with an eye for both the absurd and redeeming. The friendships she struck up with the sparrows and mice that sometimes entered her cell were among my favourite passages. Her voice is refreshingly authentic.
6. The River of Lost Footsteps: A Personal History of Burma, Thant Myint-U (2008)
The combination of genres this book comprises – memoir, travelogue, politics and history – makes it the perfect beginning to your Myanmar debriefing. It’s intensely readable and engaging – which makes the process of absorbing a vast quantity of information perfectly possible and not at all overwhelming. Thant Myint-U is a former UN peacekeeper and his grandfather was the third Secretary General of the UN from 1961 to 1971 (and is credited with playing a major role in averting the Cuban missile crisis). Thant Myint-U vividly describes how he felt as a young man returning to Myanmar to attend his grandfather’s funeral, which was turned into a nasty power play between the military and U Nu’s loyal supporters – many of whom were students. Thant Myint-U currently serves as the chairperson of Yangon Heritage Trust, a non-profit organisation that is working hard to protect Yangon’s architectural past. When Obama visited Yangon late last year, he and Thant Myint-U took a walk together to survey his plans. Impressive.
7. Finding George Orwell in Burma, Emma Larkin (2004)
There are three reasons why I really, really like this book. The prose is superb, it investigates the contradictions within George Orwell during the time he served as a jaded British policeman in colonial-administered Burma, as well as offering insightful commentary on the harsh realities of everyday life in Myanmar under junta rule. Emma Larkin is a pseudonym: little is known about the American journalist who made discreet, repeated visits to carry out research while managing to protect both herself and her sources. I was lucky enough to interview Larkin last year – you can read the full interview here.
When Orwell began his five-year stint in Myanmar in 1922, violent crime was so rife that it was considered one of the most dangerous places in Asia. The anarchy was almost always attributed to the so-called racial inferiority of the Burmese. While Myanmar nowadays has some of the lowest crime rates in Asia, Larkin points out a new and worrying trend of law enforcers once again distorting the truth:
“In order to please the central military command, the police leave crimes unreported, so that their division will look good and crime-free, at least on paper. When people go to the station to report crimes, the police often ask them if they are sure they want to file details and try to convince them not to do so. I once had my wallet stolen in Mandalay, and when I suggested to the friends that I was with that I should report it to the police they laughed.”
8. From the Land of Green Ghosts, Pascal Khoo Thwe (2002)
Pascal Khoo Thwe’s memoir is rooted in the mysticism of his childhood and the dramatically painful struggles of his early adulthood. While most books tend to divide readers into those who loved or loathed, this book (at least anecdotally speaking) seems to be roundly adored. I’ve never heard a bad word said about it.
Pascal was born in a remote area of Myanmar: so remote that the installation of a lone traffic light almost immediately caused an accident and was promptly removed. However it was less his village’s physical remoteness than the regime’s iron clad grip on the flow of information that created the time capsule conditions in which he grew up. Below is one of many examples:
“In 1977 we were finally told that the Americans had landed on the moon… We also heard that Elvis Presley was dead.”
News of the death of The King caused intense public grief and non-stop musical renditions. The socialist government felt so threatened by this outward display of pro-Americanism that it issued a decree stating that guitar players were decadent “street ghosts.”
Pascal was born into the Padaung tribe, which is arguably one of the world’s most identifiable. Female Padaungs (or at least, those conferred with the honour) wear brass coils around their elongated necks, which has led to them being dubbed ‘giraffe necks’. His own grandmother’s neck was 14 inches long, which no doubt added to the aura that surrounded her while she told incredible ancestral tales.
Pascal’s life is turned upside down when Myanmar’s political situation takes a series of deeply sinister turns. He joins a guerilla army after his girlfriend is raped and murdered, and manages to survive the hellish conditions of jungle warfare before fleeing to Thailand. A chance encounter eventually lands him in Cambridge University. You simply couldn’t make it up.
9. The Road to Wanting, Wendy Law-Yone (2010)
Could there be a dreamier title for a book? It’s doubtful – particularly as this particular ‘wanting’ is an actual town on the Chinese-Myanmar border (and FYI ‘Muse’ is another border town imbibed with a similarly haunting melancholy). This is the story of Na Ga, who was separated from her poverty-stricken family at a young age and endures slap after slap in the face (often quite literally) in quick succession. She forms a relationship in Thailand with a farang of questionable intent, and who sets her off on a long journey – the purpose of which this resilient woman questions every step of the way. The introduction is unforgettable and the prose is particularly well-crafted: I struggled to put it down long after I should have been asleep.
The Road to Wanting was long-listed for the Orange Prize in 2011.
10. Golden Parasol: A Daughter’s Memoir of Burma, Wendy Law-Yone (2013)
Wendy Yaw-Yone was 16 when her father, the founding editor of the prominent English language newspaper The Nation, was thrown into prison. General Ne Win had seized control of Myanmar in a coup d’etat the year before, in 1962. Despite her father’s requests to read his manuscript in the 1970s, Law-Yone refrained from doing so until he passed away in 1980. She discovered a wealth of incredible anecdotes and an intimate rendering of her father’s dreams and frustrations – perhaps most notably his thwarted attempt to overthrow the regime and restore democracy following his release from prison in 1968. Law-Yone’s memoir interweaves her own experiences, which began in her birthplace of Mandalay. She too was interrogated at length and incarcerated briefly before fleeing the country. Her encounter with the dreaded MIS is worth quoting at length:
My interrogations lasted from nine at night until nine in the morning; the inquisitors working in teams of four and changing shifts at 3am. Exactly what they were hoping to find out was difficult to pinpoint. Again and again I laid out my reasons for wanting to leave the country… I saw no reason for concealing the facts… The colonel in charge had the names of every foreigner I had ever met, and reminded me of the precise details of each and every meeting. What could I tell him about any of these foreign friends?
“But Colonel,” I said at one point, “don’t you already know everything about everyone in the country?” I was careful to appear sincere and not sarcastic.
“We are not God,” he replied, apparently flattered.
To understand the impact Ne Win’s despotic rule had on individuals and families, there is arguably no better book than Golden Parasol – which like all Law-Yone’s books, was banned in Myanmar until as recently as three years ago.
11. Burmese Days, George Orwell (1934)
Literary legend George Orwell took no prisoners when he penned this scathing account of life in Myanmar under British colonial rule. He wrote the novel almost seven years after returning to England from his five-year stint as a police officer serving the Indian Imperial Police Force in various parts of what was then Burma. Yet even despite the lag-time, his novel first made its debut in the United States, as Orwell’s descriptions of a fictional town (based on Katha in Sagaing Region) were so starkly realistic (as indeed were many of his characters), that his British publisher shied away in fear of a potential libel law suit.
Essentially, this is a story about the racial bigotry that prevailed virtually uncontested in the dying days of British Burma. It centres around a friendship between an Indian doctor called Veraswami and – gasp – a European teak merchant. Thirty-five-year-old Flory has become utterly disenchanted with colonial rule and admires much of Myanmar’s culture – and as a result, finds himself alienated from the likes of those who frequent the British Club – a club Dr Veraswami desperately wants to join. When a deputy commissioner, who is also Kyauktada’s club secretary, posts a notice suggesting that Dr Veraswami’s request be considered because, “as yet there are no Oriental members of this club, and as it is now usual to admit officials of gazetted rank, whether native or European…” the reaction from a junior officer, Orwell writes, is this:
“He’s asking us to break all our rules and take a dear little nigger-boy into this club…. That would be a treat, wouldn’t it? Little pot-bellied niggers breathing garlic in your face over the bridge table.”
Burmese Days is painfully poignant; its characters flawed and confused – and all the more disturbing by virtue of Orwell’s observational prowess. It attracted a significant amount of criticism from his colonial contemporaries when it appeared – and to which he replied: “I daresay it’s unfair in some ways and inaccurate in some details, but much of it is simply reporting what I have seen.”
12. Another Man’s War, Barnaby Philips (2014)
This is a true tale that is both tragic and heart-warming, as it describes how two African soldiers were hidden for nine months by a Rohingya family during the Second World War – and reunited almost six decades later. The two young men, Isaac Fadoyebo and David Kargbo, arrived in Yangon a year after it had fallen to the Japanese forces, who would have advanced all the way up to Calcutta unless the Allied Forces were able to defeat them in strategically-located Myanmar. It’s essential reading for those seeking to come to grips with the impact of the Second World War in Myanmar – and will undoubtedly lead to ruminations on the oddities of war itself. Veteran foreign correspondent Barnaby Philips tells the story through the eyes of Isaac Fadoyebo, who was left stranded in enemy territory following a surprise attack by the Japanese in Rakhine State. He writes:
“It would only take one person to betray David and Isaac, with fatal consequences. So they needed to do everything within their limited powers to ingratiate themselves with the villagers. They had no money or possessions to hand over, but they did have faith. Or at least, they could pretend to have it. The villagers had already asked them several times if they were Muslim. Now, David and Isaac set out to convince them this was indeed the case.”
13. Land of Jade: A Journey from India through Northern Burma to China, Bertil Lintner (1995)
Bertil Lintner has been reporting on Myanmar since the 1980s, with Land of Jade being the first of several books he’s penned. In the early 1980s, he and his pregnant wife set out from India to travel overland into Myanmar and through to China. The journey spanned 2,200 kilometres, took 18 months and involved crossing the northern rebel-held areas – where a ceasefire continues to elude the country. Lintner was determined to access these remote, dangerous and malarial infested villages and jungles in order to report back to the world on what was happening inside the troubled nation. Whilst this is certainly a noble pursuit, at times it is difficult to swallow the author’s decision to bring along his wife and newborn child (who is most often referred to as “the baby”). Although Lintner is at pains to point out that his wife, an ethnic Shan, had longed wished to return to her homeland, the timing still seems incongruous and it is unfortunate that the reader learns so little about her character (which must have been undoubtedly strong). Furthermore, Lintner’s presence endangered locals (sometimes fatally) and is problematic in terms of seeming to imply that only an outsider (or Westerner even) was up to the task of reporting the “truth”. He writes:
“The news was not good. The Burmese Army was closing in on three sides, presumably aiming for 2nd brigade headquarters. It was uncertain whether the offensive had been prompted by our stay of more than three weeks in the camp.”
Despite these moral ambiguities, Land of Jade contains some valuable insights that still resonate 20-odd years later.