Born 24 March 1946 he was just 18 days short of his 63rd birthday when he passed away on 11 February 2009. He was survived by 4 children and 1 grandchild whom he hadn’t seen.
Like most Kachin youth in the early 60s his university period was prolonged with prison-time. The last being in his final year when he was asked to sign “Non political engagement.” He refused and chose to leave university. I was already a second year university student then when he came to bid goodbye and joined the Kachin Independence Organisation (KIO).
He was the best of the lot of us four. Reverend Zau Gun, Dean of the Kachin Theological College told me years back that his train and Bawk La’s train crossed each other and the moment Bawk La saw him on the opposite train, came rushing to him, gave him all the cash he had on him, “You will need every Pyas over there“, he warned him. He was on his way back home and Ja Gun, then a university student like himself, was on his way to mainland Burma and would be needing more.
He was kind, tender. Unlike our eldest brother, who was notorious in the frontline and much talked about among his contemporaries to be the youngest and fastest achiever to become a Battalion Commander, Bawk La was steady, mostly assigned to admin jobs.
In 1974, I got a message from him that he was gravely ill. I wasn’t prepared to see the state he was in: darkened skin, pole like malaria haggard body in a makeshift hut, with nothing but boiled rice to hang on to. “It’s alright” he said. That night we moved twice from one KIA post to another due to government troop maneuver. He refused to be carried, tucked away his few belongings (among them Che Guevara’s poster) and dragged himself along.
He left the KIO right after the ceasefire in 1994. He sort of lost his way there and then. He was unprepared. His marriage fell apart.
When we met again in 1998, I persuaded him to come down to Yangon with me. At 52 he had his first plane ride and it may have been his last. As soon as we were on board he was busy looking down at his seat. “What’s up” I asked and he pointed to the “life vest under your seat” sign. Amusedly I said “Such things happen so fast you will not have the time for that”. Annoyed and shocked, he withdrew from me and was silent the rest of the flight. I wasn’t surprise when he left by train for home after a month in Yangon.
It was the time I was mostly home with Metta’s pilot projects in Kachin state having taken off. He would get me books – fiction – mainly detective stories which I dived into at every possible chance during my school and university days. I had long changed my preference to nonfiction, personal accounts and biographies. But somehow I didn’t tell him but kept on taking the books most of them unread. He must have noticed it as he stopped supplying me with books after a while. He would keep me updated with country and world news when I came back from the country side.
He would prepare breakfast (fried rice his special) and pig feed. He would be most concerned to find homes for new puppies and kittens. He gave me two kittens to take to Centre for Action Research and Demonstration, a living and learning centre of Metta. He would ask after the well being of the kittens with great concern until kittens become cats.
I last saw him in December. He looked busy, very much unlike him, rushing things and I asked what he was up to. “I will go to Tamu and start a restaurant”. Why Tamu when the Chins are all over Myanmar, indeed many are in jade and gold mines in Kachin state – I thought but I remember my first meeting with his wife and small children. It was April 1989, my first Sino-Burma border trip. His wife was running a small restaurant in the border town where most KIO families lived as refugees after government troop overrun the KIO Headquarters in 1987. Maybe he is more skilled in running a restaurant than being a jade mine supervisor – that was in the back of my mind then. He looked determined, forward looking and hopeful.
Sure enough, in less than 2 months he managed to run the restaurant well and cultivated so many friends. The 55 year old Shan cook Daw Nan told me how they had so much to talk about and share (she was a blue staff senior nurse but left before being sacked after her participation in the 88 demonstration). Next door neighbours (one had spent 8 years in prison) talked of how they chatted away into the night. While cooking or burning incense around him Daw Nan retold how he felt terrible for having survived while others had died. Daw Nan knows how many people he used to oversee. How had I missed all these? How could we drift so much apart? Some of the restaurant regulars told me he would serve home brewed rice wine for football fans. I remember he liked watching football with likeminded people and therefore would go to a teashop and watched with them.
A massive heart attack must have been what took him away – just like that. He was his usual self, read, made phone calls, chatted with Daw Nan and talked with neighbours over the fence. When I arrived late afternoon Friday the 13th I had a moment with him. He looked dead serious and much younger than his 63 years. “Hay – you’ve given your all” – I reassured him, touching his face and hair.
He was placed in a 20 x40 feet hall type reception room. Mom forbade cremation instead asked to be entombed with the intension of collecting the remains in a couple of years to be buried in Kachin state.
Since his passing away all Burmese speaking pastors from different denominations offered prayer services. Youth stayed over night and sang until dawn over the noisy generator. I have never arranged a funeral service and agreed to all suggestions. One of the pastors asked what I plan to do with his belongings – a pile of clothing not more than 10 pieces and a portable radio. I said “what’s the usual way here?” he said “give to the poor”. I agreed.
After a one hour service on Saturday 14 February we had a funeral parade – local style. We walked to the cemetery and many joined along the 1.5 mile distance. By the time we reached the site there must have been well over 120 mourners to respect his last journey.
The cemetery is the most beautiful one I have ever seen. 30 acres of land is thickly planted with teak. The pastor apologise if he has chosen too close to the others – among Chins and Nagas. I said “No, he would love it” Here is where he had found the camaraderie that he missed so much – that we, his family members failed to offer him.
Seng Raw
Yangon, 18 February 2009