Land of Jade

by Bertil Lintner

  This country reflected none of the front-line expectancy of 2nd Brigade area. Here large signs were hung outside Kachin rebel offices indicating their administrative function. Bridges bore notices specifying how many mules could cross at a time or warning that the planks could be slippery after rain. We had entered the Triangle between the Mali Hka and Nmai Hka Rivers where a long undisturbed peace had enabled the Kachins to develop the area.

  In the village of N’Gum La—where the US forces maintained an outpost during World War Two—we were invited to visit a large high school with more than 300 pupils, and a nearby teachers’ training college. The headmaster, a stocky middle-aged man bursting with energy, showed us around. In the evening the pupils put on a performance for us with dancing and singing. The next village, N’Raw Kawng, boasted a fairly large and, given the circumstances, relatively well-equipped civilian hospital.

  Lowland Shan influence had been readily apparent in the Hukawng Valley area: irrigated paddy fields, vegetable gardens, khaopuk and neat and clean villages. By contrast, the Triangle with its longhouses and hill paddy fields was reminiscent of the Naga Hills east of the Nampuk River. In western Kachin State, Hseng Noung had been able to communicate easily using Burmese; in the Triangle most people seemed to speak only Kachin. We were now in the Kachin heartland.

  The majority of the population were Baptists but with an ample sprinkling of Roman Catholics. Irish Columban fathers had maintained a mission in Sumprabum until the 1970s and had made many converts even in remote parts of the Triangle. But a significant proportion of the population—perhaps some ten percent—were still animists. Not uncommon were houses decorated with buffalo skulls and with bamboo altars for offerings to the spirits.

  Conical peaks which were probably extinct volcanoes soared around us. On the far horizon, we could see the even higher mountains along the Chinese border, their tops covered with snow. These were the Kachin Hills I recognised from the books on the anti-Japanese campaign during the World War Two.

  We arrived at 1st Brigade headquarters on February 21. A big sign reading simply “Welcome” had been attached to a bamboo arch at the entrance of the camp. Hseng Noung and I walked together through the gate, carrying the baby. The commanders were there to greet us—and a hundred soldiers lined the wide path, shouting slogans and waving clenched fists in the air. A house had been prepared for us. It was neat and the bed had new bedsheets and thick quilts. Our hosts had even thought of providing a bamboo desk for me complete with petrol lamp so I could work after dark.

  The same night, the news reached us: the Northern Command of the Burmese Army in Myitkyina had learnt we were somewhere in northern Kachin State. They even knew our names. In Myitkyina people had been told that a “foreign agent” had infiltrated Kachin State. Realising it would not be possible to send in troops to search for us in the Triangle, they had dispatched a full battalion to block our way at the next obstacle along our route down to Pa Jau: the government-controlled motor road from Waingmaw to Chipwe, south of the Nmai Hka River.

  8

  THE TRIANGLE

  1st Brigade headquarters was extensive and laid out on the forested slopes of Lakawng Bum mountain. The peak rose just behind our bamboo hut and Kumhta Gam, the brigade major, had told us there was an anti-aircraft position on it, overlooking the camp and surrounding villages.

  Although the Burmese Army had not been inside the Triangle for sixteen years, several villages had been targets of airstrikes in which a number of civilians had been killed. With the Air Force extremely wary of losing any of its few, obsolete aircraft, the mere presence of a Browning machine-gun atop Lakawng Bum was sufficient to deter raiders.

  Arriving at a place where we planned to spend some time was always a welcome break. It meant we could wash our clothes and packs, while I was also able to unpack my notebooks and writing material and set up a temporary office beside the fireplace in the space outside our bedroom. From a levelled space in front of our house, we had a good view of the camp.

  It consisted of large bamboo houses for the officers and barracks for the soldiers by a parade ground below the hill. In one barrack, women soldiers made uniforms for the troops; and in another, daily wireless messages were received from and sent to Pa Jau and local units in the field.

  In the centre of the camp was a large office building for the administration of the KIO’s Northern Division. Every morning, the clatter of typewriters floated across from the office and civilians queued up outside to air grievances or to ask the rebel leaders to settle local disputes. As is usually the case in tribal societies, these centred for the most around women or land, or often both. The officers and their families did not live in the camp, but in a village about half an hour’s walk from Lakawng Bum. It was a somewhat incongruous sight in the morning to watch the file of guerrilla commuters advancing through the forest with office files tucked under their arms.

  Much of the KIO success in establishing firm control over the north could be attributed to the ethnic cohesiveness of the region. This was the Kachin heartland where outside influences were at a minimum. Although the Kachins, like the Nagas, constituted a number of tribes, the distinction between them seemed to have little divisive effect. There were the Jinghpaw, the Maru, the Lashi, the Atzi, the Lisu and the Rawang—but these represented more linguistic groups than actual tribes.

  Far more important bonds were formed by an intricate system of clans which cut across tribal barriers. Every Kachin belonged to one of five original families: Marip, Maran, Lahpai, N’Hkum and Lattaw. In one way or another, all these clans were related in an all-embracing kinship network, the complexity of which was an anthropologist’s nightmare. In practice, however, this system bound together a remarkably tight-knit society.

  The only group of Kachins to remain by and large outside the insurgent movement were the Rawangs of the Putao area in the northernmost tip of the state. In the mid-1960s, fierce clashes erupted between the KIA and the Rawangs who had been organised into armed home-guard units by the Rangoon government. Superior KIA forces attacked many Rawang villages, killing civilians and militiamen alike.

  Today’s KIA leaders conceded the attacks on the Rawangs had been a mistake but the old wounds had not healed. Many Rawangs served as government officials in Kachin State and the Burmese Army’s hold on the Putao area was undisputed. It remained Rangoon’s only stronghold in Kachin State, apart from the immediate countryside around Myitkyina and some towns along the railway to Mandalay.

  News of our arrival at the brigade headquarters spread rapidly among the surrounding villages. The first delegation of villagers arrived after a few days at the camp. It was led by a man in his seventies who strode confidently at the head, followed by a woman and two younger men. He was dressed in a green and black Kachin longyi with a turban wrapped around his head. At his hip he wore a sword in a wooden scabbard, held in place by a cloth string around his waist. There was an air of pride and dignity about the old man which impressed me immediately. Despite his age, he climbed the path up to our house on the hillside with no apparent effort. Since none of the villagers spoke Burmese, Khun Nawng assisted us as interpreter.

  The old man grasped my hand firmly and I invited them to sit down in the deck-chairs we had placed by the fireplace in my study. He handed over a Kachin shoulderbag for me and a longyi for Hseng Noung. It was obvious from the gravity of his expression that this was an important occasion for him. Then, without any prompting, he began a speech which it soon became obvious he had spent days preparing.

  “On behalf of the N’Raw Kawng villagers, I wish you and your wife a warm welcome to our land. I’ve heard you’re a journalist and you’re going to let the world know about our sufferings and our struggle. That is good. We’ve been waiting for this opportunity for many years. Now, with God’s help, you’ve come.

  “My name is Chyahkyi Htingnan. I’m the headman of N’Raw Kawng village and I fought with the American Kachin Rangers during the World War Two. We sheltered the
American forces here and even built a small airstrip for their Dakotas which you can see down in the valley.”

  I had indeed noticed a long strip of irrigated paddy field there. Not only was the shape unusual, but it was also surprising to see irrigated fields at all in the northern Kachin hill country where the slash-and-burn method of shifting cultivation is almost universally practised. Maj. Kumhta Gam had already told me it was an old airstrip, now converted to more pacific purposes.

  “We liked the Americans. They treated us as equals. Not like the Burmans who are arrogant and look down on us hill people. Now, I want you to tell the world the Ma Sa La government is bombing our villages with American bombs dropped from American aeroplanes.”

  Although it was clear that the old man’s speech was far from spontaneous, his sincerity spoke for itself. Even as he spoke, tears welled at the corner of his eyes. For years he must have been waiting to meet a foreigner again. Now, the moment had arrived.

  The village of N’Raw Kawng in January 1986.

  “On February 24, 1985, four Ma Sa La planes flew over N’Bau Bum village. It’s not far from here. Only a few hours. You can go there if you want to see for yourselves. They strafed and bombed the village. Although all the people there support the KIA, there were no soldiers in the village when the bombing took place. The bombs hit a funeral party and ten people were killed. Most of them were women and children who could not run fast enough when the planes came. Many houses were destroyed. The pilots knew they were killing civilians, there’s no doubt about that, because the same things happened in so many other villages in our Triangle area. On March 27, 1985, the villages of Hkindung Yang and Bum Noi were bombed in a similar way.”

  He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. It was a moving story, but surprisingly free of bitterness against Westerners in general that one might have anticipated. He made it clear it was not me he was criticising, nor even the British and American peoples.

  “The Ma Sa La government lies to the outside world. They say we’re bandits and we’re destroying the unity and prosperity of Burma. Haven’t you seen for yourself who’s building the country and who’s destroying it? You must let the American government know the truth. Then, they’ll help us.”

  I promised I would do my best to let his story be known outside Burma. But I did not have the heart to tell him that Washington had long since swallowed Rangoon’s version of events hook, line and sinker: namely that all the insurgents were drug traffickers and the government was doing its best to stop the opium trade. Privately, many US officials had readily admitted to me that this is hardly the case. But so much personal prestige, not to mention US taxpayers’ money, had been invested in this fiction that it had become difficult for decision makers to accept new views on the problem.

  Young Kachin girls looked after our daughter during the journey.

  To this old man, who had once risked his life defending Allied interests in Southeast Asia, it was self-evident that if the American public knew more of the situation inside Burma, it could not but be sympathetic to Kachin demands. There was nothing more I could do than express my own concern over the sufferings of all the peoples caught up in the ongoing conflict. Chyahkyi Htingnan looked me straight in the eye and continued his story.

  “And now I’ve heard Ma Sa La plans a new offensive in the Triangle. I’m not afraid of that. I fought against the Japanese when I was young and even when I was 60 I fought against the Ma Sa La. From 1966 to 1971, thousands of Ma Sa La troops were sent here and there was a big camp even in our village N’Raw Kawng. We had to flee to the jungle where there was no medicine and our clothes were in tatters. We had to kill barking deer and use their hides to cover our bodies. The KIA carried out guerrilla attacks on the Ma Sa La troops and we villagers fired whatever we had, mostly muzzle loaders and flintlocks and a few old rifles we’d kept from the war against the Japanese.

  “In 1971, the Ma Sa La eventually withdrew and peace has prevailed since then. We didn’t actually defeat them. But since all the people had run away to the jungle, they had no local support base from which to get rations. And their lines of communication were too long and vulnerable. They had to retreat. Our village lost 100 cows and 300 water buffaloes. People had died in battle but also from starvation. Everything had to be rebuilt afterwards. Now, we’ve got some new cattle and we’ve built new houses.

  “If Ma Sa La comes again, I’ll fight once more even if I’m old and not as strong as before. My eyes are still good and I know how to fire a rifle. Let them come. Our people will have to suffer but we’ll fight back. But we need anti-aircraft guns to defend our villages now. Since the attacks last year, we don’t dare let the school children study in one place. If a bomb hit them, they’d all die. Therefore, we’ve spread out the classes around the village and even in the jungle.

  “We know what they’re up to. They want to scare us away from this area to deprive the KIA of support and to resettle us along the Myitkyina-Sumprabum road. But there’s not enough land there and we don’t want to live under this government’s rule in any case. We’d rather fight and die. Tell that to the Americans who’ve given aeroplanes and bombs to Ma Sa La.”

  It was an interview unique in my journalistic experience. Chyahkyi Htingnan’s long monologue had been so comprehensive there were simply no questions left for me to ask. Hseng Noung and I had both been deeply touched by his account. At the end of it, he rose and indicated with a nod to his companions it was time to leave. We stood up, too, and I took his hand in mine.

  “I’ll write the story you told me, grandfather. When people read it, perhaps they’ll understand more.”

  With a nod of satisfaction, the old man turned around and led the delegation back towards his village. From the doorway of the house, we watched him stride away down the path and back into the forest, one hand firmly clasping the pommel of his sword.

  Shortly after the meeting with Chyahkyi Htingnan, I asked Maj. Kumhta Gam about the local opium policy. He was explicit in his comments:

  “Have you seen any poppy fields here in the Triangle?”

  I replied that I could not recall having seen any obviously commercial cultivation—merely a small kitchen garden outside a house in N’Pawng Hkyet village.

  “That’s where we draw the line. In 1984, the KIO decided to ban poppy cultivation in the Western and Northern Divisions—the KIA’s 2nd and 1st Brigade areas. We could do that because there are alternative incomes in these areas. Jade and rubies in the west and gold here in the north. There’s a gold field north of here at Gawng Sha. People from all over Burma come to dig there and they have to pay tax to us. But local people have been exempted—provided they stop growing opium. That’s how we solved the problem here. In the Eastern and Southern Divisions, the 3rd and 4th Brigade areas, it will take a longer time. Too many people there still depend on opium as a cash crop and the land is poor. It’s not easy to find an alternative income for them.”

  “But isn’t opium a good income?” I knew from experience in Shan State that the rebel groups there would have difficulty in surviving without taxing local merchants who bought opium in their respective areas, or travelled through them with their mule caravans.

  “Maybe. But we don’t need it, Kachin State is rich enough in minerals. And if we allowed the people here to grow opium, the first to become addicts would be the boys we need as recruits for our army. We can’t have an army of drug addicts. And then, if we grow opium, the traders will come and buy it here and we don’t want government informers poking around in our territory.”

  “But how much opium was grown here before? How can you say you’ve stopped it?”

  “Ask any villager. If you’d come here only five years ago, you’d have seen these hills covered with poppy fields.”

  He made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the blue hills surrounding us. I had actually no reason to disbelieve him. From what I had read in accounts written by Allied officers after the World War Two, both opium produ
ction and addiction were widespread in northern Kachin State at that time. Now, I had seen neither large poppy fields nor come across people smoking opium.

  “We make an exception for addicts above forty,” Kumhta Gam went on. “They’re too old to have the strength to quit. We let them grow some for their own use. But if a young person is caught smoking, or if anyone is found selling opium, we punish them severely by making them serve a spell at hard labour.”

  To be considered old at forty came as something of a shock. But life is hard in the mountains and only the very sturdiest survive to an advanced age.

  My own physical condition had actually deteriorated during our stay at 1st Brigade headquarters. No sooner had I thought my wound healed than a large lump appeared on the foot—below the old hole which was now almost re-healed with pink new flesh. At first, I hoped the lump would go away by itself—but it only grew bigger, redder and sorer. A doctor had to be sent for from the hospital at N’Raw Kawng. Since there were no anaesthetics available, certain practical details had to be taken care of before the operation could commence.

  A chopping block was produced and after my foot had been cleaned with surgical spirits, it was placed in its centre. Four burly soldiers were then detailed to hold my leg firmly in place. Having sterilised his scalpel, the Kachin surgeon lanced the infected area. The four soldiers held my leg in a vise-like grip while pus and a slimy, black liquid poured out of the incision. The doctor proceeded to clean out the wound. Unfortunately, it became reinfected and the procedure had to be repeated a week later.