I admit, I forgot it

Martyrs' Mausoleum, Yangon (Pic: Wikipedia)

ONLY when I heard a popular song coming from the cassette player of a lottery-ticket seller, who was pushing his trolley past my house, did I remember to look at my calendar and saw that the date “July 19” was in red – a public holiday.

“Oh, Martyrs’ Day is coming up soon,” I thought.

But how could I have forgotten?

I felt so guilty to have forgotten such an important day, a day we have a special expression for in our language: sekko zulai mamenai (unforgettable July 19).

I was so overcome with emotion that I couldn’t speak for a few moments. Pausing at the window, I gazed out at the drizzle that was falling. The day seemed even more gloomy to me.

As I stood there, another morning came to my mind, one from many years ago: My primary school teacher was sitting on a desk and telling us a story. We gathered round her and listened without a blink.

I don’t remember in which grade we started to learn about history, but I’m sure we were not too young to appreciate the importance of the particular point in our history that she was telling us about. And even if we were still too young, our teacher was such a good story-teller that we were all lost in her story, which she told not only with words but through her facial expressions, gestures and different tones in her voice.

It was drizzling on the morning of July 19, 1947, she told us. A green jeep carrying a group of uniformed gunmen, who pretended to belong to the British Army, turned into Yangon’s Theinbyu Street from Anawrahta Road and entered the Secretariat compound, the headquarters of the British governor’s administration.

The gunmen jumped out of the jeep and headed into a room where Bogyoke Aung San, our national leader, was chairing a meeting of his cabinet, without any security. The gunmen burst in and opened fire.

Along with Bogyoke Aung San, who was only 32 at the time, seven of his ministers; Thakin Mya, U Ba Cho, U Razat, U Ba Win, Man Ba Khai, Sao San Tun, U Ohn Maung and U Razat’s bodyguard Ko Htwe were all killed in the hail of machinegun fire.

When police officers rushed into the room, the killers were already gone. The room was full of gunpowder smoke and blood was everywhere. The arms of the ticking clock on the wall pointed to 10:37.

I still remember that some of my classmates gritted their teeth, some clenched their fists and some just glared at the floor in silence as our teacher finished telling the story. It really captured our young minds, and I don’t know about the others but the story stayed in my mind for a long time.

“Teacher, who ordered them to kill our leaders then?” we asked when we came out of our stunned silence. “Was the main assassinator someone from the British side?”

But our teacher’s answer was something we didn’t expect and it left us in silence with our mouths hanging open.

“No, the whole plot was masterminded by a man called U Saw, an ex-prime minister. And he was Myanmar, not British,” she said.

It was a surprise to hear that the assassinator was not British but a fellow Myanmar, who bore malice towards Bogyoke Aung San, his arch rival. The teacher didn’t explain to us the whole context of the assassination and the politics behind it. I think she thought we were too young at the time to fully understand it.

The fact that the assassination happened just five months before we won independence from the British, was something that caused me particular pain for a long time. What a great loss! U Saw was hanged for his role in the murder, but I couldn’t console the fact our leaders were too self-confident to protect themselves. When I went home that evening, my sad face worried my parents, though they laughed when they heard my explanation.

The next morning when we got to school my classmates and I shared how we’d felt the previous evening. I came to know that some of my friends had cried in their beds, some had skipped dinner and some hadn’t played at all.

The story had a great influence on me throughout my childhood. I was always very keen to observe Martyrs’ Day when July 19 came around. I would stand in silence as I was told when we heard the siren on the radio at 10.37. Whenever I had the chance, I went to the Martyrs Mausoleum near Shwedagon Pagoda to salute our lost leaders.

But it has been a long time since I left school and everyday struggles have taken over my days and nights. Over time, the story no longer popped into my mind so frequently and I must admit, the daily needs of my survival – finding food, clothing and shelter – have become what I care about most, prompting me to adopt the adage: “Let bygones be bygones.”

I stared at the back of the lottery-ticket seller as he disappeared around a corner and tried to sing along with the tune coming out of his speakers. I thought I could easily manage it, for I had sung that song countless times in the past. Lo, what happened to my memory? I couldn’t recall the words, the verses wouldn’t come up!

I lowered my face shyly and laughed. I have forgotten not just the day but its commemorative song too.

(This essay was supposed to be published in the print edition of The Myanmar Times, 16th-22nd July, 2006 but was rejected by the then junta's press censorship.)