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| Rangoon's Indian Town. |
He was slumping lifeless in the dark staircase to the upper floors of the apartment building next door from our shop house. He was a bad boy from our neighbourhood and I was the first one to notice the body.
The blood-filled plastic syringe he used to inject heroin was still horribly stuck in his left forearm. Bubbly froth was slowly dripping from the corner of his gaping mouth but the twisted face still bore the last agonizing minutes just before his death. Heroin overdoses were common in our neighbourhood but I had never seen one before. It was ugly.
Downtown Rangoon then was just combined Chinatown and Indian Town and we were in the centre of the latter. Burmese then lived in poor townships without centralized sewage system and water supply on the outskirts of Rangoon. Our neighbourhood used to be a large Indian enclave and the thriving commercial centre before the 1962 coup.
After the coup, as a part of large-scale nationalisation, the army took over all the business properties owned by the Indians and distributed the loot free among the officers and some soldiers. That’s how a large number of Burmese families like ours came to own the prime real estate in the Rangoon CBD. Courtesy of General Ne Win and his nationalist army.
Burmanization had just started from the very middle of Rangoon. It still had a very long way to go yet.
My father and his father were former army officers and we both ended up in same neighbourhood by the intersection of Dalhousie Road and Mogul Street, the gold and gem trading area in Rangoon. They had a large family and his father sort of abandoned them after taking a much younger woman as second wife. He dropped out of high school, became an addict and a small time dealer, and now he was dead at 15.
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As an obvious result so many boys my age quickly became addicts. The damages to their families were alarmingly visible the socialist government started jailing the dealers, hanging the traffickers, and sending the young addicts to hard labour camps in the rural areas.
I have a built-in aversion to the drugs and I don’t even inhale a single cigarette smoke in my life. But one of my younger brothers became addicted to heroin and my parents had to send him back to our delta town and kept him there for years away from the drugs till he was weaned.
I passed Matriculation that year and got into the Rangoon Institute of Technology. But I grew up in an army boarding school and the Defence Services Academy (DSA) was my dream as most my classmates. But my father was against me joining the army. Too many army officers were killed on the front and he didn’t want to lose his eldest boy. But I was mad and I was so unhappy at the RIT, I finally ran away and tried to join the army in Mandalay as a private.
Boy Soldiers
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| Kachin State in Burma. |
But at the heights of civil war the same army also needed soldiers so bad that they had devised a legal way of getting child soldiers into the army. Especially where the army needed them most. On the faraway borderlands where the deadly civil war was raging for many years like wild fire.
The fighting battalions stationed in the ethnic lands like Kachin State were allowed to recruit and train anyone, and conveniently many people living in these highlands do not have the proper identity cards. So any under-aged boy can show up at one of these battalions and the recruitment sergeant will take him to the nearest immigration office and get him a new identity card with a valid date of birth and a false identity.
That was how I ended up with a group of boys and young men in a battalion stationed in Myitkyina as recruits. Our battalion was fighting the KIA (Kachin Independence Army) on Ledo Road and later the Communists on the border with China. After the three-month boot camp in Myitkyina I was armed with a German G3 rifle and assigned to one of the field companies as a brand new boy soldier.
The commander of our 90-strong company was almost 60 years old Kachin captain, who was illiterate and an English army relic from the Second World War, and my platoon commander was a 20 years young Burmese lieutenant just out of DSA.
Within 6 months the lieutenant and a section of ten men were killed by KIA in a single ambush. Our section leader, a Burmese corporal, stepped on a Chinese-made all-plastic anti-personnel mine and lost most of his right foot. Later he died of excessive bleeding in the hammock as we carried him back to the base and I became the section leader.
I was the youngest of the nine men section but I was a former uni student, I could read the maps and interpret the contours and use a compass and find my way around in a thick jungle, and most important I could kill a man.
Our old captain once said there were only two types of man, one who could kill and one who could not. He put me in the first but himself in the second. He added that shooting a man in the heat of a battle is not killing. He was right though as I had never seen him kill not even a chicken during my nearly two years in his company. But he once saw me shooting a wounded prisoner after a successful ambush, and I had to cut the throats of so many chickens for our meals as other Buddhist soldiers had refused to do that horrible job. I was not religious at all and I didn’t care about heaven or hell.
Most Kachin farmers on the remote hills grow opium and KIA collects a good part of their crop as taxes. Most poppy fields were in the region called The Triangle between the May-Kha and May-Li-Kha rivers. Two small rivers converge near Myitkyina forming the Irrawaddy. Our territory east of the May-Kha was too mountainous and cold for the poppy growing. But we could still find many a hidden poppy fields if we ventured far enough from our fortified bases on the Htaw Gaw hills.
And one day I found myself and my section in the middle of a beautifully flowering poppy-field during a long-range patrol over the range.
In a poppy field
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| Burmese Soldiers Destroying Poppy Plants. |
We also found a cluster of ramshackle lean-tos by the stream. The opium farmers were nowhere to be seen. They might have seen us approaching and fled into the jungle. Hungry and searching for food we ransacked the huts. The farmers there grew black sticky rice, steamed it and made thick round cakes, dried them under the sun, and stored for later use. Sweet flavour and nice aroma when steamed back, these rice cakes were our favourite staple. We found plenty of them and also many strips of boar-jerky but took only half of the stores as we didn’t want the subsistence farmers to get starved.
We steamed the rice cakes in our hangaws over the hastily-made fire and ate them with the strips of boar-jerky. Only after the meal we lined up a few feet apart at the edge of the field and walked abreast slowly and thoroughly struck the plants down with bamboo sticks. We did that for a couple of hours managing to destroy about a quarter of the large field. We were exhausted and so we gave up and decided to start the long journey back to the base.
Then the hell broke loose as we were walking back to the stream near the huts to drink and re-fill our canteens. A bullet whizzed past my head and abruptly dropped the guy walking behind me just seconds after I heard the first gunshot. I hit the wet ground and sunk my face into the watery mud on the stream shore. Soon bullets were flying all over my head and when I looked up I could see the enemy on the top of the cliff.
The only way out of the valley was the narrow track on that side of the stream and we were now trapped. When I looked behind two were lying dead on the ground and other were all disappearing behind the nearby huts. I managed to crawl back under the cover of their fire and joined them.
The poppy farmers did run from us but they knew where the KIA regulars were and came back with them to slaughter us for destroying their livelihood. We had a long fire-fight there but eventually they withdrew by the nightfall and let us flee as they were also just a few. Two of ours dead and we couldn’t even get their bodies back for a proper burial.
Traffickers
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| Crowded Mandalay-Myitkyinar Daily Train. |
Daily diesel train left Myitkyina early morning and the sister train left Mandalay in the evening. They met somewhere in between and swapped the escorting army units and continued the journeys. If nothing went wrong both would reach their destinations roughly 24 hours later. KIA was frequently attacking the trains, and so the long rail line and the train itself had to be heavily guarded.
I reckoned that blue train might be the longest passenger train in the whole wide world. It needed two diesel locomotives at the front and another two at the rear end to pull and push all 60 or 70 odd carriages over the mountainous terrain. A flatbed-car loaded with tons of heavy steel I-beams was attached to the first locomotive as a heavy pilot car to detonate the possible KIA mines on the tracks and also to withstand the explosion and prevent the derailment. The train moved so slow, at some difficult uphill bends one can walk past it.
Except for the upper-class sleeper cars, reserved strictly for the army officers and the party and government officials, every single car was jam-packed with hundreds and hundreds of passengers and their luggage. All doors were shut tight from inside and the people had to get in and out through the windows when the train stopped at the stations.
Many passengers were also the paid-carriers for the rich smugglers as they carried prohibited goods such as heroin and jade stones to Mandalay and brought the consumer goods like LUX soap-bars and COLGATE toothpaste-tubes and expensive gold or silver jewellery back to Myitkyina. Black markets were thriving in the totally-broke economy of Socialist Burma. Almost everything had to come across the border from Thailand then and our enemy KNU was thriving on the taxes collected from the smugglers.
And to our surprise the biggest smuggler of Myitkyina had his carrier girls and their illegal goods in our armoured escort car well secured all the way to Mandalay and then back to Myitkyina. The obvious reason was that no police or custom dares to search a car occupied by a battle-hardened army unit.
The escort car was shielded both sides and bottom with thick steel plates. The side plates had gun-slits for our MG3 medium machine guns and inside were two long benches by the walls for the gunners and the open middle was a space for the rest of us. But a good part of that space was always occupied by at least four or five young Kachin girls and their tons of goods. Our Company-Sergeant-Major didn’t say much to us except that we were paid 5,000 kyats for every trip and the cargo probably was only the raw jade stones and some gold bars.
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So, one week we were riding the trains and next week we were drinking expensive Johnny Walker whiskies at the Chinese restaurants in the town while watching hungrily the girls walking past and some days having many wild brawls with the local mob. We used to drink extremely bitter army-rum, heavily laced with quinine to prevent malaria, issued weekly to us as part of our ration. We were now awash with cash and spending like hell before going back to the hellish jungles. We thought we were having an easy time till the day KIA took pot shots at our slow-moving train.
It was our last day on the train and most were not really looking forward to going back into the jungles as we hadn’t had any casualty last two months. We used to have at least one death almost every fortnight. The worst was a Shan corporal from our platoon. He had fallen for the prettiest one of the heroin carrier-girls. She also fell for him and the romance blossomed and for the last few trips the two lovebirds always sat together by the door away from us.
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| German MG3 General Purpose Machine Gun (Set-latt). |
None got hurt in our car but I immediately knew that the insides of the cars behind ours would be like a slaughterhouse as these timber carriages have no protection against the high velocity bullets. As a usual procedure the train didn’t stop till it reached a large station where an army unit and a civilian medical team from the local hospital were waiting.
They evacuated the wounded first and later the dead and then placed the bodies onto the concrete platform. There were more than 100 mutilated bodies. I didn’t even know why I counted. Mostly Kachins, Burmese, Shans, many Chinese, and some Indians, all races and colours and creeds. Their lives snuffed out on their merry ways to Mandalay.
Then I heard the loud screams of one girl from the other end of our car. The two lovers were now lying dead on the floor. The doors of our guard car had no plate covers and a couple of bullets had pierced through the timber door and terminated the young lives. I almost wept as the girls started screaming and crying. We had no other choices but to leave their lifeless bodies among the others on the platform as the train had to resume the journey after the soldiers hosed down the blood and guts off the shot-out carriages.
Two days later we were back on the tragically scenic Htaw Gaw Hills between the May-Kha and the Chinese border. Soon the Monsoon ended and the enemy was active again as the dry season approached.
And my section had a scary encounter with a very large mule train carrying tons of KIA opium from The Triangle to their heroin labs by the Chinese border.
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